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“You’re a gem.” She smiled, but her smile vanished and she pointed at the door. “But it’s way after working hours; go home.”
I raised two fingers in salute and left, my thoughts wild all the way home.
With a heavy sigh, I flipped on the light switch in my apartment and glanced around. Just like my desk, my apartment had become undeniably mine. Every inch of surface space held framed photographs, mementos of the things I’d been able to do, the bucket list items I’d been able to cross off each year. My chest tightened as I walked around my living room, the tips of my fingers brushing over precious memories I’d taken for granted.
I powered up my laptop and video called my sister, busying myself in the kitchen until she answered.
“Mia, how are you?” she answered, and I turned to find her sitting on the floor of my mom’s bedroom, painting her toenails.
“You’re stealing Mom’s polish again?” I teased, grabbing a pot out of the cupboard and setting it on the stove. “Have you no shame?”
“Mom always buys the nicest colors.” She shrugged. “Atão? Como é que vai?”
“English, Vitoria,” I scolded her, and she clicked her tongue in frustration.
“You know, you should probably brush up on your Portuguese if you’re coming back.”
I swallowed the sting her words left and added water to the pot.
“And you should get better at English if you want to finish your studies in America,” I argued. “Besides, it’s not something I could forget that easily.”
“How can you be so sure?” she demanded.
“I talk to you and Mom all the time.”
She frowned. “Fine.” She sighed, quickly changing the subject. “Have you heard any good news about the visa stuff?”
I took a deep breath and shook my head. “Reid’s had her lawyers go up and down the visa laws and they haven’t found anything yet.”
“I also talked to Paulo today and he says that the embassies here can’t do anything until you’re back home.” She pouted. She screwed the lid of the nail polish on tight and set it somewhere off screen.
I looked at her then,reallylooked at her.
She was wearing one of my old high school tees; the team name across the front faded with many washes and use. She’d convinced my mother to finally let her braid her long hair, and her braids swayed delicately with every movement she made.
She and I shared the same face: my mom’s face. The only trace of our father hid in the deep cupid’s bow in our lips.
“It’s next week,” I said quietly, and Vitoria nodded.
The anniversary of our father’s death was something we barely talked about; mostly because Vitoria was usually a little hesitant to talk about him in front of me. She and Mom always visited his grave, but the last time I’d set foot in the cemetery was the day of his funeral.
Eleven years ago.
Vitoria was quiet for a moment while I tore open a packet of ramen noodles and dumped the contents into the boiling water.
“You might be home by then, right?” she asked carefully, and I nodded.
“I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately,” I admitted, and her head lifted in interest. “I even had a dream about him a couple of nights ago.”
“You did?”
It wasn’t a big deal. The dream had been nothing more than a moment frozen in time; his very last smile stuck as he watched me intently. He didn’t speak, and he didn’t do anything but smile at me.
And it haunted me.
“I feel like all this visa bullshit is a sign.” I sighed. “Or maybe he’s punishing me for leaving, who knows?”
Vitoria didn’t say anything, and there was a strange sense of comfort that came from confessing something to someone who lived on the other side of the world.
