Balance

By Emma Hodson

I couldn’t help but smirk a little bit when Rossy lost her balance while walking down the muddy road through town. She was always laughing at me for tripping over my feet while walking. The daily rainstorms in Panama created more mud than my shoes with supposedly good traction were prepared for, and the bruises on my legs ached with fear whenever I neared a particularly slippery patch of road. My host mother insisted that trade in my flip-flops for my sneakers to insure that I stayed upright, and every day before I walked out the door, she would yell after me, “Cuida que no te caes, Emma!” Careful you don’t fall. Rossy, my twenty-two year old host sister, found this to be more than amusing and enjoyed discussing how I spent more time sitting in the dirt than I did standing.

This time though, I noted with smugness, I was not the one flailing my arms around for balance. Although Rossy seemed to resent it, the reddish mud didn’t discriminate natives from non-natives. Holding my head high, I walked confidently past Rossy, hoping I exuded poise and superiority. Quite rapidly, I realized this decision had been foolish; the rock I had stepped on to secure my balance slid easily under my pressure through the goo, and with a resounding thud, I added a fresh bruise to my growing collection. I sighed and looked over my shoulder at Rossy who was grinning wildly. I made a face at her. She came over to help me up.

“Are you okay?” she said in Spanish, still smiling.

“I guess so,” I said. “I’m going back home to change though, I’ll meet you at Bethy’s later.”

She nodded, and as I walked away, I heard her say, “Cuida que no te caes.”

Rossy and I got along from the beginning. As soon as I saw a poster of my favorite soccer player on her bedroom wall, I knew we’d get along. The first night, we stayed up late. We shared her king-size hard mattress and my mosquito nest, and as we stared up into the darkness, all the questions came pouring out. Did she go to school? What music did she listen to? Did I have a boyfriend? What was my family like?

“You’re not tired?” she asked me.

“I’m too excited to sleep,” I said.

“Excited for what?”

“I don’t know. To be here.”

“Do you miss your family?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I hope I meet them one day.”

Her sentiments seemed reasonable. We had met only a few hours before, but already I felt like I was talking to a good friend. We talked until my jet lag caught up to me and pulled my heavy eyelids down mid-conversation. Almost every night was like that. Even on nights when she would sleep in a separate room (the noises I made in the night scared her) we would gossip in the few hours before we slept. I was curious about her friends and her life, and she teased me that I should start a gossip column because I loved to talk so much.

“Emma, my sister, the crazy bad girl from California,” she would laugh, repeating the English words she sometimes heard on the television.

We really were sisters. We told each other everything, and were almost always together, teasing each other and laughing at life. But despite the countless dance lessons, midnight meals, and soccer games we played, Rossy and I would often fight. Sometimes it was meaningless. Maybe my American friend Jacky and I had spoken a little too long in English that day, or maybe I was offended because she told me I spoke Spanish with a Russian accent. She was an expert when it came to the silent treatment, and through my struggling Spanish, it was still impossible to miss my angry tone. We were never angry for long though, and the passive aggressive behavior would be cut short if someone suggested that we take a trip to buy cookies at the tienda or if one of our favorite songs came onto the radio.

In fact, our biggest problems arose when we weren’t spending enough time together. The day after an environmental festival, we invited two brothers from the town bordering Membrillo Centro, where I was, to take a hike to a river a few hours away. The two boys, Ckaly and Leonel, were energetic and outgoing, and were never at a loss for a dirty joke or a story to tell. We left early in the morning, and by the time we reached the river around mid-day, our t-shirts were soaked through with sweat. The water was nestled between two walls of thick jungle, and a waterfall channeled downward into the perfect swimming hole. Jacky and I threw ourselves in, glad to finally strip off our ruined clothes and cool off. Ckaly and Leonel followed, splashing us, and warning about the dangerous river sharks that they claimed prayed on pale girls. While our friends Lupo and Mario floated about the pond with us, Rossy sat apart, perched atop the waterfall. Her arms crossed, she scowled into the distance.

“Rossy!” I yelled. “¿Que tienes?”

She glanced at me, shrugged, and resumed her glare. I asked Jacky the same question.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know, don’t worry about it. She’s probably just scared of the water.”

I nodded, satisfied. Despite the daily showers, Panamanians in general seemed to feel animosity towards the water, waiting out the rain for hours under a tree, or tip-toeing across a creek to avoid getting wet. The boys were, in fact, the first people I had seen willingly touch water. With this in mind, I put Rossy in the back of my thoughts and dunked my head back under the pool.

Along with their hatred of water, the people of Membrillo seemed to share the characteristic of walking at an abnormally slow pace. It was not uncommon to arrive hours late for dinner, and the walks that took me ten minutes by myself often turned into half hour strolls. Given this, I was surprised while on the hike back from the river, Rossy bounded up the steep rocks and slippery hills at a near-jog. I struggled to keep up, but I trotted after her in the hopes of conversation. After a few minutes it was clear that her speed was actually intended to keep herself distant from me. Confused and defeated, I accepted when Leonel offered me his horse to ride.

“What’s wrong with her?” I asked.

He flashed me one of his characteristically goofy smiles. “She’s an bad friend.”

We arrived back in Membrillo late in the afternoon. I dismounted the horse, and, after catching Rossy’s eye, began the walk back home. Too exhausted to speak, I didn’t initiate any conversation. Rossy walked beside me, her eyes locked straight ahead. As soon as we reached her house, I threw myself into bed. My siestas for the most part had been later in the day, but I figured I deserved a nap. Besides, Rossy was sure to be back to normal in a few hours after she rested, I rationalized. I curled up on the hard mattress, and as soon as my head hit the pillow, I was asleep.

Four hours later, Jacky shook me awake. She had walked from her house to mine.

“Dinner,” she announced.

The first thing I noticed as I sat down to eat was that Rossy was nowhere to be found. A pang of guilt hit me as I ate my soup. I knew Rossy had a temper, and I wasn’t sure what I had done to provoke her. I thought back over the day, and tried to remember when the look of displeasure had first crossed her face. I drew a blank. Aside from swimming in the river she seemed to fear, I couldn’t think of anything I had done to upset her.

“She’s being a drama queen, Emma. It’s probably nothing,” said Jacky.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt that sat in my stomach.

I didn’t see Rossy until later that evening as I stood outside brushing my teeth. She leaned against the doorway and watched me as I stood in front of the cement sink, but said nothing.

“Are you mad at me?” I finally asked her.

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you want to talk?”

“Yes.”

She turned and went back inside. Throwing my toothbrush into my bag, I followed her into our bedroom. She sat in the corner against the wall, and I sat across from her on the bed. We sat in silence for several minutes, both of us unsure how to begin. We sat in these same spots every night. Just the night before she had curled up in that very corner and listed off the boys in town who she thought were “in love” with me while I rolled on the bed with laughter. It was hard to imagine that scene now, painful even, as serious eyes bore into mine. Unable to stand it anymore, I took a deep breath.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“What do you think?” she said, crossing her arms.

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking. You were acting really upset all day.”

“It’s interesting that you noticed, seeing as you didn’t say a word to me the entire afternoon.”

“What are you talking about? I did try, but you always looked too upset to talk.”

“You talked to Leonel and Ckaly a lot.” It was then I began to piece together an idea of what was wrong, and several scenes flashed into my mind at once; Rossy walking behind everyone on the way to the river, her annoyance at Leonel’s teasing, her stony face while the boys shared apples with us from the capital city. Still, I was confused. Although Leonel and Ckaly weren’t Rossy’s best friends, they got along well enough, and when we’d hung out in past, there’d been no problem.

“I’m not really sure what you’re saying,” I said.

Rossy frowned, looking pensive. “I don’t like Leonel very much,” she told me.

“¿Que? Why not?”

“He bothers me. Too many jokes,” she said. “I don’t like Ckaly, either.”

“Okay,” I said, mystified. Rossy had never expressed these feelings to me before, and had even once told me that Leonel was her most entertaining friend. She was fickle when it came to whether or not she drank or if she liked or disliked Shakira, but it seemed unlike her to change her opinions of a person so suddenly. I wondered if perhaps I had missed a fight between her and Ckaly, or if Leonel had said something rude that I hadn’t picked up on. It wouldn’t be the first time important conversations had gotten lost in translation, and Rossy was usually the one to take me aside and explain what was going on.

Looking at the floor, Rossy finally clued me in.

“You’re going to miss them more than me, aren’t you?” she said.

“¡Claro que no!” I exclaimed. “Why would you say that?”

“It’s just that sometimes it seems like you’d rather spend time with other people instead of me.”

“Rossy, that’s not true.”

“Sí,” she said, nodding her head fervently.

“No,” I said.

“Sí.”

“¡No!”

The curtain that served as a door to the room opened suddenly, and my host mother stuck her head in, curious as to the source of the yelling. Her eyes scanned over the scene. Rossy sat balled up in the corner, arms crossed, a scowl draped across her face. I sat gripping the edge of the bed, shoulders tense. She shook her head, her face displaying clear disappointment.

The silence continued long after she left the room. Our previous confrontations had been far less intense, and certainly none had resulted in an immature yelling match. In fact, for the most part people admired our relationship. Jacky and her host sister Bethy fought for control in their relationship, and Jacky confessed she felt often felt frustrated because their conversations never seemed to get too far off the ground. Volunteers staying in other towns often told me horror stories of sisters who stole their belongings, and others professed disgust for their host siblings’ love of reggaeton. Rossy and I took pleasure in mocking these failed relationships at times, reveling in our serendipitous friendship. As Rossy mimed stealing my pen, I would make exaggerated noises of protest at the Daddy Yankee that blasted from her radio system. Now, though, we doubted our bond for the first time.

“Rossy,” I started.

“Está bien, it’s fine, never mind,” Rossy assured me, clearly disturbed by my tearing eyes, and wiping away at her watering ones.

“No, it’s not. I really didn’t mean to ignore you or anything like that. I just wish you would tell me if I’m doing something that’s bothering you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am too.”

“Te quiero, sister,” said Rossy, grinning.

Relieved the fight was over, I burst into tears. Getting off the bed, I tackled Rossy into a playful hug.

“Llorona,” she teased me.

“Shut up, you’re a cry baby too! Look at those tears,” I laughed back.

“Those aren’t tears. I have something in my eye,” said Rossy.

“Oh of course…”

The sun peeked over the jungle, rising into a sky of pink and orange clouds. A small crowd gathered around the tienda. It was the last day of our two month stay, and sobbing host mothers embraced their newly adopted children as the local teenage boys loaded our luggage into the small van they called a bus. I squeezed a bag to my chest filled with the artisan crafts my friends had constructed for me as goodbye presents. The various stone and wood carvings were delicately wrapped in newspaper, and the hand-painted wooden machete from Ckaly’s uncle was cradled in between two of my t-shirts. The gift I held most carefully, however, was the small note that Rossy had shoved into my hand while we walked to the bus stop. She told me I couldn’t open it until I left, or she wouldn’t speak to me. Despite her mischievous face, I could tell she was only half joking.

Now, we stood facing each other, forced to say our goodbyes. I felt awkward and physically ill. My eyes were dry and red from the crying I’d done past few days, and Rossy had never looked more serious. We embraced without saying a word. There were no words. We broke apart, and the bus driver took my hand to assist me onto the bus.

“Gracias, Rossy,” I said.

“Chao, Emma.”

I sat on my blue bedspread for first time for two months. The bed was what was in what I used to call my room, but somehow it didn’t seem like it belonged to me anymore. My computer and the magazine cut-outs taped on the wall around it were more foreign to me than the red mud that still stained my flip-flops as a reminder of my second home. I looked down at Rossy’s card. It said, “I’m sorry for all the times we fought and I made you sad. I’ll never forget you sister. Come back soon.” That’s exactly what I intend to do.