Surviving Santiago Read Free Page B

but then her smile fades. She hits the button to close the garage door. “Your father wanted white.”
    Inside, Tía Ileana introduces me to Graciela, who cleans the house and cooks the midday meal. Graciela is short, with a round face and salt-and-pepper hair in a single braid almost to her waist. She gives me a big hug. “Your father is so happy you’re here,” she says in Spanish, but with a different accent, like she’s from another part of the country.
    I’m too stunned to answer. We never had a housekeeper or nanny growing up, except for the eight months we lived with Mamá’s family after Papá’s arrest. Almost no one has them in Wisconsin—at least no one over the age of two because all the little kids go to preschool. But I remember my abuelos offering to pay for a nana when Papá drove the taxi, and Mamá telling them we didn’t need one because our apartment was too small and Daniel looked out for me. Years later, Daniel told me our parents didn’t want anyone coming in and finding out that Papá worked for the resistance.
    After we carry my stuff upstairs, Tía Ileana lifts the duffel onto a wooden trunk at the foot of my new bed. I stare at the brightly colored three-dimensional tapestries that decorate my walls. Slightly larger than a picture book, each one has tiny dolls and scraps of fabric in the shape of animals sewn into scenes of the countryside and the mountains.
    â€œI thought you guys didn’t believe in servants,” I say to my aunt as soon as Graciela goes downstairs.
    â€œYour father believes in equality. No masters, no servants. So Graciela may cook and keep the house clean, but she and her husband are also people he worked with underground.” Tía Ileana unzips the duffel. “We all agreed it was the best way to go, with both of us working and him not being able to do a lot of things for himself.”
    Flooding into my mind is an image of a twisted man with stubble and stringy hair. One of his arms dangles useless, but the other can lash out in an instant.
    Then the fog of sixteen hours on an airplane descends upon me. I run the toe of my sneaker along the shiny hardwood floor, thinking that I might fall asleep standing up while Tía Ileana unpacks for me. A couple of open-mouthed yawns, and she gets the message.

C HAPTER 3

    I awaken to the sound of my father’s voice. A little slower than the typical machine-gun pace of Chilean castellano , with a slightly odd inflection. I crawl deeper under the covers.
    Give him a chance, Tina.
    I climb out of bed and pull on my jeans and sweatshirt.
    When I reach the top of the stairs, I freeze and stare down at Papá. Thick, wavy hair falls to the middle of his neck, parted so it hangs over his glasses and covers his bad eye. He has a mustache, too—mostly gray like his hair. No beard. He’s still skinny, but he looks good. Washed. Dressed. Apparently sober. He has a crooked smile. He beckons to me from the bottom of the stairs. “Come, m’ija . Don’t be a coneja .”
    I force my legs to take me downstairs. My arms circle his waist, but his sweater is a force field keeping me from touching his body. My old papá would have picked me up, lifted me over his head, and spun me around. But when he came back from prison, he cringed at my touch.
    My father grips me tightly with his good arm. The pressure on my shoulders inches me forward, towardhis sweater. It smells like cigarettes. My throat closes, but I squeeze him tighter into a real hug. His body is warm, and through his sweater and shirt I feel his ribs. I hold on to him for a superlong time so he won’t keep calling me girl-rabbit because he thinks I’m trying to run away from him.
    He lets his arm drop. “Did you have a good flight?”
    I step backward and take a deep breath to get rid of the cigarette smell. A black wrist splint pokes out from his shirtsleeve on his bad side.