she genuflected. She kissed the image of the virgin, and then she put the image away. I couldn't see what my brother was up to behind her, but I could hear him tapping his hands on the concrete, drumming the beat to one of his favorite metal songs.
There we were, like hippies staring at the dim slice of moon through the clouds. Birthdays were starting to become more and more like this, as the lines in my parents' faces grew just a little deeper, and some of their weirdness got...well, weirder.
"In another part of the world, there is a lake where men once built a city," my mother said. "This city floated on top of the water, like a dream. Its towers reached toward the sky, and its architecture reflected the beauty of the natural world. The city’s surfaces were red, blue and gold, like the plumage of jungle birds."
José María leaned over behind my mother's back and twisted his face into a knot. "Here we go again..." he whispered to me. Shush , I mouthed over to him.
"Tenochtitlán," I said, speaking loudly enough to make sure my father heard me, to make sure I had this knowledge etched into my memory. "That's the city Mom's talking about."
Tenochtitlán, or in other words, Mexico City. The place my parents were born. I was born there, too, but I only lived there for year. By the time I could walk, we were living here, in Chicago.
"We probably won't live in Mexico City ever again, but it's good to visit Lake Michigan and remember that we once did," my father said.
My father turned back toward all of us, and his face shone clear, despite the shadows cast by night. His skin was deeply grooved by lines and wrinkles, and his hairline had receded, but his eyes looked young to me. My uncles and cousins had always said that my father's eyes looked defiant. In my experience, his eyes were sometimes gentle, sometimes terrifying. Mostly terrifying.
"In any case," my father said, "before your mother interrupted me, I was going to tell you what you need to do when you come to this lake, Clara. You're nineteen -- almost old enough to be an adult."
"Dad, I work and I vote. I am an adult. I don't like being dismissed," I said.
"Fine," he said. "In this country you're an adult; I'll grant you that. But your adulthood in other terms is still a long time away. So we come here on your birthday to think about this for a minute and to put our hopes in your future."
José María stirred, crossed his skinny arms. "Mom, you always let him go on and on...I mean, are you listening to this?"
"As a general rule, your father's wrong about many things," my mother said, and I could see José María sit up straight from his own sense of validation. "But in this case, you do need to listen. You may not understand everything we're doing as a family, Clara, but it is your responsibility to grasp it. So, sit back and listen. Yes, this means you too, José María."
My father was a strange dude, and that meant he always carried strange stuff with him. He dug in his coat and pulled out a bundle of twigs and leaves.
"Pay special attention, birthday girl," my father said. Using his free hand, he pulled out a lighter from his trousers.
"I bring both of you here because the lake is a place you should respect. It's a place that's beautiful, but my mother always said that certain beautiful things should not be touched, by any means. Lake Michigan has been here longer than you, me, or the men who built this city behind me. And though the lake gives life, the lake also has also dealt out death over the years. Never dive into its waters. Understand?"
I nodded, so that we could just move on. Over the years, I nodded a lot this way. I got good at scurrying past these talks.
"We live about six miles from here," my father continued, "and that's just about the right distance to show our respect for these waters. If our house was any closer and we would be under its threat."
"Actually, that's not really true," José María said. "Clara lives by the
There we were, like hippies staring at the dim slice of moon through the clouds. Birthdays were starting to become more and more like this, as the lines in my parents' faces grew just a little deeper, and some of their weirdness got...well, weirder.
"In another part of the world, there is a lake where men once built a city," my mother said. "This city floated on top of the water, like a dream. Its towers reached toward the sky, and its architecture reflected the beauty of the natural world. The city’s surfaces were red, blue and gold, like the plumage of jungle birds."
José María leaned over behind my mother's back and twisted his face into a knot. "Here we go again..." he whispered to me. Shush , I mouthed over to him.
"Tenochtitlán," I said, speaking loudly enough to make sure my father heard me, to make sure I had this knowledge etched into my memory. "That's the city Mom's talking about."
Tenochtitlán, or in other words, Mexico City. The place my parents were born. I was born there, too, but I only lived there for year. By the time I could walk, we were living here, in Chicago.
"We probably won't live in Mexico City ever again, but it's good to visit Lake Michigan and remember that we once did," my father said.
My father turned back toward all of us, and his face shone clear, despite the shadows cast by night. His skin was deeply grooved by lines and wrinkles, and his hairline had receded, but his eyes looked young to me. My uncles and cousins had always said that my father's eyes looked defiant. In my experience, his eyes were sometimes gentle, sometimes terrifying. Mostly terrifying.
"In any case," my father said, "before your mother interrupted me, I was going to tell you what you need to do when you come to this lake, Clara. You're nineteen -- almost old enough to be an adult."
"Dad, I work and I vote. I am an adult. I don't like being dismissed," I said.
"Fine," he said. "In this country you're an adult; I'll grant you that. But your adulthood in other terms is still a long time away. So we come here on your birthday to think about this for a minute and to put our hopes in your future."
José María stirred, crossed his skinny arms. "Mom, you always let him go on and on...I mean, are you listening to this?"
"As a general rule, your father's wrong about many things," my mother said, and I could see José María sit up straight from his own sense of validation. "But in this case, you do need to listen. You may not understand everything we're doing as a family, Clara, but it is your responsibility to grasp it. So, sit back and listen. Yes, this means you too, José María."
My father was a strange dude, and that meant he always carried strange stuff with him. He dug in his coat and pulled out a bundle of twigs and leaves.
"Pay special attention, birthday girl," my father said. Using his free hand, he pulled out a lighter from his trousers.
"I bring both of you here because the lake is a place you should respect. It's a place that's beautiful, but my mother always said that certain beautiful things should not be touched, by any means. Lake Michigan has been here longer than you, me, or the men who built this city behind me. And though the lake gives life, the lake also has also dealt out death over the years. Never dive into its waters. Understand?"
I nodded, so that we could just move on. Over the years, I nodded a lot this way. I got good at scurrying past these talks.
"We live about six miles from here," my father continued, "and that's just about the right distance to show our respect for these waters. If our house was any closer and we would be under its threat."
"Actually, that's not really true," José María said. "Clara lives by the
Similar Books
Rebel Waltz
Kay Hooper
The Monster of Shiversands Cove
Emma Fischel
The Birthday Party of No Return!
R. L. Stine
Killer: An Alex Delaware Novel
Jonathan Kellerman
Minty
M. Garnet
The Next Thing I Knew (Heavenly)
John Corwin
The Whisperers
John Connolly
Doctor Who: The Massacre
John Lucarotti
Human Sister
Jim Bainbridge
Laurinda
Alice Pung