Chapter 1 #2
I’m escorted to Abuela’s room by Manny, one of the nurse aides on her floor.
He’s an imposing guy, looking more like a biker than a nurse—a few inches taller and wider than most people, and with much more hair.
I’ve caught him staring at my ass once or twice, but I know Abuela likes him, so I’ve decided to just let him have it as a little treat.
Abuela’s room is as bright as my apartment—shades of yellow and orange everywhere you look.
The woman herself sits in a swivel lounger facing the TV.
She turns her chair on its spinning axis to face me, and it’s like seeing my reflection 50 years from now…
if I dyed my hair back to its natural color.
Vasquez women are small-boned, short, bronze-skinned, and have dark features with full lips, a round-tipped nose and an otherwise broad face with hollow cheekbones.
Some of the brown in her complexion got diluted by my Caucasian bio dad, but otherwise I’m the spitting image of every Vasquez woman in my family. And I love that about my heritage.
“Hola, Abuela,” I greet as I stand in the doorway leading from the sterile white hallway into the cozy room that smells faintly of Windex and Vicks Vapo-Rub.
“Ah!” she hisses instead of greeting me, laser-focused on my hair. “Who is this punk rocker? Not my granddaughter.”
With a chuckle, I tuck a green lock behind my ear. “You like it?” I ask rhetorically.
“Why did you do that again, Madison?” she admonishes. “It was finally a nice, natural color!”
Only the front pieces are colorful this time, but I probably should have waited until after visiting her to go from the “nice, natural” shade called Dragon Fire back to my tried-and-true Green with Envy. Though I suppose it only would have delayed the argument…
The frail woman being swallowed up by her lounger may be slowly losing pieces of herself, but she is as vain and opinionated as she ever was.
Her hands shake too badly for eyeliner now, but she still swipes on classic red lipstick every morning and religiously winds curlers in her hair every night before bed.
I’ve wondered if she wants to look nice because she found an old dude to do it with.
Apparently, STIs are a real problem in retirement homes.
“I’m just not a nice, natural girl, I guess,” I shrug, entering the room and hanging my purse on the hook by the door. I leave the bag with the muffin in the mostly empty mini-fridge.
She glares at me for my flippant response.
When Abuela turns back to the TV, I exchange a look with Manny. “It’s a good day,” he assures me, where good is code for lucid. Then, he lifts his voice and addresses Abuela. “Isn’t it, Mrs. Vasquez?”
“Why are you asking me?” she snaps. She launches into a tirade in rapid Spanish about how her new doctor doesn’t know anything and how stupid they all are and how she can’t believe her own granddaughter would leave her in this place.
Manny shoots me a helpless look. I’m glad he doesn’t speak Spanish because I’d hate for Abuela to get a reputation as a mean old lady—I don’t want it to go on her old person permanent record, or get her blacklisted from Bingo or something.
“Abuela, English,” I cut in. “You’re the one who taught me it’s rude to speak Spanish around gringos—no offense,” I add for Manny’s benefit, though I’m not sure he’d know what to be offended about.
She makes a hmmph noise, her eyes following the Mexican actors as they throw themselves around the set of her favorite telenovella. “I can’t believe they let you have that hair at your job,” Abuela grumbles, still frowning. “You’ll never get a promotion.”
“Good thing I just quit, then.” She doesn’t really need to know it hasn’t happened yet; she’d just try to talk me out of it.
That gets me her full attention, and she spins all the way around to face me. “What?!”
“I’m… gonna go.” Awkwardly, Manny ducks his head and trots out of the room. Gotta appreciate the ones that know how to get out of the way of family drama.
“You quit that good job your tío got you?” she demands.
I narrow my eyes. “Is that what he said? That he got me the job?”
She sniffs. “Bettina told me.”
Of course he took credit. Of course he talked about it to his mamá, who talked about it to Abuela. Gossip is an Olympic sport for these women. The entire congregation probably knows, so I need to choose my words.
“It…” I search for the right description. “It served a purpose. I’m not cut out for working in an office, Abuela. I don’t like it.”
She clutches her rosary in hands that tremble no matter which meds they put her on, and casts her eyes skyward, nearly as dramatic as the people she watches in a literal soap opera.
“Dios mio. My granddaughter would rather live out on the streets than keep a good job because she doesn’t like being in an office,” she says, trying to mimic my American accent.
She lifts a brow, mirroring my expression.
“I cleaned houses for 47 years, Madison Rosa. You think I liked it? No, I did it to put food on your table and pay for your education and those expensive computers you always wanted.”
I sigh. As a Catholic, she has an advanced degree in guilt. “I know, Abuela—”
“What are you going to do if not work in an office?”
“I’m going to start looking for another gig. You know I don’t like being bored.”
“More computer nonsense, no doubt,” she says, disdain creeping into her tone. “My neighbor Joan’s daughter is a professor at the college. Francine’s granddaughter is a doctor. You’re smarter than both of them, and you waste your potential on these máquinas.”
“Abuela—” I cut myself off, hearing the frustration in my tone at the tired conversation. “I don’t want to fight.”
“Hmmph.”
I sigh. Her ire and judgment used to really bother me, but now it just rolls off my back because I understand why she lashes out.
She wasn’t always a mean old lady. She knows she’s losing pieces of herself, and all I can do is watch her hate it and feel guilty about putting her in a home, even though we made that decision together.
It’s fucking awful.
Abuela raised me when her teenage daughter was killed in a car accident and my teenage father washed his hands of the tiny brown baby that would “ruin his bright future.” I became her hijita—her little daughter.
She paid for me to go through private school—Catholic, obviously—and bought me my first computer.
She was ridiculously strict and probably the reason I started rebelling to begin with, but she also made every birthday cake I’ve ever had, kissed all the boo-boos, came to every school recital, soothed the tears after every breakup, celebrated all my achievements and pushed me to be better.
I can’t let myself get mad at her. I refuse to. Even though she doesn’t really understand or accept me, she’s all I’ve got. And she loves me in her own way.
In my arsenal, misdirection is the best weapon when dealing with Abuela in this mood.
“What have you been working on here?” I tilt my head to get the full picture of the incomplete jigsaw puzzle spread over her table.
So far, only the perimeter is complete, but the picture on the box has kittens in a field of daisies. Too freakin’ cute.
The table is barely big enough to hold all the pieces, but I take a seat and start sorting by kitten color. “It looks new,” I observe as my sleeve comes away covered in tiny cardboard shavings from the cutting machine.
“Manny brought it,” she replies, her voice crackling before dissolving into a harsh cough that makes me frown. She doesn’t seem too bothered by it, but I’ll need to remember to ask if she got her flu shot.
“That was nice of him.”
“They’ll pass it around when I’m done, but it’s nice that he brings it here first, I guess. He says I’ve never lost a piece,” she adds with some pride.
When Abuela starts to struggle out of her lounger, I refocus on the puzzle because I know better than to offer her a hand to get up.
The agony of each step shows on her face as she makes her way over to the table, clutching her bad hip.
She settles next to me, in her usual spot facing the windows in the chair with the memory foam cushion.
With one hand, Abuela clutches her rosary to her chest and with the other, she selects a puzzle piece and finds its spot instantly. I have absolutely no idea how she does that. I still haven’t even gotten one.
“Bruja,” I mutter under my breath, accusing her of using her puzzle witch powers.
She cracks a smile, grateful that I broke the tense silence—not that she’d ever admit that. But I know that the fiery anger has melted into shame for trying to make me feel bad when I won’t hit back. Besides, I’m used to being the one to offer an olive branch.
“You know I don’t want to fight either, Madison. But you’ve always been so… contrary,” she says, emphasizing the word in a way that isn’t quite disdainful and certainly isn’t approving. “With your crazy hair colors and nose rings and attitude about the world. Sometimes I think that’s my fault.”
Thoughtfully, I finger the metal in my right nostril. “You taught me to be strong.”
“I did,” she smiles, but it’s kind of a sad one. “But it isn’t weakness to want someone to take care of you, m’hijita, or share the burdens of life, like my Carlos, que en paz descanse.”
She thinks I need someone to take care of me? The irony of this woman saying that to me, after the sacrifices I’ve made to ensure she’s happy and comfortable… I’m the caretaker, now; I don’t want or need anyone telling me how to live my life—not even someone who means well.
And given my line of work, I can’t really afford to let anyone close enough to try.
I shake my head. “I know, Abuela. But I like being alone. And I don’t want to work in an office. And I like my green hair and nose ring. I just want to live on my own terms. Is that so bad?”
She sighs, and her eyes soften. “Not bad, just… difficult. Living on your own terms is a luxury few can afford,” she remarks sagely. “You seem lonely sometimes, hijita.”
“I’m not,” I say, though it doesn’t feel quite like the truth.
To her, I look lonely. I went from being a weird, closed-off teenager to a weird, closed-off adult and neglected to learn how to make friends along the way.
At this point, I’m not sure if it’s because I’m bad at relationships or if it’s self-sabotage.
It’s not like I don’t know the rules of engagement; it’s just that, well…
people don’t just befriend people for no reason.
It’s a give and take. You tell people stuff, and find common ground, and share experiences, and give pieces of yourself in exchange for pieces of them.
But I hate sharing details about myself—I can’t talk about work, and I didn’t have the rosy childhood that people like hearing about. Real relationships with real people are exhausting sometimes.
Internet friends are another thing completely.
They can’t judge you if they don’t know who you really are.
The anonymity is… freeing. Intimacy takes on a much different meaning when you can’t see someone’s facial reactions, and the manners people would expect face to face are all but meaningless.
Online, I get to be who I say I am—nothing more, nothing less.
As far as they’re all concerned, I may not even really exist outside of zeros-and-ones.
And as far as dating?
Well… it’s probably for the best that I’m not trying to date right now. I can’t imagine most potential romantic partners would be cool with the straight-up illegal nature of my income and interests.
Yeah, that’s why. It’s definitely not because I’m comparing every person I meet against a certain spymaster who moderates a certain chatroom I frequent…
“I just want you to be happy. I worry about you.”
“I know. You don’t have to worry about me, though, okay? I’ll be just fine—I’m very smart and good at things.”
“Hmmph. Pride,” she says archly—a warning, though her lips twitch in hidden amusement. “It’s a deadly sin, Madison.”
“I don’t think pride’s the one they’re going to get me for,” I mutter, loud enough for her to hear, and quiet enough for her to pretend she didn’t.
After a few seconds, I reach for her hand and give it a little squeeze. She feels much more fragile than she used to, with skin like thin, warm silk and bones that might crunch under the pressure of a firm handshake.
“Te quiero,” I say softly.
She nods like the queenly matriarch she is, knowing it’s her due, and squeezes my hand back. “Te quiero, hijita.” Then, she places another piece.
We chat as we puzzle. She presses for details about every single man in my life as a potential romantic partner, asks about my cat, about my online friends, and if I’m eating enough beans.
In that order. My answers are almost always the same, and, as always, I avoid mentioning any of my extracurriculars, because it would probably kill her, and her last thought would be how disappointed she was in me.
Luckily, I know how to keep a secret.