vote count, but the commission of international observers had threatened sanctions. Crowds were turning up everywhere in support of continuing the count. It looked like the Liberation Party would win by a landslide.
“Bolívar already told me that they’ll probably be going down in August for several weeks,” Dad explained. “Maybe I should take some of that time off, too. How about we all go up to Maine and see the ocean. What do you say, kids?”
“I want to go to Disney World,” Nate pleaded. For his birthday last year, he’d gone with Happy, and he still talked about that trip in excruciating detail.
“Well, we’ll have to take a vote,” Dad said diplomatically. “Kate? Mil?”
Kate shrugged. “Whatever.” She never got what she asked for anyway: a week of shopping in New York City with the cousins.
I usually went along with the group plan, so I don’t know why I even said what I did. It’s not like I had thought a whole lot about it. “I want to go with the Bolívars when they go down.”
There was a sudden quietness in the car. Mom and Dad exchanged a glance, and then Mom turned around in her seat. “Honey, I can understand that you’d like to visit. But things are so unsettled there right now—” She stopped herself, her therapist training kicking in. “Maybe next summer we can all go for a visit?”
“That’s a terrific idea!” Dad looked in the rearview mirror to check on my reaction.
I sat there like some naughty four-year-old, arms crossed, shaking my head no. “I want to go now. And I don’t want to go with you guys. I want to go by myself.”
“But why?” Dad’s voice sounded hurt. “Honey, you’re too young to travel by yourself to a foreign country.”
“It’s not a
foreign
country. It’s my
native
country.” I felt like a horrible, ungrateful daughter, but I couldn’t stop myself. Until election night at the Bolívars’ apartment, I hadn’t ever thought a whole lot about the country. But now its struggle to be free seemed somehow personal to me. “And I wouldn’t be going by myself,” I persisted. “I’d be with the Bolívars. Mrs. Bolívar invited me.” Months back, during one of our shopping trips, Mrs. Bolívar had mentioned that someday she would like to take me to the
mercados
in her native country. This hardly amounted to a real invitation. But for some reason, right now it seemed like enough of one to me.
Kate, who’d been staring out her window throughout this discussion, suddenly turned to me, her face red and angry. “It’s my native country, too, you know?”
I was about to get into it with her—a tug of war over whose native country it really was. But Kate’s face was crumpling up. Horrible sobs were coming out of her mouth. I felt awful, like I’d thrown a rock at an apple on a tree and suddenly heard the crash of glass. What had I done to make my sister cry like this?
“I . . . I...” Kate could hardly talk. “I feel like you’re giving us up as a family.”
It was like hearing an echo from my own heart: Kate was afraid of abandonment, too! Before I knew it, I was crying, and then everyone in that car was sobbing, and here we were pulling into Happy’s driveway, and Happy herself was coming down her front steps toward us, waving and smiling happily.
We put on a pretty good show of the happy family arriving at Grandma’s. Later, Mom and Dad came into the bedroom Kate and I were sharing, and we all collapsed into a big, tearful family hug. “We understand, we understand,” they kept saying, and I kept apologizing, “I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry,” though I didn’t really know for what. I still felt what I felt, only now I was determined not to show it.
At dinner, Happy sat me next to her as if to prove that I was no different from any of her other grandchildren. Except for Della, Grandma’s housekeeper, serving us, the whole night could have been a repeat of Happy’s birthday dinner. Aunt Joan, Uncle Stanley, and the
“Bolívar already told me that they’ll probably be going down in August for several weeks,” Dad explained. “Maybe I should take some of that time off, too. How about we all go up to Maine and see the ocean. What do you say, kids?”
“I want to go to Disney World,” Nate pleaded. For his birthday last year, he’d gone with Happy, and he still talked about that trip in excruciating detail.
“Well, we’ll have to take a vote,” Dad said diplomatically. “Kate? Mil?”
Kate shrugged. “Whatever.” She never got what she asked for anyway: a week of shopping in New York City with the cousins.
I usually went along with the group plan, so I don’t know why I even said what I did. It’s not like I had thought a whole lot about it. “I want to go with the Bolívars when they go down.”
There was a sudden quietness in the car. Mom and Dad exchanged a glance, and then Mom turned around in her seat. “Honey, I can understand that you’d like to visit. But things are so unsettled there right now—” She stopped herself, her therapist training kicking in. “Maybe next summer we can all go for a visit?”
“That’s a terrific idea!” Dad looked in the rearview mirror to check on my reaction.
I sat there like some naughty four-year-old, arms crossed, shaking my head no. “I want to go now. And I don’t want to go with you guys. I want to go by myself.”
“But why?” Dad’s voice sounded hurt. “Honey, you’re too young to travel by yourself to a foreign country.”
“It’s not a
foreign
country. It’s my
native
country.” I felt like a horrible, ungrateful daughter, but I couldn’t stop myself. Until election night at the Bolívars’ apartment, I hadn’t ever thought a whole lot about the country. But now its struggle to be free seemed somehow personal to me. “And I wouldn’t be going by myself,” I persisted. “I’d be with the Bolívars. Mrs. Bolívar invited me.” Months back, during one of our shopping trips, Mrs. Bolívar had mentioned that someday she would like to take me to the
mercados
in her native country. This hardly amounted to a real invitation. But for some reason, right now it seemed like enough of one to me.
Kate, who’d been staring out her window throughout this discussion, suddenly turned to me, her face red and angry. “It’s my native country, too, you know?”
I was about to get into it with her—a tug of war over whose native country it really was. But Kate’s face was crumpling up. Horrible sobs were coming out of her mouth. I felt awful, like I’d thrown a rock at an apple on a tree and suddenly heard the crash of glass. What had I done to make my sister cry like this?
“I . . . I...” Kate could hardly talk. “I feel like you’re giving us up as a family.”
It was like hearing an echo from my own heart: Kate was afraid of abandonment, too! Before I knew it, I was crying, and then everyone in that car was sobbing, and here we were pulling into Happy’s driveway, and Happy herself was coming down her front steps toward us, waving and smiling happily.
We put on a pretty good show of the happy family arriving at Grandma’s. Later, Mom and Dad came into the bedroom Kate and I were sharing, and we all collapsed into a big, tearful family hug. “We understand, we understand,” they kept saying, and I kept apologizing, “I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry,” though I didn’t really know for what. I still felt what I felt, only now I was determined not to show it.
At dinner, Happy sat me next to her as if to prove that I was no different from any of her other grandchildren. Except for Della, Grandma’s housekeeper, serving us, the whole night could have been a repeat of Happy’s birthday dinner. Aunt Joan, Uncle Stanley, and the
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