And now I’m working and still doing all of that.”
Tom dropped his finger. His hands surrendered at his sides, but his face retained the fight. “You really think any of that—any of what you ever did or do—is worth a million a year?”
“I do as much as you ever did.”
“You’re delusional.”
“You wanted me to stay at home. Now you’re throwing it in my face.”
“I’m too tired for this, Ana.” He headed toward the door. “I’m dead tired.”
*
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and seething. Tom was somewhere in our house, likely passed out in a guest room. I, on the other hand, couldn’t settle down and, unlike Tom, actually had work in the morning.
I wanted to wake him just to vent, let the argument end on my terms. Yes, it was good that he’d taken an active step to land a job. But his sudden initiative wasn’t an excuse for leaving Sophia. He didn’t have to rush into the city without even trying to give me a heads up. My leaving work early looked unprofessional. Didn’t he value my job at all? It was the only income we had.
Well, he’d have to value it. He’d need to watch Sophia until I got home from the meeting Tuesday night. Maybe I’d give him a taste of his own medicine and not even tell him why I’d be late.
The phone on my nightstand showed ten minutes to midnight. My internal clock said six AM . Damp hair made my pillow cold and sticky. The bath I’d taken to calm down had only succeeded in further waking me, convincing my body that the moonlight sneaking beneath the shades was an illusion.
I couldn’t continue to examine the cracked plaster above me. I needed a distraction. It would be an hour later in Sao Paulo, but Brazilians didn’t sleep until at least twelve AM . My parents had always been night owls. They’d still be awake.
I grabbed my laptop from the bookcase in the corner and then returned to my bed to open the Skype application. A bubbly sound, like a ringtone underwater, emerged from the computer’s speakers. Moments later, my mother’s face came into view: almond-shaped eyes the color of coconut husks. Sand-colored skin, lined around the mouth. Stress had aged her, but not stolen her beauty.
“Oi, Mamãe.”
“Hi, Ana.”
Even my Portuguese hello betrayed that I couldn’t speak the language. She knew that all I remembered of her mother tongue was a bunch of Spanish-accented Portuguese words and Brazilian sayings. Not my fault. No one’s fault, really. My folks justhadn’t been around enough in the past two decades to reinforce their teachings.
“I miss you,” I said.
Lines deepened on my mother’s brow. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Her mouth twisted with disbelief. She always knew when I was lying. “Is everything okay with Tom?”
My parents had enough problems. I wasn’t about to get into mine. “We’re fine. It’s nothing, just saudade .” One of the few Portuguese words I knew. It lacked direct English translation: homesickness mixed with longing and bittersweet memories, content with yearning for family and the past. Some said the word encapsulated the Brazilian temperament.
Though I knew the term, I couldn’t actually relate to the feeling. My past was a blur. Bad events erase good history like fire burning through film. All that remained for me of my childhood were a series of images. The yard behind our two-family house. Bushy lavender plants, purple tips stretching to the sky. My mother bent over them, pruning scissors in her right hand, jean-clad legs spotted with dirt. Black-clad Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers storming through the kitchen to get her, yelling that she held a weapon. Her promising over and over that they’d be back in a little while. Just a little while .
I’d spent my teens in a foster home, and though I’d blocked the visuals from my memory, I’d never forget the smell. Burnt hair and old carpet. Ms. Yvette had done weaves in the kitchen to supplement her foster