“I don’t know. She didn’t know either. Once Erlinda told me, ‘I see darkness when I want to see light. What’s wrong with me?’ I told her, ‘Play your ukulele, dance in your tiara. No one’s looking.’” Auntie’s voice cracks and her eyes grow wet. “A fool’s advice. I should have known better. I have limits.”

I place my hand on top of her good one. “It’s not your fault. You can’t cure the whole world.”

She points her finger at me. “Exactly, Isabel. That’s why you need to talk to Dr. Gurrero.”

“I don’t see how talking to him about me is going to help Frank.”

Auntie shrugs. “Maybe it won’t. Maybe it will. How will you know if you don’t try? I’ve decided if he wants to talk to me, I’ll go.” Ed better be ready to listen.

The nurse returns with Olivia and calls my name. And I follow her.

Talking

Talking

Ed’s room smells like raw onions, probably from another Big Mac attack. “Hafa adai, Isabel,” he says. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

He walks around, shakes my hand, and leans back against his desk. “It’s good to hear you speak. I was beginning to think you had laryngitis last week.” He chuckles, then clears his throat when I don’t smile.

“Mind if I sit here?” He points to the couch across from me, then plops down. He’s wearing a blue Hawaiian shirt today and eyeglasses. I’m trying to remember if he wore the round wire frames last week when he asks, “Anything happen since we talked? I mean since I talked?” He chuckles again.

I sigh.

“Sorry. No more jokes. How’s school?”

I don’t know why, but I say, “My friend’s mother had a baby.”

“Great! Girl or boy?”

“Boy.” I smile, remembering Auntie’s prediction, then quickly suck in my lips.

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Erase your smile.”

“When am I going to see Frank?”

“I’ll make a deal with you. You talk to me today and I’ll tell you at the end of this session. Okay? Now, why did you wipe off your smile?”

“I don’t know. I was thinking about how Auntie Bernadette told Mary Kelly’s family their baby would be a boy and they didn’t believe her.” I explain what happened—how Mrs. Johnson took the test, the test that never fails, the mix-up, the pink nursery, the little pink dresses hanging in the closet.

Ed laughs. “Never underestimate a suruhana.”

By the end of our session, we haven’t talked about much except school and my friends.

“See you next week,” Ed says.

“But when can I see Frank?”

“I think he’ll be ready for a visit in about two weeks.”

“Two weeks? But you said if I talked to you—”