“Later,” Penelope says.
She drags my luggage over to her bedroom and quietly shuts the door. Everything in Penelope’s room is color-coordinated in a black-and-white palette, right down to the pillowcases. Her mother likes everything to be a particular style. The only splashes of color come from Penelope’s vibrant clothes and the framed glamour shots of her taken when she insisted on modeling classes.
“Sit!” she says. “This is going to be your home.”
Penelope opens her window. I shake my head. Without saying a word, she draws the thin curtains.
“Sorry, prima,” she says. “I forgot. How are you?”
“Mami is tired of dealing with my drama,” I say.
“No, she’s not. She’s worried. We all are,” Penelope says. “We want you to feel better.”
Even though we’re the same age, Penelope always acts a bit motherly toward me. Perhaps it’s because she thinks I’m a jíbara, a girl from the island who doesn’t know any better. She opens an empty drawer.
“This is for you. And I made room in the closet. You can borrow anything you want because I intend to do the same.”
Penelope was named after the Spanish actress and she hates this tidbit of information. She wishes her name was more Latinx, less white or European. We spent one summer coming up with alternative names only to find the Greek mythology behind hers. I thought the story of Penelope being the wife of Odysseus was cool. She didn’t.
Penelope darts about the room, wanting to show me everything. Her new clothes. Her makeup purchases. The latest boy she’s in love with. Penelope is always falling in love.
“I’ve got our summer planned out. Tomorrow, the beach. The next day, the beach. Maybe there’s a party. We can always hang out by the park.” Her laugh is contagious. I wish I could be so carefree.
“Prima,” I interrupt her. “I need to find a church.”
She puts down the handful of lipsticks and tries her best to keep her concerned face light.
“A church?” she asks. “You know this family is a bunch of heathens. We never go to church.”
Back in Tampa, Mami drove me to church every morning so I could light a candle. I want to keep my practice here.
“Yes, a church. Can you help me find one?”
“No problem. Let’s look it up. What kind of church? Maybe stick with the Catholics. What do you think?”
“Yes, the Catholics.”
“Perfect! The Church of St. Anselm. You can walk there. Easy. I’ve been to plenty of quinceañera masses there, and it’s not a bad looking church either,” she says. “Do you want to go today?”
“Yes,” I say and give Penelope a hug. “Thank you.”
No matter what I ask of her, Penelope never makes me feel weird.
“Cousin, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” she says. “You can tell me anything.”
I shake my head. I can trust Penelope, but I’m not sure if I can explain to her what is happening to me. Not yet anyway. When I made the mistake of telling Mami once about Ato, she responded by telling me to pray harder. I have, but I don’t think it’s working.
“Not yet,” I say. “I swear I’m okay. So, the beach tomorrow?”
“I can’t wait for you to meet the knuckleheads I hang with. They will love you. This summer is going to be one jangueo after another.”
There’s a knock at the door. Titi Sylvia serves breakfast. When I enter the dining room, I can tell Mami’s been crying. Tomorrow she’s set to fly back to Tampa. Mami said she has to go to work, and this may be true, but I also think she needs a break from me.
“We’re going to take a walk to St. Anselm later,” Penelope says in between forkfuls of scrambled eggs.
“Church? ¿Pa’ qué?” Titi Sylvia says. “I haven’t been to church since what’s her name, the one who had the sweet sixteen mass and two months later was pregnant?”
“Ma! Her name is Gloria. Eury wants to go, so we are going.”
Titi Sylvia gives Mami the look. I bow my head down so my hair covers my face.
“We’ll all go,” Mami says. “It will be nice before I leave to Florida.”
Mami reaches under the table and squeezes my knee. I look up and smile.
Penelope was right. The church is only a few quick blocks away. It is a beautiful two-story building with a towering domed ceiling, historic paintings, and geometric mosaics. Parts of the building are under repair and in a bit of disarray, but I can still see the beauty in the hundred-year-old church.
Because it is an early afternoon on a weekday, the church is practically empty, with only a handful of practitioners. The service is held in Spanish and English. Mami introduces herself and me to the priest.
“It is great to meet you, Eury. I look forward to welcoming you to the neighborhood,” Father Vincent says.
His handshake is not firm enough. He won’t be able to help me.
After the mass concludes, I walk up and place a few dollars in the offering box. I’m sad the candles are electric and not real ones. I hate when churches go the easy modern way instead of sticking to tradition. I don’t have a choice. I press the button to the electric candle and kneel down in front of the statue of Mary. Like Penelope, I never grew up in a religious household. But when you’re the only person seeing Ato, you search for any type of spiritual solution that might help.
I say the prayers over and over again until Mami places her hand on my shoulder, alerting me it’s time to go.
On our way back to Titi Sylvia’s, Mami slows down to walk beside me. Penelope, reading the moment, walks ahead to her mother.
“Sylvia can be a bit much with her opinions, but she means well,” Mami says. “Promise me you will enjoy yourself. Do fun things.”
“I promise, Mami.”
She grabs my hand and squeezes it.
“This will be good for you. I just know it will.”
There’s so much hope in her face. I wish more than anything to strip Mami of all her worries. This past year hasn’t been easy for her. Leaving our home of Puerto Rico took such a toll. She really wanted Tampa to work, and it did for a while. Then came the incident at school and the barrage of doctor appointments to make sure I didn’t have anything wrong with me physically. There was also the one therapist the school officials insisted I go see. Mami was furious, but she eventually agreed. So much time and money spent on doctors with no insurance to help.
“What did you think of the priest? It’s a nice church,” she says. “And it’s so close. You don’t have to walk so far. You still have the rosario I gave you, don’t you?”
“Yes, I still have it,” I say, pulling out the small circular rosary bead from my tote bag.
I continue to scan the streets and alleyways. It’s only a matter of time before he shows his face. I hold tight to the rosary.
“We are going to get through this,” Mami says. She begins to tear up, which in turn makes me emotional, although I don’t want her to see me like this. I don’t want to continue in this pain, and I don’t want to be such a burden to Mami or anyone. I place my head on her shoulder.
“I promise I will have fun,” I repeat. “Please don’t worry.”