Elena

Elena

Elena was already seated at the table when I came downstairs for dinner. Mom was running back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room, setting various serving bowls and condiments on the table while Dad was out with the dog—most likely taking his time to appreciate the late August sunset. Elena’s eyes glimmered when she saw me and she spread open her arms.

“Uri!”

I gave her a hug, and she wouldn’t let go. She stroked my shirt—it had a coarse texture that fascinated her.

“What did you do today, Elena?” I asked, then made eye contact with Mom and smiled.

“Isaac taught me the ice cream scoop and how to blow bubbles underwater.”

“Isaac is the new volunteer swim coach,” Mom whispered to me as she folded a cloth napkin to put on my placemat.

“Oh, did he really?” I asked, pretending to be shocked.

“He did! He did!” Elena squealed. “He even said I’m a natural!”

“Look at you! Next up is a medal!” I exclaimed.

“A gold medal, right?”

“Maybe even two if you eat all your vegetables tonight,” I said.

Her mind began to wander. Then she made her focus face and the thought came to her: “For lunch we had pizza!”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes! An-an-and tomorrow we’re gonna have a surprise!”

I smiled at Elena and then looked into the kitchen, straightening my neck. Though she would never show it to Elena, Mom looked tired. I watched her turn the stove off and then plate the chicken cutlets, placing a paper towel in between every other piece to keep them crispy. As soon as she stepped into the dining room with the platter of chicken in her hand, her face lit up.

“Who’s hungry?” she asked in an animated voice that never failed to excite my sister.

“I’m hungry, Mom! I’m hungry!”

Mom walked around the table, past the picture wall which was mostly filled with photographs of Elena’s firsts—her first swim lesson, her first petting zoo experience, her first ski trip. Just as Mom set the chicken on the table, Dad walked in through the front door. He bent over and undid Coco’s leash, letting him dash towards us.

“Dog,” said Elena, her cheeks lifting with her smile.

We had gotten Coco at the beginning of that summer. The people at the daycare had recommended that we get a dog. It would be good for Elena.

Dad looked over at the table and proudly asked, “Uri, did Elena tell you about her swim lesson?”

“She did!”

Dad began taking his shoes off, and I noticed that he too looked tired. His eyes were flushed. When he got closer to me he put his hand on my shoulder, nodded, and asked,

“Did you sign up for your classes, Uri?”

“Yeah,” I said, “it’s all set.”

He sat down and looked to Elena. “Things are gonna be different around here when your brother leaves.”

“We still have eleven days until we have to think about that,” said Mom in an irritated tone.

In eleven days, on Monday the twenty-second, I was going to America to study at Florida International University.

“That’s right,” I said, “but I’ll still be here to celebrate Elena’s birthday next Sunday.”

“My birthday!” Elena yelled. “Th-the twenty-first of August.”

“That’s right, dear,” said Mom.

“An-an-and we’re gonna have a party, right?”

“We will, dear,” said Mom. “Now come on, let’s eat before the food gets cold!”

Mom began cutting up the breaded chicken for Elena, and Dad and I served ourselves. It was already dark outside by the time we started eating. I could hear the crickets chirping, and the streetlights glowed through the transom. As I ate, Elena stared at me for some time. I felt her gaze even when I looked straight down at my plate. She loved watching people do mundane things—eating normal foods, playing normal games, watching normal films.

“So, next Sunday we’ll have everyone over at our house,” said Dad, “and I’m sure we can find a bakery, one of those fancy—”

“For lunch we had pizza…” Elena interrupted a short while later, after the conversation had already moved on.

“He even said I’m a natural…” she said.

And: “A gold medal…”

And: “Tomorrow we’re gonna have a surprise…”

*

The next day I walked over to Joan’s house. I counted the steps it took me to get there—921, three steps fewer than last time. Joan lived in a small house, for Sant Cugat. Far smaller than ours, but big enough for Joan and his father. Every afternoon, the sun came straight through Joan’s window and heated the bedroom up like a fish tank. He rarely left the room during the summer. He rarely spoke either. Many days, we would just sit there playing video games all afternoon, and by the time I had to go, I would feel as if I had already discussed all my problems with him. Even though he never spoke of them, I knew his problems too. I knew he didn’t want me to go to America.

When I got there his room was already hot and sunny. The glare made it difficult to see the television from certain angles. Nonetheless, we watched our favorite show—La casa de papel. We were determined to finish the fifth season before I left for college.

“In America, you won’t have any buddies to watch with,” he said. “Nobody will speak Spanish.”

Joan was never going to leave Spain. He was a local. He would always be a local. He knew exactly where he was comfortable. Many days, I wished I could persuade him to come to Florida with me. But I didn’t try. Despite his knowledge and good grades, he was awfully close-minded. I wasn’t. When my parents had suggested college in America to me a couple of years back, it took little to no convincing. They knew as well as I did that I needed an opportunity of my own. I needed to get out. It wasn’t until now that I realized what I would be leaving behind.

*

Before starting the last episode of the season, I looked out Joan’s window. Only a sliver of the sun remained above the horizon. I looked up and down the street and observed the trees. A faint yet rich orange hue still covered their tops.

*

“Uri, are you staying for dinner tonight?” I heard Joan’s father call as he made his way upstairs.

We had just finished the last episode.

“I should get back home. Mom wouldn’t want me to miss these last few dinners,” I said.

Joan’s father was now standing in the doorway. He nodded kindly, acknowledging the moment, knowing Joan hoped I’d stay.

“How’s Elena doing?” he asked.

“Oh, you know… She started taking swimming lessons once a week and… She’s happy. She really is,” I said.

He nodded again and then addressed Joan: “Dinner’s ready.”

The three of us walked downstairs and Joan led me to the door, as he did every time, even though I knew his house just as well as my own. He gave me a high five and a fist bump and then shut the front door as I walked down the steps. I heard him turn the keys and lock the door before I walked away.

I walked home slowly, to the right of the streetlights, observing my shadow on the sidewalk. It was long and extended beyond my feet. But as I crossed the street to get to my house, it collapsed back into my body.

I walked inside with a smile. Elena was there, seated at the table.

“Uri!”

I hugged her, put my hand on her head, and asked, “Are you ready for dinner?”

“Yes!” she laughed.

I walked around the table and into the kitchen where Mom was.

She had four bowls of gazpacho already plated, and on the stove she was cooking a seafood paella. The smell of mussels and shrimp filled the kitchen and with every couple of breaths I caught the aroma of saffron.

“Did you ask Joan and his father if they can come to Elena’s party next Sunday?” she asked.

“I forgot. I can just text Joan,” I answered.

She nodded as she ran her hands under the sink, then approached me and kissed me on the forehead.

“Sorry. How was Joan today?” she asked.

“He’s good.”

Mom patted my back, picked up two bowls of gazpacho, and suddenly put on a smile.

“Who’s hungry?” she called.

“Me! Me!” I heard Elena squeal from the dining room.

I walked into the dining room as Mom set the first bowl in front of Elena, telling her to wait. She set the next bowl on my placemat just as I was sitting down, and then she went back into the kitchen. I heard Dad’s keys jingle outside, and a few moments later, he was at the door, undoing Coco’s leash.

Elena’s eyes widened and she kept track of Coco as he bolted towards us.

“Dog,” said Elena.

“Now, Uri,” said Dad as he walked towards the table, “did Elena tell you about the magic show we went to today?”

“Magic show?” I gasped. “You didn’t tell me about any magic show…”

Elena giggled incessantly and when she finally caught her breath she said, “Th-th-the magician brought me on stage to help with a trick!”

“You’re kidding,” I cried.

“No!” she exclaimed as she fell back into a laughing fit.

“How was your afternoon?” Dad asked in an understated yet soothing voice.

“Pretty good. Joan and I finally finished La casa de papel,” I replied quietly.

Mom came back to the table and set down one bowl of gazpacho in front of my dad and the other on her own placemat.

As we ate our soup, and Elena tried her best not to slurp, the smell of shellfish and saffron began to escape the kitchen and make its way to the dining room.

“Smells good. Am I right, Elena?” asked Dad.

My sister sniffed the air and made her focus face—her eyes looking up and her mouth scrunched.

“Paella,” said Mom.

“¡Paella!” repeated Elena.

*

After dinner, while Mom and Dad were preoccupied with getting Elena calmed down before bedtime, I walked upstairs to my room and took the time to look around. After a while, I lay in bed and tried hard to recall my first memory in that bedroom. I couldn’t. I remembered being at the dinner table downstairs and hearing about Elena’s first concert. I remembered being on the beach for Elena’s first time seeing fireworks. The memories of my bedroom had somehow escaped me. I tried even harder. I shut my eyes. I let my body relax. All I could hear in my head was my sister’s voice. Her loud, joyful, irritating, cheerful, dreaded, beautiful, frustrating voice. My eyelids began to heat up, burning from the hot wet liquid pooling behind them.

*

The following days I spent getting ready to leave—packing two suitcases full of clothes appropriate for the hot Florida weather. I packed my Barça jersey and a few pictures I had gotten framed at El Corte Inglés, where I took the opportunity to also print a photo album of pictures with Elena and me through the years. I made sure to include some of her firsts, and some of mine too. I gave her the photo album as an early birthday gift and told her that no matter where I was in the world, I would always be with her. Hugging the album to her chest, she twirled around me and let out a squeal.

Almost every day I heard Mom on the phone downstairs making plans for Elena’s birthday party, and I heard Dad coming in and out of the house with his loud set of keys. Getting invitations sent out in time, planning the meal, the cake, the music, and the entertainment. Mom spent much of her time overthinking the plans—would there be enough people at the party? Would there be too many people? Would there be enough food? Would there be too much food?

*

The day before Elena’s birthday party, Dad and I went on a bike ride together up to Terrassa. Dad had started taking me on his Saturday morning bike rides when I was thirteen—just old enough to keep up with his pace, which wasn’t anything extraordinary. They had become a regular part of my weekends. Every time, we explored a new area of Barcelona. It was astonishing how many places we discovered in such a small city. That Saturday, however, we weren’t going somewhere new.

“Do you remember our first bike ride together?” Dad asked me that morning.

I did, of course. I remembered it clearly. It was a hot and humid day in June—the day after my thirteenth birthday.

“We went up to Terrassa, didn’t we? We went to Parc de Vallparadís,” I said.

“We’re going back today,” he said, “for old time’s sake.”

It was a cloudy morning, not so common for a Spanish August. But the air was humid, just as it was that first ride. The air bathed us in sweat, and by the time we got to the entrance of the park and took our helmets off, our hair was soaked. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and I could hear from far away the sound of automatic sprinklers. People walked up and down the main path of the park, each in their own little worlds—walking their dogs, strolling along with their families, or running alone. Regardless of what they were doing, their thoughts all seemed to be so deeply in the present. Dad and I sat on our bikes, our feet planted on the concrete, appreciating our surroundings.

Then, we biked through the park, our helmets hanging on to our handlebars. We biked past the trees and the castle. We biked past the winding stairs and the bronze hippo statues. A chorus of cicadas buzzed over the ticking of our wheels. We biked on the bridge above the pond as the boisterous frogs croaked and we watched the little kids play in the swimming pool as the smell of oily sunscreen reached our noses.

Dad was quiet. He waited until we’d biked through the entire park to say, “That’s that. Our first bike ride all over again.”

I smiled at him and I felt a sudden wave of nostalgia. I remembered bike rides to Barceloneta and Badalona. I remembered riding through Eixample and El Raval. I remembered riding past the skateboarders at MACBA. I remembered summer days playing fútbol on the beach and winter days on the ski lifts in La Cerdanya.

“I’m gonna miss days like this, Dad,” I said.

“Me too,” he responded as he pulled his helmet onto his head.

The ride home was slow—purposefully slow, to cherish the moment.

*

“There’s the birthday girl,” I said to Elena the morning of her birthday. “Who’s ready to celebrate like there’s no tomorrow?”

“It’s my birthday! It’s! My! Birthday!” she screamed.

I gave Elena a hug and she squeezed me firmly.

“You sit here,” she said, pointing to the chair right next to hers. It was my usual seat.

“You’re the queen of the world today, so I will sit here if that’s what you want,” I said.

The smell of buttermilk and cooked berries filled the living room. In the kitchen, Mom was pouring batter onto a griddle and flipping pancakes.

Elena opened her gifts, a blushing smile like a Russian doll’s painted on her face. The wrapping paper scattered all over the house.

Yayo and Abuelita clapped. Abuelita gave Elena a kiss on the forehead every time she said thank you.

Afternoon came and the house began to fill up with guests. Dad had fired up the grill and the smell of sizzling meat wafted through the air. The backyard was swarming with Elena’s friends. They were all jumpy and anxious to get in the pool as the day got hotter. Iván was the first to jump in the pool without permission, and following him, about a half-dozen others. Their parents all had beers, and Dad handed Joan and me our own bottles.

“So I hear you have an outstanding opportunity in America,” said Iván’s mother.

“Elena will miss you,” said another mother. “She talks about you all the time.”

“All the time,” echoed an athletic, young-looking man, who I figured must be Isaac, the volunteer swim coach.

It seemed as though Elena’s everybody was here. From the lady who used to serve her lunch at the daycare to the man who drove her to swim lessons.

Elena came darting out of the pool and gave me a wet hug.

“Th-this is the best day of my life!” she squealed.

I smiled. I laughed.

“Are you all ready for the cake?” asked Mom in a subdued manner as she walked up from behind me.

“Cake, everybody! Cake!” screamed Elena, wrapped in a blue-and-white striped towel.

As we gathered around the iron outdoor table, Elena and her friends dried themselves off in unison and took big gulps of water from their cups, all breathing heavily.

Mom closed her hand around the lighter as she lit the candles and everybody started singing.

“Make a wish, Elena,” she said.

Elena put a finger on her nose and made her focus face. She used all her strength to blow, the flames flickering, and with my help, the candles went. All twenty-two of them.