Chapter Seventeen
I wake up to my phone vibrating under my pillow. I grab it with haste, only to be disappointed when I see my mom’s name flashing across the screen. I ignore it, knowing damn well she’s going to call me back or come to my room, but I’m petty enough to smile as I swipe to ignore her call. I shut the phone off, a tiny act of useless rebellion, and walk toward the window. The sun is high today, the street vendors all setting up their carts and tables. My head aches at the temples. I groan and crack the window open, hoping the morning breeze will help.
The air is fresh, and the smell of bakers pulling out their breads and cakes for the day wafts through my room from the bakery next door. My stomach growls, wishing I could teleport a sandwich or pastry to my room. I guess I sort of can, using room service. Using my mother’s tainted money.
I scowl, slamming the window shut. I continue to stare out the glass, getting lost in the realization that everything in my life is dependent on my mom. Her money, her knowledge and rolodex of my doctors and scans and medications. I’d always thought I had done my best to learn to advocate for myself medically, but I really just discussed things with her, her always leading. I hadn’t done shit. I’ve let her steer my life, let her be the center of every major choice, every lack of having a choice. In a fairy-tale version of my life, I’d run to Julián, tell him I’m never going to speak to my mother again, and cut her out of my life. It’s not only impossible, it’s immature.
Everything about me feels immature and selfish… Even the pity I feel for myself right now is massively flawed and privileged. A sad rich girl who’s spending her summer in Spain in a luxurious suite, with a driver and nearly endless spending money, is sad because a boy she just met justifiably hates her and her greedy mother. I lightly bang my head against the glass, wondering how many times I’d have to do that before I have an episode, before everything goes black.
The way I feel isn’t only because of Julián, who I’m devastated about, but it does feel like I’m having an identity crisis. In my head, my mom was just a hard worker. A woman who set out to prove herself and became addicted to her job. But I’ve been sitting idly living off other people’s suffering and loss. On top of that, I’m all too well aware that I haven’t accomplished anything in my life and won’t have the chance to. Julián’s family being ruined by my mom was just the final crack in my delusional mirror of a life I’d pretended to live. I will likely leave the earth and no one except my mother, and maybe Lena, will care. The people my mother has paid to care for me might mourn a little, but I’d be delusional to think their worlds revolved around me. And to Julián I’ll always be known as the spoiled American girl who helped ruin his livelihood, if he even remembers me at all.
If banging my head against this glass actually killed me, my funeral would be nearly empty. No flowers, no one to mourn. My mom would probably take a work call and end it early. A flashback to one of my grief therapists warning me about these types of thoughts comes to the forefront of my mind. According to her and her extensive Ivy League education, the imminent question of “What was my purpose in life?” always catches up to you before you go. I had ignored it many times: when I woke up in the hospital after I seized in the middle of my audition for the best dance academy in Texas and bit my tongue so hard that the judges and screaming trainees thought I was dead; when I saw the tubers on the screen covering my right kidney, and my mother’s wailing nearly drowned out the doctor’s order to remove it; and most recently when staring blankly at my latest MRI results a week before we left to come here. The tubers in my brain had shifted yet again, making for an extremely dangerous surgery, one that stole my best and only friend’s memory and life, and my best option for my potential survival. I weighed the options and will keep my promise to Audra, to myself, that I would rather have my heart stop beating than my mind erased.
I climb back into bed, not knowing what the hell else to do. I can’t face Amara. I can’t stand to see my mother, and Julián can’t stand to see me. I should go back home to Texas. A relief washes over me. That’s exactly what I should do, go the hell home . I came here to have new experiences, to be excited for the time I have, even not knowing how short or long it may be, but now I’m just regressing and feeling sorry for myself. I don’t want my plan to find the joy in life, to relish the things that make life worth living, forgotten because of my mom and her work, of all things.
I wake up to a knock on my door. The sheets are so cool and soft against my skin, begging me to stay wrapped in them, but whoever is at my door is insistent, unbearably so. I open the door to my mom and one of the women I recognize from my dress fittings, standing in the frame, a rack of dresses behind them. Now isn’t the time to tell my mom I’m getting out of here, that I want nothing to do with her plan or pretend charity, so I concede for now and step out of the way, letting them stroll in. The wheels on the rack creak as I greet the woman.
“Did you just wake up?” my mom asks me, concern clear in her dark eyes.
I nod.
“Hmph.” I watch as she looks around my room, taking in everything, seeing if something is amok, or maybe looking for Julián.
“Can we get this over with?” I ask her through a forced smile.
The last thing I want is to seem rude in front of the stylist, but I don’t have the energy to fake it today. My head is aching, throbbing at my temples.
“We’ve narrowed it down to three. A sage green, a cream, and a burgundy. Here’s the burgundy.” The stylist’s accent makes the words sound as beautiful as the deep-wine dress in her hand.
“Let’s go with that one,” I suggest. I liked them all the last time I tried them on.
The stylist’s face falls, and she nods, agreeing. Not wanting to push me, but I can tell she internally disagrees.
“What about the green?” I suggest, and relief fills her eyes. At this point, I don’t care what dress I’ll be wearing during this bullshit event.
The moment it’s over, I’ll be on a plane getting the hell out of here. My mind is fully made up; leaving is the only way I can make it through this summer alive, or attempt to. It’s better for Julián, too, who won’t have to worry about seeing me again.
I try the silky green dress on, and the reaction from the styling team and my mother says it all. It looks great, the silky material hugging my hips, my breasts. The hanging neckline and backless detail make it even more flattering. If I wasn’t decaying inside, I would be able to appreciate the dress for the work of art it is. Simple and elegant, unlike the body wearing it.
“It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” My mother smiles, the swollen pockets under her eyes noticeable under the light. Maybe she does feel guilty; she’s just become a master at hiding any and all emotions.
After the women pack up their roll-aways, pins, and all things stylists carry, my mom tries to sneak out of my room with them. Hesitation is clear in her eyes when I gently grab ahold of her wrist to stop her. She sighs but gives in, and I pull her to the couch in the living room area of my room.
“What’s this about, Ry? The gala?” She doesn’t look at me, instead focusing her gaze on a porcelain vase on the table in front of us.
“No. I want to talk to you… a real conversation between a mother and her adult daughter.”
Her shoulders straighten, immediately defensive.
“You don’t need to react like that. That’s exactly why we keep butting heads and can’t seem to speak the same language.”
“We were fine before we came here and before you met Julián,” she retorts, crossing her legs. Her foot swings lazily, but I know it’s a nervous tick of hers.
“No, we weren’t. I was just suffering in silence, Mom.”
My words seem to have an effect on her, and she slowly turns her head to look at me. “What do you mean, ‘suffering in silence’? I’ve done my best to take care of you.”
“This isn’t about you not taking care of me medically,” I clarify. “I know you did everything you could when it came to my doctors and medications and finding all the latest research, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Suffering isn’t only physical, Mom, and you know that.”
We sit in a few moments of silence before I continue.
“I want you to see me. Not just my tuberous sclerosis, or a problem you need to handle or fix. I want you—” I correct myself. “I’ve been aching for you to see me as your daughter who’s a grown woman, who has emotions and dreams that were lost, who has a sense of humor and a personality that you don’t even know. I’m not blaming you for working overtime, I just wish you could separate me from my condition, especially when we both know the situation I’m in now.”
In an attempt to get all my words out before she has the chance to flip them on me, I keep going.
“I want to know what your life was like before you became a mother. I want to know your favorite color or if you ever danced. Did I get my passion and talent for it from anyone in my family? I want to know if you ever had any dreams or hopes. Do you know what it feels like to be loved? Have you ever been heartbroken? What was your favorite snack as a child? Do you even know mine? I don’t know anything about you, but I’ve spent my entire life practically glued to your side. I don’t even know if you have friends or family here. If I have family here…”
My mother’s eyes have softened since my speech, but she’s still wildly uncomfortable. It breaks my heart for her.
“Ry,” she finally says. “I didn’t know you felt any of this. I didn’t have a clue that you thought about any of this. I wanted you to be able to breeze through life and not worry about my mistakes or my past, only your future.”
“None of what I’m asking or wanting to know is about you making mistakes. I really wish your mind didn’t always go to that,” I tell her, meaning it. “You can’t protect me from everything, and I don’t want you to. Are you planning on living your entire life for me, and then what? When I’m gone—”
“Don’t.” She raises a hand, her voice feeble and gentle. “Please don’t say that. And yes, I am planning on living my entire life for you, just as I’ve done since I heard your heartbeat inside me.”
“That’s not living.” I wipe the tears from my cheeks, trying to stay as calm as possible.
She turns her body to face me, taking my hands in hers. Her touch is unfamiliar, so much so that it nearly breaks me. “It’s the greatest joy in my life to be your mother. I know I didn’t do everything right, but to me, taking care of you is the way I choose to live my life, and I have never, and will never, regret that. You must understand that we are different people, Ry. I work so hard and so much to distract me from the pain and guilt of knowing how I’ve treated the people who have loved me. I work so I can feel like I owe SetCorp a little less for all they’ve done for us. I work so I can have a little pride, knowing I came from nothing and have been able to provide you with the life you’ve had. I’m sorry I’m not as emotionally available…”
She’s nearly crying, a sight I never thought I’d see outside a hospital. “But I can try from here, taking it slowly. I’ll try to open up with you a little more, okay?”
“Okay.” I nod, not getting all the answers I want, but satisfied by what feels like a massive breakthrough compared to any and every conversation we’ve ever had.
“And I do see you. I see you every day, and I love you more than anything. I can see how you would feel the way you do, and I’ll try harder to show you.”
She swallows hard and shifts her body again. Her exit is coming any second, and I’m okay with that. A tiny part of my unseen inner child was healed by her acknowledgment, and the fact that she didn’t cut me off as I shared my feelings with her.
“I need to go get my dress pinned, but to answer a few of your questions”—she begins to stand up, and I follow her toward my door—“I can’t dance to save my life, and my favorite snack as a child was rubiols that my mother made around Easter.” Her hand is shaking as she opens the door, turns to face me, and sighs.
“And I’ve been in love only once, but you already seem to have figured that out.”
“Do you ever do your makeup at home?” I ask Amara as I approach her at the desk.
“Not when I can do it on the clock and get paid.” She winks, blowing a kiss to her favorite camera in the corner.
“I’m going back home early,” I tell her as she drags a mascara wand across her lashes. Her hand jerks and black smears across the apple of her cheek.
“Excuse me, what?”
“Sorry for the shitty timing.” I point to the mascara on her face, and she looks in the mirrored wall behind the desk, shrugging.
“How early are you talking?” She puts the tube of mascara on the counter.
I hesitate before replying, sealing my fate. “Tomorrow. Before the event.”
Surprise flashes in her eyes.
“What? What happened? Did Julián… what did he do?” Her reaction is so quick, her temper flaring, ready to go full force on Julián.
“He didn’t do anything. It was me. Well, my mom, which by proxy makes me guilty too.”
She’s confused, rightfully so. I give her more context, starting and ending with what happened yesterday.
“Oh no. So, the evil company we’re all going to be protesting tomorrow is your mom’s?” She cringes.
“Protesting?”
Nodding, she explains that their group of friends, along with a ton of fishermen and their families, have a protest set for tomorrow at the Garcia shipyard. The time is just a few hours before the event.
“I guess the protest is going to bring awareness, and if it gets too out of hand or word travels too fast, it could ruin the fancy party.” She apologizes with her eyes.
“I don’t give a shit about the party. I can’t believe my mom is the one causing all this damage and I’ve been parading around here, wasting Julián’s and your time. I’m sorry.”
She waves her hand. “Don’t be. If you didn’t know, why the hell are you sorry?”
I shrug. “Even knowing that, I still feel so shitty. The least I can do is say sorry.”
“No, the least you can do is stay here and try to make it right,” she suggests.
“How can I make it right?”
I’ve gone through every scenario in my mind, trying to think of ways to stop it, even wishing my mom was allergic to something that I could give her to make her sick enough to go home. Her immune system is stronger than her work ethic, and that’s saying a fucking lot. Even after our heart-to-heart, there’s no way in hell she would cancel it.
“I’m not sure, but there has to be a way. Just packing up and leaving is never the answer. Imagine if Romeo and Juliet just gave up!” she says with passion.
I can’t help but laugh at her comparison. “They wouldn’t have died.”
She laughs, despite the circumstance. “Oh yeah. Bad example. But you get my point. You can’t just leave.”
The phone in front of her rings, and she groans. I smile, nodding to deceive her, knowing that I’m getting on that flight tomorrow night and nothing and no one can stop me. As I head to my room, I begin to type out an apology text to Julián, knowing nothing I can say will make it all better, but I don’t know if I can live with just leaving and never saying goodbye. This summer was supposed to be about no fear, no regrets, and I sure as hell will regret not attempting to say goodbye to Julián. I sneak past the elevator, making sure Amara doesn’t see me, and I head out of the hotel. I slowly make my way to Julián’s dock, not having a clue what I’ll say or do when I see him, or worse, what he will say or do when he sees me, but I’m letting my heart lead the way and hoping it steers me correctly.
When I get there, his boat is gone. The water is silent, still, almost eerily so. I look out onto the water, but his vessel is nowhere in sight.
I try to call him, but it goes directly to voicemail. Not even an ignored call; his phone is powered off. God, he must hate me so much and feel such deep betrayal.
“Oriah?” A voice behind me has me whirling around before I realize it’s Julián’s father. They look more like brothers than father and son, but the resemblance up close is uncanny.
“Mr. Garcia?” I stumble over my words.
“Mateo… you can call me Mateo. Are you looking for Julián?” he asks, his accent much more prominent than his son’s.
I nod. “Is he here by chance? I know his boat isn’t, but I thought maybe… Sorry, I don’t know much Spanish.”
Mateo’s long hair shakes with his head. “I know enough English to get by. Had to, to adapt to the tourists.” He smiles a little, and my heart melts when I see the twin smile of Julián’s.
My favorite smile that I’ve had the pleasure of witnessing but may never see again. “He’s not here. He took off earlier without a word.”
“I’m sorry. For everything. I know you must also hate me.”
He holds one hand up, a gesture his son also does. He’s even dressed similarly in a sun-faded cutoff T-shirt and shorts, his feet bare against the wood dock. His hair is much curlier than Julián’s, but they look so similar it makes me want to sob right there on the shore, and try as I might, I can’t stop the tears as they begin to fall down my face.
Julián’s father, a man who loved my mother once upon a time, and potentially still does, steps forward and wraps his arms around me. He smells like wood and ropes, like the comfort of the sea, like a warmth I’ve never felt from an adult. Despite everything, he consoles me as I cry and cry, my tears falling between the cracks in the old wood and washing away in the sea.
“I will never hate you,” he eventually says. “I can’t speak for my son, but I don’t have any room for hate in my heart,” he tells me, and I wonder if it’s because my mother has left no room for anything else.
“How is that possible?” I ask, shamelessly wiping my snotty nose on the fabric of my shirt while his attention is on the sea before us. “To not be angry at me, when my mom… according to Julián, has ruined your life and is now going to tear down your family business and build a resort on it, and I’m here crying over your son. I swear I’m not usually this selfish,” I say, wondering if that’s true or not. Maybe I am selfish, like her. Maybe the type of person I convinced myself that I am isn’t real at all and I’m the kind of person I’ve always tried not to be.
The possibility makes my heart sink further.
Mateo sighs, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “You and Julián have nothing to do with Isolde’s and my mistakes. Our debt is not yours to pay.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just stare at him for a moment and he reaches for my hand, gently gesturing to sit down on the dock with him. “Your mother didn’t ruin my life. I know my son has taken to blaming her for everything that has gone wrong.” He smiles, the crinkles around his eyes so charming and nearly nostalgic somehow. I can easily see why my mom fell for him. “He holds grudges unreasonably, and it’s easier for him to be angry at a woman he doesn’t know than deal with the fact that his pare isn’t a saint and that life isn’t always the way it should be. But my life, through its ups and downs, isn’t in ruin. I’m not the kind of man your mother would end up with, I never was, but that didn’t stop me from living my life. So please, Oriah, don’t get even more angry at your mom because of Julián’s words. You’re all she has.”
“That’s her fault,” I retort, sniffling. “She’s boxed herself into a lonely life where the only thing she cares about is her job. She’s never brought me here, never showed me where she’s from. I don’t know anything about my heritage, my family, whether they’re alive or dead. I don’t even know her, honestly, so it’s really hard not to blame her for all this. Not only how I feel, but everything.”
“It’s easy to blame her, but it’s brave to try to understand her. She lost her mare at such a young age, and it takes a lot to deal with that alone. She loves you deeply, I know that. Her life has been dedicated to you, to her work because of what it offers you. She’s ambitious and was once just a girl your age, with a baby, no family, and scared of failing. You and Julián probably will never understand it, but part of me is proud of her, even during this mess.”
“You really are a freaking saint.” I admire his grace, the empathy he has for my mother regardless of what she’s done, and is still doing, to him.
He shakes his head. “I’m far from a saint. We’re all just human, trying our best. Her too.”
“No wonder she loved you,” I quietly remark, half wishing he was angry, bitter, and ready to tell me all the awful things she’s done in her life, but the conversation is far, far from that.
“So, can you tell me something about my family? Or something about my mom? You know her better than me. Why would she turn her back on this place?”
“I don’t know.” He’s suspiciously hesitant. “She suffered a lot here, too, and wanted to break the cycle. Maybe that’s why she turned her back. Only she knows,” he admits, and finally a flash of anger shows in his eyes, in the tick of his jaw. “Did you know your mom was the first of your family to go to university?” He changes the subject.
“No. I didn’t. I don’t know anything about anything.” I wrap my arms around my legs and curl into a ball.
“She was the top student in every year when we were kids. From the day she learned to talk, she impressed everyone. She was a complete menace”—he laughs lightly—“but the best student. No one could understand how someone so mischievous could also be the perfect student.”
“My mom? Mischievous?” I ask in disbelief.
“Sure as hell. She was always in trouble with your abuelita or the local police, even. She once chased down a man who stole my wallet and pummeled him, nearly drowning him in the ocean.”
“I can’t even imagine that,” I admit. “Well, the pummeling I can, but she’s so… reserved. Calm but deadly.” I smile at the idea that my mother was once a wild woman. The hunger to know more grows with each of his words.
“Do I have any family left here?” I eventually ask him.
I can read the sadness, near guilt, on his face as he shakes his head.