Magic in Costa Rica

Sorry

After my psychological evaluation found that the only thing unusual about me was my "overactive imagination" I was allowed to go back to school, to my dismay. Nobody wanted to talk to me, for fear of hearing another gory and terrifying account of my mother's death, and I was happy to be left alone. I paid attention in class just enough to get by, but spent most of my time writing down all the thoughts I used to say out loud to my friends, to my dad, and my mom. I missed her when I came home from school and she wasn't there, or when I went to bed and she didn't tuck me in, but while I was writing I felt she was right beside me. I felt much further away from my dad than I did from her. He and I rarely spoke, and when we did it was to say "good morning" or "goodnight" and not much else. We ate dinner in silence, neither of us making eye contact. For the rest of the school year, he acted like I didn't exist. Then, the first day of summer, he woke me up and told me to get ready for school. I said the last day of school was yesterday and he looked at me with an expression of utter shock. I watched his eyebrows furrow and head tilt as he looked at the date on the calendar.

"Huh," he said, and in that moment I saw the mist clear from his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. I asked him what he was sorry for, and he smiled, for the first time since before mom died, and told me to go back to sleep.

He spent that summer smothering me with unwanted attention, mostly out of guilt for ignoring me for two months. Every morning he would ask me what I wanted to do today, and when I told him I just wanted to stay home and write, he would say "Not good enough!" and take me out on some daily excursion. Some days we just went to the grocery store, some days to the beach, the zoo, or my favorite place, the library. We never went to the park. I knew he just wanted us to get out of the house, so I went along with it, but once we got back home, I went straight to my room to write. Sometimes I read the books I got from the library in the living room to keep my dad company, because I got the strange feeling that I was taking care of him more than he was taking care of me. At night I heard him crying in his sleep, calling out my mother's name and repeating "I'm sorry" over and over again, although I couldn't figure out what in the world he was sorry for. I knew he was lonely, and I felt for him, but I also felt that the distance between us grew larger every day, and I doubted that any effort on my end would make a difference to him. Neither of us ever tried to talk about my mother, and every word that was left unspoken hung in the dust-filled air of our home.

I grew up much faster than most of my classmates throughout the next few years. I earned top marks in all of elementary and middle school, although I felt like I was muddling through without giving any real effort. The only class I really cared about was English. Although most of the writing we did was boring, I did enjoy the reading. Books transported me to others worlds, ones that were highly preferable to the one in which I lived. I had very few friends, but people left me alone, and I liked it that way. Six years passed by like the turn of a page, and before I knew it, it was the first day of my sophomore year of high school.

* * *

"Alma, it's time to go!" my dad shouted from the living room.

"Coming," I paused to take one last look at myself in bathroom mirror. Over the past five years I had transformed into a young woman, no longer a little girl. My strong jaw and golden-toned skin were framed by the curls of my thick, brown hair. I had stormy blue eyes and full lips, which I inherited from my mother, and a small, round nose, which I got from my dad. I was short, but curvy, and the green dress I was wearing was one of the only outfits I had that fit my small frame and left room for my figure. Its fabric cinched at my waist and flowed into a skirt that went just past my knees. I put on a gray cardigan and gave myself a short nod before going into the living room.

"Come on Alma, we're going to be la-" my dad stopped when he saw me walking towards him. "You-" he paused, and tears welled up in his eyes. "You look just like your mother, Alma." He wasn't wrong. I possessed some of her features, but I still felt small compared to her memory. She was lean and tall, with strong, long arms and even longer legs. She always tied her hair into a sleek ponytail, which whipped around like a horse's tail when she walked. Her nose was pointy and narrow, and her smile could light up an entire room. I stood still, not knowing what to do or say. My dad sensed my discomfort. "Come on, let's go. Why does high school have to start so goddamn early? It's practically dark outside." He rushed out the door but I hesitated. He looked back. "Well? Are you coming?" I nodded and followed him out.

"I'm sorry," I said, and closed the door behind me.