Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
I’m a thirty-one-year-old woman. I pay my own bills, and I have a successful career.
I shouldn’t be standing on my mother’s porch with shame in my gut as I try to cover said gut with a massive, bulky sweater. The Chicago air abides by me, its chill giving me the perfect opportunity to wear the disguising garment.
One last tug on the fabric before the door opens, and I’m pulled forward into a tight hug. She might just squeeze this baby out of me.
“ Mami , it hasn’t been that long,” I grunt, taking a deep breath once she lets me go.
As her stare combs over me, I try not to fidget, to not bring attention to the more prominent roundness of my face, to the fatigue that stains my under eyes, to the way I can smell everything.
Especially the food she’s cooking inside. “ Bendición. ”
“You never answer the phone anymore,” she starts, the lines on her face deepening with her frown. It’s then I’m reminded my mother is trilingual, fluent in guilt tripping as well as English and Spanish.
“I do,” I reassure her as she steps aside to let me in. The scent of food clings to the air, and I smile, happy to be over the morning sickness hump.
My childhood home on the outskirts of the city is modest. The walls are covered in family photos, and there isn’t a speck of dust to be seen. For all her pride in her culture, my mother chooses to speak English here, where no one would object to her Spanish.
I try not to fall back into nostalgia, but the hormones are winning this war, and my eyes mist at the thought of bringing my baby here, having them learn about life from the woman who gave me mine.
“Did you eat?” she asks, pulling me from my thoughts and walking past me into the kitchen. I trail behind her, wary of the voices coming from where the food is undoubtedly being eaten.
“No…” I trail off as I enter, faced with a bombardment of cousins, aunts, and uncles.
“I didn’t know everyone would be here.” I slap on a smile as everyone exclaims, coming up to hug me, talking over one another.
We have always been a community, strays from all walks of life with one thing in common: Puerto Rico.
That island turned strangers into friends and family members.
It was how we were able to create our own village in the United States, and Mami never fails to remind me.
Still, in spite of the gratefulness and love I feel for the people here, I sigh.
Today was supposed to be the day I tell my parents I’m going to be a parent. I woke up, took a deep breath, and decided today was the day. I gave myself several pep talks on the way over. All that self-inflicted verbal abuse for naught.
No way am I sharing the news now, not when I still haven’t figured out how to tell them I have no idea how to find the baby’s father.
“It’s Sunday,” my mother reminds me, loading a plate of food for me. “Not everyone forgets about me.”
Hola , guilt.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes, knowing she’ll either threaten to pop them out of my skull, or her house slipper will somehow make its way through the air and upside my head.
“I could never forget you,” I opt to say instead, kissing her cheek when she hands me the plate stacked with all the Puerto Rican cuisine I grew up eating.
Just as I set the food down, my youngest cousin enters from the sliding door to the backyard, her cheeks pink as she tears off her coat.
When her eyes meet mine, I wave, a huge grin on my face.
She must’ve grown several inches since the last time I saw her, and I try to fight the disappointment I feel at missing moments.
“Dani!” she shrieks before running toward me, and instinctively, I place my hand on my stomach just as she rushes into me.
“Oof,” I say on impact. She tries to jump into my arms, but I scoot out of the way, nervous. “ Mamita , I can’t pick you up.”
Knowing I’m usually the only adult that’ll get down to her level and play like I wish someone played with me makes me panic. I can’t roughhouse with her the way we’re used to. It’ll be a completely different dynamic now.
“Why not?” she whines, pouting in a way only five-year-olds can get away with.
“ ?Que te pasa? ” My mother’s voice rings out, silencing the others, and they turn to look at me.
How do I answer?
“I think I pulled a muscle in my back,” I lie, not looking at anyone, scared they’ll see right through me. Why is it suddenly so hot in here?
“Why is your hand on your stomach?” one of my other cousins chimes in, and I drop both hands to my sides as I shoot him a glare.
I never noticed how I found comfort in cradling the small bump there until this very moment.
Now, I have to somehow become the world’s best liar when I am, in fact, the complete opposite. Infamously so.
“Daniela Evangeline Figueroa.”
And it’s at this moment I’m reminded my mother is actually a polyglot. She is also fluent in my bullshit. And shouldn’t she be? The woman birthed me, raised me, watched me become who I am. But as I look at my feet, wishing I could disappear, I’m lost for words.
Fuuuuuuuuck.
“Stomachache?” I offer, finally glancing over at my mom, whose arched brow tells me all I need to know.
“ Mentirosa ,” she hisses, and I still as she nears, her feet shuffling quickly in her house shoes before she stops in front of me, yanking up my sweater.
And there, for everyone to see, is a protrusion that renders my mother speechless for the first time in her life. She stands there, staring, as my stepdad walks in, completely unaware, a huge grin on his face at the sight of me.
“Daniii… Oh, shit.” Quickly, his excitement is morphed into fear as he stares at the side of my mother’s face, who hasn’t looked away from my pregnant belly.
I’m just fat, Mami . But even that sounds stupid in my head. Not to mention, she may slap me for insulting her intelligence.
No, this is a rounded belly, even surrounded by the usual softness that is my stomach. She’s not dumb, and neither am I. I know when the jig is up.
When she speaks, the questions are quiet but rapid-fire.
“ ?Quién es el papa? ?Tienes un novio? ”
The questions I feared she’d ask are the first ones she utters.
My eyes mist again as warmth spreads across my face, and shame clouds my better judgment.
I am the world’s shittiest liar, but for my baby, I will try.
The idea of anyone in this family feeling anything but joy for it saddens me.
I don’t want that for us, not when we’re already in this shitty situation together. Forever.
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “You’ll meet him soon.”
“She doesn’t know him?” my aunt exclaims, and this time, I do roll my eyes, frustrated that I wasn’t even in my mother’s presence for thirty minutes before she found me out. Fuck, that was quick.
“It’s…new,” I say, wishing I could wring my outspoken aunt’s fucking neck, wishing I chose a different day to stop by.
“Dani,” my stepfather starts, walking toward me with arms outstretched. “I’m sure we’ll love him.” He pulls me into a hug and murmurs, “ Felicidades ,” in my ear.
It’s the first time someone has treated this baby like something to celebrate, and I hold on to him as tears spill over. When he pulls away, my mother places her hand on my cheek, staring into my eyes. She doesn’t blink as she stands there like she’s trying to read my mind.
“This is why you haven’t come home,” she starts, nodding when I don’t answer. She wipes away her own errant tear and leans in to hug me. “ Dios te bendiga .”
God has always been a pillar in her life, who she turns to when she needs hope, reasoning, or an all-knowing power. I want to tell her God has nothing to do with this, but the shock and shame would likely kill her.
I accept her blessing, and everyone starts talking over one another excitedly about the family having another baby.
It isn’t until I park my car outside my apartment later that night that I realize just how quiet my mother was the rest of the day, her eyes finding mine in those moments of silence.
I sigh as I trudge up the stairs, trying not to look for Quintin, trying not to wonder where he is. As I make my way to my front door, I notice a brown box sitting outside it, a yellow ribbon adorning it.
“What…” I start, bending to pick it up. I glance in the direction of his apartment, wondering if this is from him. I mean, who else has access to the building and knows where I live?
Santana? Usually, she’d tell me ahead of time so I don’t think some random stalker left a bomb or anthrax on my doorstep.
I really need to set up that fucking camera.
I unlock my front door and step inside, dropping the package on my kitchen counter before staring at it as I toe my boots off.
Quit being a little bitch , I tell myself as I reach for the suspicious gift, pulling at the taped down tabs with more force than necessary. Inside is a small envelope sitting on top of what looks like a white journal embossed with a rattle. I lift the envelope and pull out a card.
Fill these pages with moments that will turn into precious memories.
Q
All I want to do now is march over to his apartment, bang on the door until he opens it, drop to my knees, and go to work on him until my jaw locks up.
It’s like he wants so badly for me to enjoy this experience. He is the one person I tried to keep at bay, and now, he’s slowly becoming someone I can’t see myself without.
Even lounging with him at the spa in bathrobes, talking about how we got into our careers and glancing at each other’s bodies with a desire we still haven’t even scratched the surface of.
I don’t recognize this version of myself, but I like her. More than I like her—I’m beginning to trust her. Through that trust, I start to become excited about the potential I have to be a great mother.
In the spirit of that, I grab a pen and start writing, taking this as a private moment between my unborn child and me.
Today, I told my parents about you…