WordSisters

“I could live here,” Crystel said. Her arms were spread wide embracing the whole of Guatemala, her birth country.

Standing on the restaurant rooftop, we breathed in deeply the fresh crisp air. It was a noticeable difference from the air quality in Minnesota currently suffocating from Canada’s wildfires.

Mountains, hills, and the conical peak of Volcan Santa Maria stretched across the horizon. Church steeples poked up around the valley. Pigeon’s cooing, roosters crowing, and dogs barking punctuated the afternoon. Mayans in colorful dress walked easily up and down the narrow steep cobblestone streets.

I recognized the little park where we had enjoyed the sun’s rays before entering the restaurant. Flags flowed gently in the breeze above the two cement benches. The park would become our landmark. Left to our Spanish school, right to the restaurant and down the hill to our homestay.

“Me and Mama Jody feel the same way when we are around Lake Atitlan,” I reminded her. On many occasions Jody and I discussed buying property around the lake and looked at homes for sale. Surrounded by mountains, volcanoes, and water, Lake Atitlan was our sanctuary. Cradled by the universe, the heart of the mother, we felt loved, protected and at peace.

Eventually, Crystel and I made our way back to our homestay for dinner at 7 pm. Within days we had established a pattern: breakfast with the family, language school, return for lunch, fitness center, afternoon café for hours of reading and writing, finally head back for dinner and lastly bedtime.

Crystel was our de facto leader. I was content to follow her on the uneven and unpredictable sidewalks that were not wide enough for two people to walk side by side. She helped with bank business and researched cafes, restaurants, and excursions. I gave up any semblance of being in charge. On occasion when I did assert myself and speak on her behalf, she let me know that it wasn’t wanted. I was to be her companion on this trip, the friend who had inferior language skills and was inept at GPS. I was comfortable to step aside and allow her caretaking. It was a gift to be her mother, a speck on the wall, and observe her engagement with others, be fully in the moment, and witness her desire to learn.

“It’s right here,” Crystel said. She stopped at a pistachio-colored building front with a tan door.

Entrance to our homestay was through a dimly lit garage. A motorcycle with parts and tires strewn about rested against a cement wall. Broken dusty chairs stacked in a corner. Drywall and crumbled brick swept in a pile. Oil cans, assorted tools, and dog dishes near the rickety steps that climbed to the roof. At times dried dog poo could be spotted. Once I very carefully climbed the stairs to the roof to see if I could escape to a sunlit area to read and write only to be disappointed. Discarded items, unused pot plants, and cement blocks held sheets of tin in place.

“Mama Beth,” Crystel whispered. I opened my door. “What’s that?” she gestured.

I loved it when she visited me, searched me out. We had an easiness about us. Could provide each other company without talking. I sniffed back a sob. On my bed was a piece of sheet rock and plaster dust. “It must of fell from the ceiling or wall.” Sitting with my legs dangling over the bed my back ached from the strain. The mess wasn’t there when we left after lunch for our afternoon workout and café outing.

Crystel wanted to laugh. It is what we have both done to relieve tension. She thought better of it after seeing my face. My eyes were red from crying. My face flushed.

“I just finished talking with Mama Jody. I’m so depressed. The clutter and dirt really get to me.” I pointed to the corner of my room and the top of my console. More plaster dust, more debris.

I brushed off my bed. Crystel climbed in with her book.

“Now, I’m worried about bed bugs and fleas. Any time I see a spot on my pillowcase or bedding, I put a finger by it to see if it will jump.”

At dinnertime, Ms. Amsterdam told Crystel that she would not pet the dog if it were her. “The dog has fleas,” she said. Crystel’s hand sprung from the little white friendly dog. “I have flea bites on my ankles because I let the dog in my room.” Mr. England added that there were bed bugs in the mattresses.

Crystel stiffened. “I like it here,” she said. “The food is good. The family is nice.”

“I agree. The food is simple and wonderful. I never have to spice anything. The portions are just the right size.” I shifted to lean my back against the headboard. “I hear you laughing and using your Spanish. You could have done this trip by yourself. Did you hear Ms. Amsterdam say that another student looked at my room and then left? She said she couldn’t do it.”

What is my purpose in all this? This trip was for her. It was supposed to be about her growth. Her lessons. Not mine. What is the meaning here?

 I sensed that Crystel didn’t want to move from our homestay. She could be imagining how it might be to live with her birth family.

My PTSD was triggered our first night at the homestay. I hadn’t been able to shake it. It took me some time to figure out why I was on heightened alert and couldn’t sleep. It occurred to me that it was about the mess and the chaos that I grew up in. As a teenager, anxiety built inside me until I exploded and got on my hands and knees and scrubbed our kitchen and hallway floors bit by bit. I’d start at my parents’ bedroom, move backwards to my sister’s, then mine, change water and start again in the kitchen area. A table knife in my soapy pail of water was to get what the scratch pad wouldn’t.

Chaos meant no one was in charge. If no one was in charge, I wouldn’t be safe. At any minute things could spiral out of control. If I could just clean the house, I’d be safe. My parents were of no help. I had long become the surrogate parent to my younger siblings.

I breathed deeply. “We are leaving for El Paredon on Friday,” I said. “Maybe a long weekend away will be just what I need to reset.”

 I can do this. It’s not that bad. I don’t want to hurt the family’s feelings by leaving. I don’t want to take money away from them. They counted on us. Crystel is doing great. Fitting right in with this Guatemalan family. I can do this. It’s not so bad.

El Paredon, a remote surf beach town on the Pacific Coast of Guatemala with a black sand beach was on Crystel’s must-do list. She had learned how to surf in Hawaii and wanted to visit surfing destinations. Maybe at El Paredon, I’d find my epiphany. Sunrises and sunsets were known to be spectacular. I imagined relaxing on a sunny beach and enjoying the outdoor hotel pool, lounging, healing, and napping. Crisp clean white bed linen and towels. Fluffed up pillows. A TV to scroll in the evenings. A private bathroom with a warm shower. Falling asleep to the sound of the ocean.

Before leaving for our long weekend, I folded the blankets on my bed. Removed my sheets and pillowcases. Set them by the washing machine.