THE RED CAMP 24

Emily:

Return, Return

It’s not easy for me to come back. I’m returning

home for my younger sister Laura’s wedding and,

although I’m only an hour away by plane, I’ve made

a point of keeping my distance. Several years ago,

before I left for college, Dad had moved out of the

house and disappeared into Mexico, and Mom was

hearing voices and talking to herself. Since both

Gloria and Rita had married and moved out, I was

next in line to take over. I quickly bailed. College

provided an escape from family responsibilities, and

I was thankful. Unfortunately for Rita and Laura,

my departure meant they had to carry the weight of

my father’s final abandonment and my mother’s bitter

and self-destructive anger.

Even though I’m back for just a few days, I’m

still looking to escape, still hiding out. All I want to

do now is stay out of the storm and then head back

up north.

“Do you think he’ll come?” Laura anxiously

asks Gloria and me as we sit in Gloria’s kitchen,

eating our lunch of tuna fish sandwiches and chicken

noodle soup.

“You know Dad,” Gloria answers, “I wouldn’t

count on it.”

Not too long ago, Gloria heard from the relative

grapevine that Dad had returned from Mexico and

was living with his brother. Laura called Dad at Tío

Jessie’s and asked him to be in her wedding. He

accepted. And now, one day before the wedding,

she’s nervous about it. And with good reason.

“I told you you should have done what I did,”

Gloria says gently.

When Gloria got married, she avoided the

whole “Dad” situation by asking an older male

friend to give her away. Everything went smoothly

and Dad, even though he was a little late, did show

up for the wedding. He didn’t seem to mind being

replaced, but then you never really know with him.

Laura chews on her lower lip and looks at me.

“What do you think?”

“Maybe you should have a backup just in case.”

I am not in the wedding, and that’s okay with

me. At first I was hurt because Rita and Gloria were

asked and I wasn’t, but then I realized I couldn’t

afford it anyway. I’m in graduate school, an Art History

major, and I’m completely broke. Art History. It

never sounds quite right. Whenever I tell people my

major, a voice in my head tells me to get real, who

am I kidding, someone like me can’t afford the luxury

of Art History. I should have gone to law school or

med school, you know, Help The People. The great

brown hope that wasn’t.

The wedding is being held at the new Our Lady

of Guadalupe Church, which was built next to the

old one. The new church is all sunshine, air and

light-colored stained glass. Folksy, guitar strumming

melodies replace ominous Latin chants. Gone

is the mystery, the sadness. I miss the darkness.

I wait inside the church entrance and watch the

relatives file in. It’s hard to tell our family from the

groom’s. Mike, Laura’s husband-to-be, comes from a

longtime camp family, also. We could almost be the

same family, but I can hear Mom disagree. “They’re

shorter and darker.” She dislikes Lola, the groom’s

mother. Stems back to an old fight over a boyfriend.

Mom says Lola was a big flirt and still is.

My Dad’s four brothers and three sisters—Tíos

Jessie, Manny, Oscar and Mario and Tías Flora, Eva

and Gaby—are all here with their grown children.

My mother’s aunt, Tía Tomasa, the matriarch of the

Ruiz family, arrives with her daughters and all my

cousins from Victorville. No one lives in the camp

anymore. They have spread out all over Southern

California: Fullerton, Santa Ana, Westminster, Placentia,

Anaheim and Brea.

The organist begins to play. I walk down the

aisle to the front pew, genuflect, cross myself and

slide onto the hard bench. I look back. Still no sign

of Dad. What did I expect? Laura must be out of her

mind now. Everyone is seated and the wedding

party nervously waits at the entrance. Mike’s brother

escorts Mom down the aisle, and Lola follows

with an usher. Mom turns into our pew and sits

beside me. I watch her as she kneels.

“He’s not here yet, huh?” I whisper.

“Well, what did Laura expect?” she answers.

The music swells and the four bridesmaids and

ushers walk down the aisle, followed by my nephew

Philip, the ring bearer, and my niece Andrea, the

flower girl. Mike enters and smiles nervously as he

approaches Father Lozano. Laura and Dad suddenly

appear at the entrance and begin to walk slowly

down the aisle to the strains of the “Wedding

March.” I scrutinize Dad’s face, the quiet impassiveness,

the smooth olive-tinted skin, the bare hint of a

smile in one corner of his mouth, and it strikes me.

We are like him. I turn around and the faces of my

relatives blur behind me. We sit erect, spines

straight, faces expressionless. Like the giant stone

heads of the Mayans. Holding family knowledge

tight in our hearts. Always proud, always withholding.

The faces of my childhood. Is my face the same?

The reception is held at the Elks Lodge in

Fullerton, which sits on a bluff overlooking a small

valley. The sun sinks as I drive up the narrow winding

road. A breeze carries the scent of eucalyptus

mixed with the spiciness of simmering Mexican

food—oregano, chile, rice and the deep rich smell of

“Emily. Emily!” shouts Rita.

I look in the direction of her voice and realize

I’ve been drifting. The smell of burning leaves,

dusty streets and the crowing of a rooster.

“What?” I answer. I see that I am standing

alone on the dance floor.

“What are you doing?” She motions from a

nearby table. “What’s wrong with you?”

I join her back at the table as the introduction

to the next song begins.

“Oh no,” she groans.

“Now what?” I ask, then realize what the groaning

is about. The song. The strains of an all too

familiar romantic ballad start up. One of my parents’

favorites. The horns sensuously rise, violins

joining in. A sprinkling of older couples take to the

floor. It’s as if on cue, the heartbeats quicken, memories

flash and tears prepare to flow. I still don’t

understand my response to this music I once hated

so much. I watch my Tía Clara and Tío Vicente

gracefully move to the floor and feel my eyes brimming.

I don’t know if I’m sad over my parents’ lost

love or my own sense of being lost. I get up and slice

through the crowd towards the bathroom. As I pass

people, it’s as if a switch has been turned on, as if

the music has dissolved the iciness, the facades, the

guards protecting these people from each other and

the outside world. All around the room bodies relax,

shoulders drop, hands caress and smiles appear.

The room is filled with talkative, animated people.

As I approach the rear of the lodge, Laura and Mike

enter. I turn and watch their entrance. The reception

has officially begun.

I see my father take my mother’s hand and

smoothly lead her to the dance floor. His left arm

draws her close to him and his right arm wraps

around her forearm and wrist. They clasp hands

tightly. As I watch them dance, I recall the many

long nights of partying and dancing held in my parents’

living room and how at times, the times I

remember most vividly, the evenings ended in sadness

and anger, but how many more times the

evenings were joyous and magical with dancing

going on until the early morning, and how I would

fall asleep to the humming of my aunts’ and uncles’

voices and the strains of the romantic ballads they

loved. To my parents those evenings represented a

few precious hours of release from the grind of their

everyday lives—from the smell and noise of the factories,

the constant demands of oh-so-many children

and the pervasive, ghostly feeling of being a foreigner

in your own land. Whatever mistakes my parents

made and whatever flaws they may have, their

fondness for each other remains. Regardless of how

their children feel. There is nothing to be afraid of

here.

The singer’s deep, resonant voice permeates the

room, and Rita and I look at each other and then

watch as Laura and Mike join our parents in the

dance. The yelping punctuates the powerful emotions

of the song, and the whole room joins in the

refrain:

(And I’m dying to return. . . )

(And return, return, return)

(To your arms once again)

(I’ll get to where you are)

(I know how to lose, I know how to lose)

(I want to return, return, return. . . )