10. Lena

Rico redirects the car to his abuela’s house. I take in the contrasts between what I’ve seen on this island so far—the Spanish colonial side, the touristy beach condos side, and now this urban older residential area.

Cement block homes of all shapes and sizes are all a hair’s breadth distance from each other, many with one house built atop the other. Most structures have strikingly colorful exterior paint combinations, most of them faded or chipped. Many have empty open garages as cars are parked on the street.

Rico parks in front of one house with another house on top of it, its sky blue paint fresher than others. He lowers the windows and opens his door, flooding in the sounds of car exhausts, booming music, dogs barking, and people’s voices calling out from one house to another.

“You look as if you’ve never seen a barrio .”

“Of course we have areas like these in Spain, but I spend my days either working from my city center apartment or driving to research institutions.”

“Pues , welcome to Santurce,” he says as he lowers the windows and steps out. “Hopefully, this is quick. I’ll just shut off the water for now.”

I nod, glad he didn’t ask if I wanted to wait inside. As I sit here, a boy on an old bicycle that has both a small motor and a music speaker attached to it rides by my window.

My eyes go back to the house with its front porch and car park fenced in by iron security bars in the same scrolling pattern. A petite older woman stands in the open front door. Tunic blouse and leggings. Tanned skin like Rico’s. Pixie-cut white hair. She shields her eyes from the afternoon sun and squints right at me.

Rico enters the gate and walks over to her. I can hear enough to know he’s trying to ask her about the washing machine. She answers distractedly and waves him off.

And then she’s marching right toward the car. Rico’s eyes widen, and he lowers his head as he jogs over to catch up with her.

I feel very much like a sitting duck as the woman rounds the car and heads to my side.

Rico tries to intercept, “Abuela—”

Her hand of greeting comes through the car window. “Hello, I’m Celestina. You can call me ‘Tina.’ My grandson seems to have left his manners on his nightstand this morning.”

I’m not sure what to do except shake her hand and smile back.

Thankfully, Rico is right here. He sighs. “Abuela, this is Profesora Magdalena Martín. She’s the colleague I’ve been working with on that genealogy project.”

“Ay, pero, ?mucho gusto!” Tina waves him off yet again. “Rico, go deal with that washer before we flood the whole barrio . Magdalena will visit for a bit,” she declares as she opens the car door for me.

Finally, I get a word out, “Such a pleasure to meet you too, Tina. So glad Rico can help, but I am fine to wait in the car.”

Rico scratches his bare head and looks at me apologetically like, “All is lost. Just give in.”

“Oh no, no, no. You must come in. With this crazy washer situation, we haven’t even had lunch yet. There’s plenty, and I’m sure the girls will want to meet you.” Tina smiles at Rico with raised eyebrows, her message loud and clear. Try and stop me.

“Eeh . . .” I hedge. When Tina’s call came in, I could tell Rico was conflicted about helping out his abuela as soon as possible. I had no problem with making this stop. It’s not like we have a promising research lead to jump on. And that is what families do, no? Drop everything for each other? Or so I have heard.

But meeting the whole family? This I did not bargain for.

Without waiting for a conclusive response, Tina hands me out of the car like a lady out of her chariot. A very reluctant lady who, awkwardly, was still buckled in.

Once she has me arm in arm walking toward the front door, she enthusiastically recounts her washing machine misadventures.

Rico leans in and says only for me, “I was hoping she’d be preoccupied with the washer and wouldn’t notice you. Not that it’s a problem—more to spare you.”

I react with concern to Tina’s tale to keep her talking and shrug at Rico. He continues, “I’ll put your refrigerated groceries in the fridge while we’re here. Blink twice if we need to claim an emergency and get you out.”

I lock wary eyes with him and nod while pulled by the inevitable force that is Tina. Rico turns to get the groceries from the car as I follow her into the house.

We walk into a long, narrow space with a small living room area that leads right into a dining room table next to a bar-height counter that divides the kitchen. The lower ceiling and the proximity to other houses on both sides do not allow for much light. And yet, charm and neatness abound with the spotless tiled floor, rustic wooden furniture, colorful walls, and flamboyant art. And I mean that quite literally. “Flamboyant” with how paintings of flamboyán trees and their flaming red or yellow blooms cover the walls.

Tina lets go of me as she crosses to the kitchen. “You sit right there on that stool while I fluff this rice, mi amor .”

Disobedience was never an option, so on the stool I go.

In a blink, she is over at the stove, and I don’t know how she manages the heat. It is hot enough as it is with the afternoon sun directly on the house, and any breeze is as nonexistent as the natural light. Fans—both of the ceiling and pedestal variety—do their best to bat around the muggy air.

With the clattering of metal lids and spoons, Tina contentedly checks every pot on her stove. All other details fade because that releases an earthy, savory aroma like I have never experienced.

The food. The food smells incredible—so incredible my brain cannot categorize this scent as something that could exist in reality. And yet, my brain tells my salivary glands and stomach that we are ready—in case it is somehow real.

Tina turns around and points at me with her large cooking spoon. “Don’t tell me you’re like my Rico and work, work, research, research, without stopping to eat.” She tsks. “Left his old job, but still does that.”

“I’m sure if I had your food, I would drop everything, Tina.”

She smiles knowingly at me and again points with her spoon. “Oh, we’re going to get along just fine.” Turning toward the back of the house, she yells out, “Julita!”

“?Dímelo, Abuela!” A woman’s throaty voice calls out from a room down the short hallway.

“Text Mari to come down and come yourself. Lunch is ready, and you know how I feel about freshly fried tostones waiting around!”

A beat and, who I assume is Julia, Rico’s sister, comes down the hallway. “Cold tostones are a criminal offense. Should be outlawed in all fifty states and US territories,” Julia muses as she snaps up a tostón from the paper towel the crispy plantains rest on. She blows on it and pops a bite as she notices me and says, “Oh, hello.”

Tina calls out while she serves the food on mismatched plates, “Juli, this is Magdalena— Profesora Martín. Rico’s working with her on that project. Well, right now he’s fixing the washer.”

Julia moves toward me for a proper greeting when a voice chimes in from the hallway, “Ah! A genealogist from Spain? How cool!” Mari bounds over and sneaks in to shake my hand first, having nudged Julia out of the way.

“Mariana , tú siempre,” Julia accuses with an eye-roll. “I’m sorry, Magdalena. This is what adults are reduced to when in close proximity to their siblings.” The sisters narrow their eyes at each other and then Julia turns back to me. “We’re so glad to meet you! Rico has been telling us—”

“I’m sure la profesora does not want to know anything about that,” Rico interrupts, drying his hands on a worn towel as he walks into the kitchen.

He stands between his sisters, placing an arm around each one. My experience with family dynamics may be limited, but I can tell Mari is the youngest, even though she is taller than Julia and reaches a little over Rico’s shoulder. The three late-twenties/early-thirties siblings are very similar. All with their honey-bronze skin tone, bright, brown eyes, and cheekbones that they should thank their ancestors for every day.

“I see you’ve met my tormentors—I mean—sisters.” Rico lets the used towel fall over Mari, who immediately elbows him and cries out, “Eew! Rico , tú siempre!”

Abuela warns, “Morales children, the tostones . We’re going to have a serious problem if you let them get cold.”

Julia hands over what is necessary to set the table as we all pitch in setting it up. It’s a small table for four, so Rico sits at the counter.

A heaping plate is placed before me, and my hopeful salivary glands have decided a deluge is appropriate.

Tina says grace and thanks the Lord for our food. She also gives thanks for my being here and asks we find success with our search. Does one thank the supplicant for a prayer special mention? As always, I veer on the side of caution when she’s done. “Thank you, Tina. Thank you. This looks . . . incredible.”

“Buen provecho, mi amor . Eat up!”

I glance at Rico as he sits on a small stool at the counter, his broad back facing us. He hunches over his plate, already shoveling food as if it could be snatched at any moment.

I do not blame him. But I don’t know where to start with this feast of a plate. Besides the fluffy-cloud white rice and crispy tostones, there are tender red beans stewed in a rich tomato-based sauce with pieces of decadent ham and tender squash. But the star of the show is a vinegary marinated steak sautéed with sweet onions.

Between my own shoveling, I comment, “I am so happy Puerto Ricans also have lunch as their largest meal of the day, like we do in Spain.”

“Oh, yes.” Tina looks appreciatively at the masterpiece she created on our plates and adds, “We should probably have more vegetables on the menu, though.”

The Morales children respond with unintelligible mumbles and something about sacrilege.

We finish the meal in what, to me, is a dreamy daze of soul-stirring food, familial jabbing, and conversation that is as warm and enveloping as the heat trapped in this dwelling.

From their back and forth, I confirm the Morales birth order of Julia, the oldest, Rico, the middle and only boy, and baby sister Mariana. I also catch that this is Tina’s family home, where their father grew up and where Mariana moved to almost fifteen years ago when their mom passed away. Rico and Julia stayed in the Bronx but moved to Puerto Rico last year. Julia has the second bedroom, so she can work from home. Rico and Mari have their rooms in the added house on top.

They jump from topic to topic and from timeline to timeline—from factors affecting the island’s infrastructure to how Unrepentant Rico is yet to be forgiven for childhood days when he would launch lizards over the shower curtain. Tina has to break up a heated quarrel over how Julie Andrews was robbed of the My Fair Lady film role, but everyone is back on the same team for supporting Mari’s latest photography competition submission.

As I sit here, a smiling spectator of this little unit, I wonder what it’s like to belong like this. And then I tuck the longing away as I have trained myself to do for as long as I can remember.

My bittersweet reverie gets interrupted when they stand up and gather the plates. I rush to join them—though mine is completely licked clean.

As we all walk back and forth to the kitchen, Julia asks, “So, Magdalena, what’s the next step with the project research? Three Moraleses are better than one.”

Rico and I both stop at the kitchen counter. When I hesitate, he clears his throat, shaking his head. “Juli, let’s not—”

I place my hand on his arm to let him know it’s alright. He looks down at my hand, and I quickly retrieve it.

I have only ever had a few choice colleagues to run things by when absolutely necessary. The work has been mostly me and my charts and binders working around facts and angles until something clicks. But I guess all this Morales openness and togetherness rub off a little.

I smile at Rico’s sisters with their matching eager eyes and nodding heads. “Eh, you’re so kind to ask and offer help. I can catch you up.”

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