17. ISABELLA
seventeen
Mateo leaves us on a cliffhanger.
He won’t tell me what he has planned, and the mischievous glint in his eye has me slightly concerned.
It seems like every day, I’m getting to see different pieces of the man who used to be as personable as a brick wall. I hate to admit that it gives me a little thrill each time, knowing that I get to see a part of him that the public has no access to.
The Mateo on TV is mysterious and quiet. He smiles for the cameras and poses with kids.
I didn’t think it was possible to have such a squeaky-clean reputation in this day and age. Unless you’re a psychopath or a serial killer. Which I’ll try not to think about while I’m living under his roof.
Although it might not be a bad idea to ask if he liked lighting fires as a kid or tortured small animals…
Beth lets me do Anna’s bedtime routine on my own tonight, which took us an extra half hour because we couldn’t stop yapping it up.
Anna is so expressive and has such a creative imagination. I’m constantly in awe of where her mind takes her, and with the way she can whip up a make-believe story out of thin air, she is definitely destined for a life in the arts.
I think I’ll type up one of her stories and turn it into a small children’s book. I’ll make the cover and have it printed for her little library. I think she would love it.
I say goodnight to her, but not before she makes me promise to wake her up a little early so we can make breakfast together, since her dad won’t be back until tomorrow evening.
I make my way down the stairs and watch as Beth brings two piping-hot mugs of tea into the living room.
“I’m surprised she didn’t convince you to sleep in her room tonight. After I got my new hip, I told her I felt good as new, and she almost had me sleeping on her shag rug.” She smiles lovingly up at the second floor.
“I did get pulled into breakfast duty, so hopefully I don’t make too much of a mess. Wouldn’t want Mateo walking into a disaster zone.”
I make a mental note to clean as I go tomorrow.
I recall one of Mateo’s previous nannies being fired for wearing inappropriate nighttime wear, and… ahem, I think I already got them beat on that one. Which, unfortunately, landed me my first strike.
The last thing I need is to get my second by making a mess of the kitchen like the other nanny who got fired.
Beth waves my worries away as she hands a tea over. “Mateo is all bark and no bite. Make the mess, enjoy breakfast, and worry about the clean-up later. It’s not like he doesn’t have a small army cleaning every nook and cranny a couple of times a week.” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know how they’re able to clean without music or at least something on the TV. I could never.”
I smile and think about all my weekend morning wake-up calls from my mother, blasting music while cleaning our modest apartment. There is a sense of home that comes with the little things, like listening to heartbreak merengue and belting the lyrics alongside your mother at the age of eight, only to realize many years later that you had no idea what you were actually singing about.
Which makes a thought pop into my mind.
I lean closer to Beth. “Please tell me Mateo used to sing to Aventura, or something more old-school like Hector Lavoe.”
She grins. “Oh, he’s been known to belt out a few good ones around the house. But you’d never guess by who.”
I take a quick sip of my tea, then promptly place it on the coffee table. I can’t be trusted with hot liquids at a time of juicy chisme like this. “Who?” I plead.
She looks around us conspiratorially, as if someone is going to pop up behind the couch. Then gives me the most devious smile ever sent my way. “Olga Ta?ón.”
I give my best telenovela gasp, hands over chest and mouth at once. “No. I can’t… Olga ?” I burst into laughter, knowing it’s gonna be the kind that makes you feel like you did a hundred crunches.
I start wiping away the tears that had no chance of being repressed as I say, “I fucking love Olga Ta?ón. She’s an icon. But Mateo… I’m sorry, New York Monarchs’ starting pitcher, Mateo Martinez, belting out those notes as a kid? I will never emotionally recover from that visual. Thank you for this gift, Bethzaida.”
She sips her tea casually as she murmurs, “Who said it was when he was a kid?”
My momentary shock quickly succumbs to my second round of laughter.
Smacking the couch mercilessly, causing Beth to quickly drop her tea on the coffee table in an attempt to keep it from spilling, I internally vow to mock him relentlessly about this little tidbit.
That is, if I don’t get fired first. Priorities and all.
“And here I was, making tea, thinking it was a safer option than you spitting up red wine. But clearly, consuming any liquids around you is a hazard,” she teases.
“I need to hear him sing in Spanish. I haven’t heard him speak much of it while I’m around. I wonder how I can catch him in the act.”
Beth’s face falters for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve said something wrong.
Once she realizes it’s safe to do so, she picks her tea back up and stands. “I’m going to add a little whiskey to this.” She half smiles as she walks toward the kitchen, and unease settles in my gut.
“Beth, is everything okay? Did I put my foot in my mouth or something? You know me well enough to know that I do it very often, so it’s extremely probable,” I say as I aim to bring the mood back up.
She empties a bit of the tea into the sink, then fills it back up with a swig of whiskey. “No mija, cosa mía. I get this way when I think about Mateo and his Spanish.”
Confused, I ask, “What about it?”
She makes her way back to the couch and lowers herself onto an oversized cushion as she says, “He doesn’t speak it.”
Huh?
I’m pretty sure I’ve heard him say words here and there to Anna. And there must have been a time or two where he’s been interviewed in Spanish, no?
Then there’s the way he pronounces my first name in Spanish, as if it’s his favorite melody.
Isabella .
Beth must see me running my mental calculations. And continues. “He understands it perfectly. But he can’t read much of it, and he certainly doesn’t speak more than a handful of words. I know he can say much more, but I guess he refrains due to his accent.” Her short, manicured nails tap nervously against the ceramic mug. “And it’s my fault, really.” She stares down into the brown liquid.
“Beth—”
“No, really, it is.” She sighs as she looks off into the New York City skyline beside us. “When I left Puerto Rico, I was sixteen. I barely knew English, besides the lingo I learned from some of my favorite TV shows. That is a delicate time in a girl’s life, so you can imagine, it was hard for me to assimilate into a different culture while trying to learn the native language of my new home.” She tilts her head as she offers me a sad smile. “I was bullied relentlessly. No matter how many tutors or after-school programs I attended, there was no way humanly possible for me to erase my accent. Trust me, I tried.
“And back then? In the early eighties? Forget about it. I was called every disgusting name under the sun. My older brothers got into fist fights almost every day that first year. It was horrible.” Her voice hitches, and I scoot closer to hold her hand. “I practiced for hours on end. My voice would turn hoarse until there was no more accent to correct. Every intonation and pronunciation perfected. I went from Bethzaida to Beth. And once I felt as though I could pass as a native speaker, I made a promise to myself. That if I ever had children, they would speak perfect English. That they would not be subjected to the kind of cruelty I had experienced.”
My heart hurts for teenage Bethzaida, hearing how much pain she endured as a teenage girl in a scary new city.
I try to reassure the woman who has, on more occasions than I can count, come to my rescue. “Beth, you took your pain and did what you thought best to ensure that your child never faced the same struggles as you did. It sounds to me like you were being a protective mama bear and nothing else.” I squeeze her hand.
She makes a noncommittal noise before saying, “Yes, I was protective. But I fear that in my quest to shield him from my past demons, I also kept a part of his identity hostage from him.” She squeezes my hand in return. “Now, I would give anything for Mateo to speak freely in his native tongue, or at the very least have the option to if he so wished. And I know he does. I can tell by how he prioritizes Anna’s Spanish and French lessons as much as her other after-school activities. And how his terms of endearments for her, like mija, are in Spanish. I sense, in his own way, he’s claiming that piece of his culture I never gave him and is doing his best to instill it in his daughter. And I couldn’t be prouder of him for it.”
Language is such an important part of one’s identity, and I couldn’t imagine not speaking Spanish, even if, most times, it’s Nuyorican slang at best.
I guess I’m one of the lucky ones. Not only did I learn Spanish in my home, but my mother is a high school Spanish teacher, so there was no escaping it. Although I’m sure her students would be tickled by the colorful Dominican Spanish she reserves for outside the classroom.
Without a second thought, an idea is firmly planted in my head. “I can help him. You know, teach him some Spanish? I’m sure he’s too busy for any type of formal tutoring, but maybe I can speak more Spanish in the home? Or give him homework… potentially?” The more I speak, the sillier it sounds.
Yet Beth’s growing smile offers some encouragement. “If you could get my hardheaded son to do homework , then you, my dear, are truly a saint. I could barely manage to get him to do it when he was in high school. Instead, he was focused on all the scouts attending his games.” She raises her hand and cups my cheek. “Thank you, Isabella. That is very kind of you. Even if it’s a few sentences, I’m sure Mateo would appreciate it. And so would I.” She pats my cheek gently before lowering her hand.
“Now, what kind of breakfast extravaganza are you and my granddaughter going to create? My only suggestion is that you steer clear of Anna’s extensive collection of sprinkles. Those fuckers light up like the fourth of July in the oven for some odd reason. I’d bet it’s all that dye.”
And for the third time tonight, I find myself bent over laughing while Beth mercilessly teases me.