Chapter 23 Tara
Tara
When I walk through the door of my parents’ place in Boyle Heights, warmth, spice, and memory rise up to greet me—a benediction made of home itself.
Incense. Garlic and cumin. Stew simmering on the stove. Cilantro.
“Mija!”
My father comes out of the kitchen in his apron, wooden spoon still in hand, and before I can even set down my suitcase, I’m in his arms.
Papi is all herbs and spices. I bury my face in his shoulder, breathe him in.
“What are you doing here?” He draws back to look at me. “You’ve been crying.”
At his words, tears start to stream down my face…again.
“Estrella,” he calls out to my mother. “Marisol.”
Mama takes one look at me and steers me away from Papi to the living room. I lean into her as we sit on the couch that has seen many tears. She strokes my hair the way she used to when I was little, after I scraped my knee or failed a test.
“Ay, corazón.” She tilts her head, looking critically at me. “You’ve lost weight. Paris didn’t feed you?”
I choke out a laugh that’s half a sob. “Not like Papi.”
Mama clucks her tongue. “You need food. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
“Mama, I’m—”
“Eat first, heartbreak later,” she declares.
She knows. She knows, and she doesn’t judge. She only loves. This is what I need.
I’m ushered into the kitchen, where the table is covered in bowls and cutting boards. Marisol comes in, scowling.
“Who died? Why is everyone screaming? Tara,” she cries out, and then I’m in her arms.
“Dios mio!” She looks at my blotchy face and red-rimmed eyes. “You look like you fought a war.”
“I did,” I whisper. “And I lost.”
Marisol squeezes my shoulders before pushing me gently toward a chair. “Then sit, General. Let’s feed you before you tell us what went wrong.”
Papi gives me one of his big, calm smiles. “I was going to make empanadas for Sunday, but we need caldo*…now.”
“We do,” Mama agrees.
We’re a Mexican household, and Papi believes, from the bottom of his heart, that almost everything can be solved with good food.
While Papi cooks, we all sit at the kitchen island. I tell them everything.
How it started.
How it exploded.
How it ended.
I don’t leave any raw, humiliating detail out—the articles, the accusations, the way Gustave looked at me like I was something dirty.
When I finish, there’s silence except for the hum of the fridge.
“So…I came home,” I say haplessly.
Marisol gives me a mutinous look. “If I meet this Gustave person, I’m going to knee him in the nuts. Pendejo!”
“Language, Marisol,” Papi and Mama say in unison.
Papi sets a bowl in front of me—a steaming broth rich with beef, rice, and vegetables—and pats my shoulder. “Eat, mija. Everything feels smaller with a full stomach.”
The first spoonful makes my throat close. The warmth hits my chest, and the tears come, spilling down into the soup.
My father doesn’t say anything as he pulls up a chair beside me.
“Crying’s good,” he tells me. “Salt adds flavor.”
Marisol snorts. “You have the strangest notions, Papi.”
He shrugs, eyes twinkling. “Food heals everything. Even broken hearts.”
Later, we sit in the living room—Marisol curled in the armchair, Mama cross-legged beside me on the couch, Papi in his recliner with a beer.
“Mija.” Mama kisses my cheek. “Paris did not break you. You are still whole. It only showed you that some people have no idea what to do with a woman who shines too bright.”
Papi exhales slowly, setting down his beer. “This man,” he says, not quite asking, “he didn’t trust you.”
“No. He didn’t.”
Marisol’s voice is fierce. “Then he doesn’t deserve you.”
Papi nods. “But we don’t care about him. We only care about you, Tara.”
I nod weakly. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and reach a new normal,” Papi advises. “Life doesn’t stop for heartbreak. We clean the wound, and we keep going.”
Mama cups my face. “It will hurt for a while, but it will get better. Once you’re in a studio working, your mind will reset.”
I lean against her shoulder, her heartbeat steady under my cheek.
Papi stands and heads for the kitchen. “I’ll make chocolate con canela*. That fixes everything that the sopa* didn’t.”
Mama calls after him, “And bring some pan dulce*!”
I laugh, feeling what I knew I would when I was with my family, the certainty that I will survive this.
But the feeling doesn’t last.
The email from the Philadelphia Museum of Art arrives two days later.
Thank you for your contributions. Your services are no longer required. We wish you the best in your future endeavors.
Fired. Not only from the Louvre but the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
My stomach drops. I pick up the phone and make a call. I tap my fingers on Papi’s cluttered desk in his small office at the restaurant where I’m sitting because the WIFI is better.
When my old supervisor, Dr. Rosenfeld, answers, his voice sounds cautious. “Tara, how are you?”
“Not good, Dr. R. I got an email saying I’m fired?”
There’s a pause, then a sigh heavy enough to make my chest ache. “I’m so sorry, Tara.”
“But—"
“Tara.” His tone is soft as he cuts me off. “We’ve received communication from the Louvre’s directorate. They’re concerned about your conduct during your residency there. They claim there was a breach of professionalism and discretion.”
This can’t be happening!
“Dr. R, I didn’t do anything wrong.” My voice cracks.
“I believe you,” he says quietly. “But these things get political. I fought to keep you, but the board decided it was safer to end the contract now.”
“Safer,” I repeat, numb. What was so dangerous about having me work at the museum? I slept with a moron, I’m not contagious or anything.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Truly. You’re talented, Tara. Don’t let this change your path.”
I try LACMA next, calling the department head of restoration, Carlos Mendez, a man I’d interned under years ago. He picks up on the third ring.
“Tara? Dios mio, I’ve been meaning to call you,” he says urgently after I say hello. “What happened in Paris?”
“I…I had a relationship that went south,” I state as simply as I can.
“And you got fired from Philly.”
“Yes.” I inhale slowly. “Look, I was wondering if you had some work for me. Anything.”
I was at the Louvre and now I was begging for a job. How the mighty have fallen!
He groans. “Ay, Tara. I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t have anything?” I ask despondent.
He sighs. “That’s not it. The Louvre flagged you. A formal note went out through ICOM.”
“The International Council of Museums?”
Carlos winces. “It’s not official blacklisting, not on paper, but….”
“But what?”
“It’s enough,” he says bluntly. “If the Louvre labels someone as problematic, even quietly, every major institution sees it. No director wants to risk the politics.”
I grip the phone tighter. “So I’m—done?”
“For now,” he admits. “You might find work with a private gallery or a smaller collection, but the major museums? They’ll close ranks.”
My voice wavers. “Carlos, this is my career.”
“I know, and I hate that this is happening to you.”
He hates it? Buddy, I’m living through this nightmare.
“Look…give it time. As soon as the noise dies down, I’ll do whatever I can to bring you back.”
After I end the call, I stare at my hands, trying to wrap my head around how everything I built—all those years of study, of sacrifice—could vanish with one whispered accusation.
There’s a knock on the door, and as soon as I say, “Come in”, Mama does.
I shake my head at her. No, there is no good news.
She sits beside me and strokes my hair.
“No one will hire me,” I tell her absently.
“Mija,” she says quietly, “you are not your job. You are not what they say about you. You are more.”
My throat tightens. “I worked so hard, Mama. I did everything right.”
“I know.”
“I don’t deserve this.”
“I know,” she repeats, firmer this time. “But sometimes life is cruel and not fair. That’s when you have to be strong.”
Marisol appears in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes flashing. “So? What did those museum people say?”
“The Louvre blacklisted me,” I say bluntly. There is no way to make this sound better.
Marisol’s jaw drops. “Are you kidding me? Because of that idiot Count?”
I shrug.
“Pendejos*,” she mutters, pulling me into a hug. “You’ll land on your feet, hermana*.”
Mama leaves, probably to tell Papi what happened, and ten minutes later, my cousins, Marco and Luis, are in the small office. And five minutes later, my uncle and aunt are there; as are two servers who’ve worked at Mi Tierra, Papi’s restaurant, and Papi’s sous chef, Lola.
“You want me to call someone?” Marco offers, flexing his hands. “Because I can call someone.”
“To do what?” I ask.
“Break some legs,” Marco replies evenly.
I roll my eyes.
“Or you can come to the site,” Luis suggests. He and Marco run a construction company.
“Si,” Marco agrees enthusiastically. “We’re short on workers this week. And we’re tearing down a wall. Be a good distraction.”
“You’re both nuts,” I tell them. They are. They’re also adorable.
“No, no, she comes to the Vino Tinto,” Tia* Camila says. She and Tio* Diego run a swanky wine bar two doors away, where they serve Spanish wine.
Papi folds his arms and looks at me. “Tara, mija, you have options.”
I smile unsteadily. It’s good to be surrounded by people who care, especially when my life is imploding.
“But I don’t.” He winks at me. “I have one server down with the flu, and another is on maternity leave. So, you see, I need help here.”
“Si*, Papi.”
And by the end of the day, I’m wearing an apron with Mi Tierra embroidered on it.
Papi grins at me from where he’s flipping tortillas on the comal when I come to pick up an order from the kitchen. “This place suits you, mija. Working here will fix you up in no time.”
The scent of onions sizzling in the pan, and carne asada on the grill, wraps around me like a blanket. It’s humbling. It’s home.
I give him a dry look. “Really?”
He laughs. “Yes. We’ll double your shifts, so it can happen faster.”
* Caldo de res is a Mexican beef and vegetable soup (Spanish)
* Chocolate with cinnamon (Spanish)
* Soup (Spanish)
* Sweet bread (Spanish)
* Assholes
* Sister
* Aunt (Spanish)
* Uncle (Spanish)
* Yes (Spanish)