3. Better An Orphan Than Forgotten
BETTER AN ORPHAN THAN FORGOTTEN
Dahlia
The Church of Saint Barbara
Brooklyn, New York
12 Years Earlier
“He should be here already.”
Mom kneels in front of me to fix the zipper on my robe. A crease forms between her soft brows. “I know, mija. He’ll be here.”
I glance outside the church doors. Throngs of people line up on the street in their Sunday best. Women in modest dresses and short heels, the men in button downs and blazers.
Of course there’s the occasional Jezebel like Karen Garcia’s older sister Dina who’s wearing a mini dress from the Joyce Leslie on Myrtle Avenue and a pair of bedazzled heels from Fabco.
Despite the immodesty and scandalous cleavage, I envy how glamorous she looks.
Mom dressed me up like a virgin bride for my confirmation. My only consolation is knowing that Lyss is suffering too, wearing her aunt’s hand-me-down lace monstrosity from Italy. We cast forlorn looks at one another and sigh.
A white car turns the corner on Bleecker Street onto Central Avenue and I hold my breath for a beat. Except, it isn’t Papi’s beat-up Toyota. No, that’s Lisa Camero’s family, the only people in the entire neighborhood who could be accused of being tackier than the Garcias.
Lisa’s dad is tatted up from head to toe and wearing enough Cuban links around his throat to create a dent in his thick neck.
He wears at least two rings on every finger and a belt with rhinestones holds up his dark jeans but barely.
The only thing saving us from a view of his back side is the oversized Ed Hardy he’s wearing.
My mom and Lyss’s mom exchange looks.
“No one has respect for the house of God anymore,” Giovana shakes her head. “Would it have killed him to wear a tie?”
My mother scoffs. “Please, look at Angie. You can see her hot pink thong in that white dress—what was she thinking?”
Lyss and I move away from our parents to watch as Lisa gets out of the car.
She’s wearing white cosmic pants with a peplum shirt and giant owl necklace whose pendant is the size of her fist. White and blue feather clips are woven into her straight black hair and a floral print handbag I saw at Charlotte Russe hangs over her shoulder.
Her confirmation robe hangs open and the little angel with her saint name is pinned onto the lacy strap of her shirt.
“Why does Lisa always get to wear the cool stuff?” Lyss laments.
“Did you see what Sofia’s wearing?” I ask.
My friend gasps. “No, what?”
“A bright red bandage dress and a pair of high tops she bought at PayLess.” I purse my lips. “I look like a Bride of Christ.”
Lyss flails her arms around, drawing attention to the frilly monstrosity under her confirmation robe. “I look like a Bride of Chucky. We’re in this together.”
I manage a smile but am too distracted by the traffic.
One by one, each family in the neighborhood arrives, all of them in varying states of disarray.
Babies are missing their crosses, grumpy pre-teen boys refuse to button their blazers, and girls exchange lipsticks and compacts as they touch up their makeup.
Our classmates file into the church in alphabetical order by last name and Lyss tries to sneak in front of me but Mrs. Arden remands her to the front.
“Couldn’t my parents have put Rinaldi on my birth certificate first?” She mutters under her breath.
I’m toward the end of the line. Fifty kids are receiving confirmation this year and there are only a dozen or so kids behind me. As the procession begins, I hover near the church doors as long as I can, hoping and praying that a familiar car will appear on Central Avenue but it never does.
Nina Peretti turns around and uses her candle to light mine. “Don’t worry,” she whispers. “My dad is late all the time.”
“But he still shows up.” Once my candle is lit, I turn to help Kosta Romas with his. “Which is more than I can say about mine.”
Kosta shrugs. “My dad’s dead.”
Nina says, “And your mom got real good insurance money out of it!”
Kosta nods in earnest and tips his candle toward Matthew Rodriguez.
“My dad’s back from jail,” Matthew adds nonchalantly.
All our voices overlap.
“What?” I utter in disbelief.
“Since when?” Nina asks.
“That’s cool.” Kosta smiles.
Matthew shrugs in response. “Came back yesterday. It was…kind of nice.” A modest smile grazes his lips. “We all got breakfast together this morning and then he helped me put on my tie.”
By now we’ve all zipped up our confirmation robes but I can imagine what Matthew Rodriguez looks like under his. Dapper, if not a little insecure in clothes his grandmother likely tailored for him. And a tie his dad helped him with this afternoon.
Envy burns a hole through my chest and settles like a weight in my stomach. I turn around and follow the procession through the church, intent on abandoning all hope of his arrival.
The ceremony is endless. Nina and I end up flipping through the hymnal and make a game out of finding curse words because sometimes, kids use a black pen to alter the letters.
All fifty kids go up to the altar to announce their saint name and the reason behind their choice.
We’re a predominantly Hispanic church with a solid cluster of Italians, some Irish, and a sprinkle of Polish and Albanian.
The four of us take tallies on the most common confirmation names.
Maria wins by a landslide among the Hispanic, Italian, and Polish girls.
To no one’s surprise, Francis is a top contender for the Italian boys but we’re surprised by the number of Polish and Albanian boys who choose Thomas.
Matthias is the second runner up. All the Irish boys choose John and the Irish girls choose Agnes.
When it’s my turn to go up to the podium, I feel the overwhelming urge to yank my angel up and rip her into a million pieces. But Father Mark watches me expectantly with a warm smile on his face and I know that if I embarrass the nicest priest to have ever lived, God will strike me dead right here.
“Do you have your index card?” He asks.
I nod and pull it out of my robe pocket.
Before I ascend to the altar I stop to bow before the tabernacle and Father Mark helps me onto the podium.
This is really silly when you think about it…
asking a bunch of 13-year-olds to get on stage and talk in front of a few hundred people.
It’s a miracle no one’s passed out yet, although, Evelyn Diaz came pretty close.
I place my index card on the podium and adjust the microphone so I can reach it when I speak.
Just as I lift my gaze, I spot my mom in the crowd.
She has her phone pressed up against her ear as she walks to the back of the church.
She looks out the window before stepping outside and I think I see her wave at someone but the door closes behind her.
And then I feel it; blossoming in the pit of my stomach where the dread and envy once lived.
Hope. Relief.
He made it. Late, but he still made it.
“Dahlia?” Father Mark frowns. “Is the mic okay?”
“Yes! Sorry.” I clear my throat and start reading from my index card. “I have chosen the name Victoria, in honor of Saint Victoria, the martyr of Códorba. Her feast day is November 17th. This name is special to me because—”
A loud creaking noise momentarily distracts me.
I look up and find Mom at the front of the church and almost smile.
Mom startles when I make eye contact and pauses by the church doors.
Hands folded in front of her and shoulders slightly slumped, she quickly pulls herself together with a raised chin and firm upper lip.
There’s sympathy in her gaze when she shakes her head at me and suddenly, I forget why I even cared so much to begin with.
This name is special to me because I chose it for my father, whose middle name is Victor.
“Because…I liked it.” I crumble up the index card and descend from the podium.
After everyone takes turns announcing their names, we line up with our sponsors who walk us down the aisle to Father Mark.
He anoints our foreheads and when the ceremony is over, Principal Cuomo insists on taking a hundred photos for the school newspaper.
Lyss breaks alphabetical order to come find me.
She quietly slips her hand into mine and squeezes and I know she saw it too.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Don’t be. I didn’t expect much from him anyway.”
The next hour is spent taking photos around the church.
Us with our sponsors, teachers, and Father Mark.
Vinny Esposito is the only one in our class with an iPhone so he takes a photo of us by the baptismal font.
Time passes and the crowd gets smaller and smaller.
Students and their families filter out of the church and into the vestibule and then from the vestibule to the front steps.
Mom impatiently checks her phone while Lyss and I watch on in silence.
“He’s not coming.” I tell her.
“That’s not true. He’s just running a little late and—”
“A little late? Mom, the ceremony is over!”
“Dahlia,” Giovana’s tone is at once firm and gentle. “Lower your voice.”
“What for? God already knows what I’m thinking. Makes no difference if He hears it too.”
“Dee…” Lyss sighs.
“I’m leaving. We look ridiculous just waiting here when almost everyone is gone.
Look around you!” I gesture to the empty church and few stragglers hanging around outside waiting for their rides home.
As if on cue, Lyss’s dad pulls up across the street, having brought his car around from where he was parked on Linden Street.
All four of her brothers are packed into the back seat but they still made sure to leave room for her.
“Everyone is going home. They have actual families that care about them.”
Mom’s cheeks color. “You aren’t being fair. You have a family—I’m your family.”