Chapter 23 Luisa
I take another sip of Gloria Castillo’s horchata, hoping its cool, creamy sweetness will soothe the ache in my chest. We sit beside each other in silence, lulled by the rhythmic creak of her rocking chairs, watching Little Mishel and Abelardo ride their bikes down a dirt driveway lined with Southern live oaks.
Pablo has gone to the cemetery to visit Don Luis’s grave.
“He’s been going on longer and longer walks,” Gloria says, her voice low and tired. The shadows under her eyes are more pronounced since I last saw her, but somehow she still manages to smile for the kids, pretend their world isn’t about to be turned upside down.
“Have you told them anything?” I ask. It’s been five days since the golf fiasco, and at this juncture, our plan to outmaneuver Griggs seems unsalvageable.
Gloria shakes her head. “I’ve been on my knees every night,” she says, kissing the cross of the rosary around her neck. “Praying to La Virgencita for a miracle.”
I stare at the milky horchata in my glass, absently stirring the long cinnamon stick protruding through the ice cubes.
After we moved to Atlanta, I, too, prayed on my knees.
I prayed to return home to Puerto Rico. Homesick and lonely, I missed my cousins and friends, missed our lazy weekends on sunny Buyé Beach, the tangy taste of an icy piragüa de tamarindo on my tongue, the wonder of surfing in Rincón at sunset, and the joy of living my life in Spanish.
But pray as I might, Mami refused to reverse course.
Puerto Rico was our past, she would tell us, angry and resentful.
Atlanta was our future, and hell would freeze over before we moved back.
By the time I returned to the Island in my early twenties, my Puerto Rican Spanish accent and fluency were atrophied.
My aunts and cousins teasingly called me La Gringa.
I laughed at their jokes, taking them in stride, but inside, an essential part of my identity bifurcated, eroding any fanciful, childish beliefs that one day I could return to my life just as it used to be.
On that homecoming trip, I realized that the woman I had grown into didn’t fully belong on the Island, and didn’t fully belong in the States.
The day my father’s lies became known, I lost my home and became irrevocably torn as a result.
No amount of prayers could put me back together again.
In the distance, Abelardo’s laugh rings out as the kids circle the trunk of a massive oak, heads thrown back with mirth, carefree and happy. I can’t blame Gloria and Pablo for keeping the terrible news from them, for keeping them whole for as long as possible.
“You don’t believe in miracles?” Gloria asks, pulling me back to the rocking chair beside her. I meet her curious gaze, unsure of how to respond. I usually keep any opinions on faith to myself, but Gloria seems to already know the answer.
I shrug, admitting for the first time, “I don’t believe anyone’s listening.”
Gloria rests one hand on my forearm. “Our prayers brought you here,” she says with conviction. “You listened.”
Her words just about break me. I want to confess that in the beginning, the only reason I listened was my drive to ferret out a good story and land the top headline. I want to tell her that her faith in me is misplaced, that I can’t save myself, much less her family.
If miracles existed, we’d still have a shot at taking Griggs down, saving her home, and getting my job back.
Instead, our plan is dead on arrival, with no Tripp and no Eli.
And yeah, maybe it’s heedless of me, considering what’s at stake for these kids, but I’d be lying if I said the thought of never seeing Eli again isn’t crushing me from the inside.
Holly called me after the mess at the golf course to explain and commiserate.
We haven’t talked since. I’ve been busy chastising myself for feeling let down by Eli and his impulsive behavior.
What did I expect? Frankly, I’m surprised it took this long for our absurd scheme to fall apart.
We’ve known from day one that our angel investor is no angel.
So why did I think I could trust him? And why can’t I bring myself to confront him—choosing instead to ignore his relentless calls and texts?
“I don’t know where we go from here, Gloria,” I concede in a tone so defeated, it fills me with self-loathing.
I’ve barely slept these past few days, trying in vain to identify a potential whistleblower at the offshore bank in Panama—a desperate long shot—while also reaching out to governmental regulators in that region, certain there’s something I’ve overlooked.
Gloria taps my arm, then gives it a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay to ask for help,” she says, gazing up at the heavens. Voluminous, bright white clouds, the kind a child would draw, are scattered across a dazzling cornflower-blue sky. I’ve never seen a more oppressive sight in my life.
By the time I pull into Mami’s driveway two hours later, my face is a red, puffy mess.
I stress-cried all the way home, to the tune of a playlist titled Break My Heart: Tragic Opera Arias, because apparently misery has its own soundtrack.
I slide out of the SUV and head inside, spent and so not in the mood for Friday family dinner.
“Luisa, is that you?” Mami calls out from the kitchen the instant I’m through the front door. “Where have you been?”
A stampede of tiny feet bursts from the living room to greet me in the foyer.
“Titi Luisa,” Rosita and Daniela sing in unison, opening their arms to enfold me in a hug. Behind them, Carola rocks Sarita in the crook of one arm, dressed in a pretty summer dress that accentuates the curves of her post-baby body.
“You look nice,” I observe. “Are you going out? I thought we were having pizza night.”
“What happened to you?” Carola asks, taking my chin in her free hand, inspecting my face at close range.
“Have you been crying?” Her voice drops to a whisper.
“Is this about the hairy guy Mami keeps talking about? The actor?” I wriggle myself loose, turning to my nieces, who are clamoring for more hugs and kisses.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the midnight makeover?
” she asks, her tone tinged with hurt. “I could’ve helped you. ”
“You have enough on your plate, Carola.” I lift Rosita, swing her onto my hip. “Besides, it was a last-minute thing.” The injured look in her face only adds to the guilt I already feel.
“Titi hubband,” Rosita exclaims puckishly. “Hubband supppprisssseee.” She presses her tiny hands over my cheeks, blows a raspberry, then dissolves into a fit of giggles. “It’s a secret!”
“Is she saying ‘husband surprise’?” I ask Carola.
“She’s just being silly.” Carola titters nervously, pulling Rosita off me with the swift acrobatic maneuver of an expert juggler. “Give Titi Luisa some time to freshen up her makeup.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, my tone suspicious. “It’s pizza night—sweatpants and a Disney movie.”
“I told Mami you wouldn’t like it…” Carola trails off, striding back into the kitchen, shamelessly using her children as a shield.
“I won’t like what?” I demand, just as Augusto and Abuela cross the kitchen door, arms heavy with bottles of wine, flowers, and a cake box from a newly opened Italian bakery.
“There it is,” Mami squeals, taking the cake box. She removes an exquisite lemon meringue cake. I’d be excited at the sight of the candied lemons and torched meringue, if it weren’t for the certainty that my own family is about to make a flambé out of me.
I count two extra place settings on the table. For a fleeting moment, I have the nonsensical thought that maybe Holly and Eli are coming over for dinner, and my spirits rally.
“Who’s coming to dinner?” I ask, irrationally hopeful.
“Luisa, for the love of God,” Mami cries out, striding past me with the cake platter. “Fix your hair. Put on some lipstick.” She drops the cake on the sideboard before marching back to the kitchen. “Do I have to think of everything?”
“I’m eating in my room.” I decide that I’m done playing whatever game this is. I reach for a plate, then storm toward the oven, where the mouthwatering aroma of Mami’s decadent lasagna sends my knees buckling. I haven’t eaten all day and I’m ravenous.
Mami angles herself beside me. “You’re eating at the table, with your family,” she snaps, shutting the oven door with her hip.
“My roof, my rules.” And with those four words—uttered with the same terrifying expression of my youth—I turn into a helpless teenager living under my mother’s iron fist. I open my mouth to protest and stand up to her, like the adult woman I pretend to be, but then she’s up in my face, scrutinizing me under the too-bright lights of the hood.
“Why are your eyes red?” She narrows her gaze in concern. “Mija, are you okay?” Her touch is so motherly, so tender, that for a second I consider dissolving into her chest with a loud and snotty sob.
“It’s just allergies,” I mutter instead, wiping at my nose. “Summer ragweed.”
I’m saved by Daniela, who runs in, shouting, “They’re here! They’re here!”
Suddenly, Mami’s most pressing worry is the state of my hair and washed-out makeup. A red lipstick materializes in front of my face.
“What are you doing?” I groan, unable to pull away from her death grip.
“You look like death, mija.” She holds my jaw in place with one hand, pressing the lipstick to my lips with the other. “Blot,” she orders, pushing a napkin between my lips. I mechanically obey, zapped of all remaining energy.