Annette smiled. “No,” she said. “Actually, I’m just the same.”
“Where are we going?”
Annette didn’t answer, wasn’t sure how to answer. Where were they going? She said, “Laredo.”
“OK…” said Robert. “What, for the weekend?”
“Your grandmother will be so happy to see you,” said Annette, deflecting.
“What about Dad?” said Robert.
“And your uncles, too,” said Annette. “They love you so much, Roberto.”
“Roberto,” scoffed Robert, mocking her.
Annette felt tears in her eyes. His caustic, mean tone was the same as his father’s. Cutting, hurtful, ready to pretend it was “a joke” if you got upset. It was not abuse like a fist, but it hurt anyway, kept Annette in line.
“Yes, Roberto,” said Annette. Her voice was little more than a whisper. She was scared that her son, like her husband, would shame her. Instead, though, Robert grinned.
“OK,” he said. And then, as he’d always asked when they went to Laredo, he said, “Can we get paletas?”
“Of course,” said Annette. “Of course, little one.”
She hit the gas, passed car after car, and drove south, toward home.
-7-
Liza
“CHARLIE!” I CALLED. THEREwas no answer. The door deep in the cave had no handle.Wasit a door? Could it be?
I began to pound on the rock. Claustrophobia and panic made my blood hot. “Charlie!” I screamed. I heard a clicking and a bright light made me wince. A hand grabbed me. I reared back and pain shot through my wrist, my bones in a vise. I was yanked through what seemed to be a man-made entranceway.
I held my free hand to my eyes, momentarily blinded, adrenaline flooding my veins. As my vision cleared, I saw Whitney. Her fingernails dug painfully into my skin. The room was cool, clammy after the stultifying outdoor temperatures. I saw Charlie sitting at a desk. He was pale and looked terrified.
“Charlie?”
Whitney slammed the door. Her expression was furious. I looked around, taking in deep leather couches, sconces, and mahogany-inlaid walls. “Where are we?” I said. “What’shappening?” The room was lit by skylights and a window showing…the Eiffel Tower in Paris?
THE EIFFEL TOWER FROM DIFFERENT ANGLES—FOREVER!
I remembered Whitney describing the Parisian vista, laughing as I sipped a “mom marg” at the Packers’ pool in what felt like another world.
An aboveground world.
A real world, with real light.
I peered at what I’d thought were skylights and saw that their color was flat, the view blue with no variation or clouds. The hue was a bit off, too bright, without the yolky yellow tinge of Texas sky.
“Is this the Packers’ doomsday bunker?” I said.
Whitney continued to grip my wrist. “Yes,” she said. It must have been the fluorescent lighting: I could see the bones of her skull under her skin. Her face was sharp and nightmarish. Was she sick? I blinked to try to dispel the vision.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
When I think back, I can see that these were the last moments I could still cling to the belief that Whitney was the person I’d wanted her to be: generous, larger than life, queen of a mythical place I’d always dreamed of belonging. A “summer girl” grown up. She was the foundation of my “Liza” persona. I thought that without her, I was nothing, a fraud.
“Mom,” said Charlie, his tone low and grave. “You need to listen to me, Mom.”
