Her grandmother was the only one who had not changed. Lola Celia’s hair was dyed the same blue-black as before, and like the last time, she was dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, even though it was summer. She lifted a bony hand in their direction. Joey knew her frail appearance was just an illusion. Within that small, aging body was a woman whose eyes missed nothing and whose tongue was as sharp as a straight razor.
After all, Ruby had gotten it from somewhere.
Introductions were made, and Tita Flora planted a perfunctory kiss on Joey’s forehead before greeting Deborah with a too-wide smile that showed all her teeth. Her lola said hello in English, her beetle eyes crawling up and down her granddaughter’s body as she stretched her hand out, palm facing down. Joey took it and bowed, pressing the back of Lola Celia’s hand lightly to her forehead.
When she’d first met her lola a few years before, Joey had not known what the mano was. Her grandmother had ripped into Ruby in furious Cebuano, presumably for not teaching her young daughter how to greet her elders with respect. The only word Joey had understood from that verbal lashing was puta, which meant “whore.” Lola Celia had screamed it at Ruby, not once, but twice. Later, on the drive back to Toronto, Ruby had been uncharacteristically quiet. You have a bad mother, she said to Joey in a resigned voice before turning on the radio, because I had a bad mother.
Tita Flora nudged her husband. Tito Micky stuck his unsmoked cigarette in his pocket and grabbed the suitcases. They all went inside.
“Mick, show Joey where her room is,” her aunt said. To Joey, she said, “Your lola made adobo for dinner. I know that’s your favorite.”
Favorite sounded like pay-bor-it. Her aunt’s Filipino accent had not softened much over the years. In contrast, Ruby’s accent was nearly gone, because her mother had been determined to lose it. Occasionally it came back when she was talking （yelling） at Joey, but around other people （boyfriends） she almost sounded Canadian （which, for Ruby, meant white）。
“Wow, so heavy,” Tito Micky said as he dragged both suitcases toward the staircase. Heavy sounded like hebbee. “What you got in here, a dead body?”
The joke was in poor taste, and Deborah blinked. Tita Flora spoke sharply to her husband in their Filipino dialect, and his shoulders slumped. Joey only caught one word. Buang. It meant “stupid.”
She followed her uncle up the stairs to the bedroom at the end of the hall. Joey looked around in dismay. While the window had a view of the pond, the room was no better than the sleeping situation at the foster home. Bunk beds were pushed up against one wall, and there was a thin twin mattress lying on the floor closest to the door. It was covered in a plain pink cotton sheet so new, it still had creases from the packaging.
“You’ll be sharing the older boys’ room.” Tito Micky was wheezing slightly, the years of cigarettes and booze preparing him not at all for any sort of heavy lifting. Interestingly, his back injury—the reason he was able to collect disability—seemed fine. “Everything happened so fast we didn’t get a chance yet to buy a bed.”
“That’s okay,” Joey said.
Tita Flora appeared in the bedroom doorway with Deborah, who frowned.
“This is just temporary,” her aunt explained. “Our youngest boy sleeps with my mother because he still needs help using the bathroom. But in a few months, Carson can sleep with his brothers in here, and we can move Joey’s bed into her lola’s room.”
“What bed?” Deborah’s tone was blunt. “All I see is a mattress, and Joelle will need a proper bed so she’s not sleeping four inches from the floor. When we spoke on the phone, you assured me her room would be ready.”
“It’s ordered.” Tita Flora looked at her husband. “From Sears. Right, Mick?”
It took Tito Micky a second to catch on. “Yes, it’s coming soon.” He was a terrible liar. “They’re, ah, they’re late with the delivery.” Dee-lib-or-ee.
“So, Deborah.” Tita Flora’s smile was all teeth again. “When might we expect the first payment?”
The social worker had explained to Joey that her aunt and uncle were eligible for monthly kinship-care payments from the government, similar to foster-care payments. How much they’d receive, Joey didn’t ask, but she knew the money was the only reason Tita Flora had agreed to this arrangement.
“About three weeks.” Deborah’s voice took on a flat note Joey hadn’t heard before. “Which is around the time I’ll be back here to check and see how things are going.”