Chapter Three
The lunch rush came and went with only a few stragglers left behind, which means my mother will be showing up any minute now.
She loves to make her entrance as if the rush was a success thanks to her.
Almost like a celebrity appearance. The restaurant always looks like it’s been raided after lunch.
It’s our only real rush these days—mornings are dead, and evenings are barely better.
Once the lunch crowd clears, it feels as if we’re just waiting for the lights to go off for good.
No wonder we’re struggling to stay afloat.
The display case under the counter that holds all of our pastries is practically empty.
Faye restocks the cooler with Maltas, Jupina pineapple soda, and the usual Coke products.
José is baking to refill the pastry case.
Maria is tidying the dining room, picking up dirty dishes and readjusting the chairs to their proper tables.
This is always the best part of the day for me.
There is something so satisfying about taking something in complete disarray and organizing it, with everything in its place.
It’s sweet, angelic music to my perfectionist ears.
“Thanks for the meal, Isa! Always delicious,” a customer shouts as they leave the building.
I wave back, but they can’t see me. I watch the cars peel out of the parking lot onto the highway, my gaze drifting aimlessly—until I spot my mother approaching from across the street.
My stomach tightens as she walks toward the restaurant, her expression unreadable, but knowing her, there’s something on her mind.
My throat clenches as I watch my mother approach through the front door, and I still haven’t digested the news Maria shared with me earlier.
I remember seeing the invitation from Sofia in my inbox and feeling excited before promptly remembering I wouldn’t be able to go.
My mother would have a stroke at the idea of me attending.
“You’re a grown-ass woman, pendeja. Just tell her you’re going to the wedding,” Maria remarks.
“It’s not that easy. You know her.” I roll my eyes. “I need a better strategy than that.”
I feel like I need an entire month to prepare to say anything to my mother.
Mentally, emotionally, hell, even physically.
Even a written speech I proofread several times and practiced in front of a mirror.
Maybe I should learn how to squeeze out a tear or two like the dramatic actresses I watch in telenovelas.
I never know how she is going to react. She’s like a ticking time bomb, patiently waiting for me to make the one mistake that confirms her suspicions about me.
That, despite her best efforts to ensure I was always presentable and did everything right, I’m not actually perfect, and “where did she go wrong?” Even now, at twenty-five, a quarter of my life has already been lived, and I’m scared to talk to my mommy.
Whenever I know she’s about to show up, I clam up like I did something wrong.
It’s the guilt. The undying chronic guilt.
Luckily, by this point in our relationship, I have learned the usual steps to ensure a good conversation with Mariposa.
One, stay interested in whatever she says.
Two, remember she won’t ask about your life.
She doesn’t care. Three, be assured that our talks are always short and, well, not so sweet.
“Hola, Lucia!” My mother calls out to one of our regulars, still finishing her lunch. Lucia always lingers a little longer, hoping to chat—or gossip—with my mother as if they’d known each other forever, even though she is just a customer.
I feel the hairs on the back of my neck immediately prickle at the sound of her voice. I swallow what feels like a huge lump, causing discomfort in my chest. I cough to settle it down. Looking up, I notice my mother heading toward another customer finishing lunch.
“Mari! It’s been so long! You look great.”
My mother spins slowly, showing off her flowy, undeniably too-expensive dress.
“?Verdad? It’s new.”
“Well, it’s fabulous. And this bag!”
She leans in to look at the bag closer, making me sweat slightly. It’s a Prada bag I got for my mother a couple of years ago. I spent all summer scraping up the little bit of extra money from my paycheck here to get it for her. So now she parades around town with it.
“Gracias. My daughter got it for me—one of the only good things she’s gotten for me, verdad?” She laughs, but her words sting. They always do.
“Don’t you mean Frauda?” Maria whispers in my ear.
I snap my head around and glare at her.
“You shut your trap, or I’ll feed you to the goldfish.”
It’s not surprising that Maria can effortlessly identify a fake.
Fashion is her passion. Despite spending all my money, I still couldn’t afford the real deal.
I found this bag in one of those online secondhand stores.
I should have known it was a fake when it was only $150.
I just hope no one else notices as easily.
At least my mother didn’t grow up around expensive things and can’t possibly tell the difference.
“Are you going to Sofia’s wedding? I saw Rosita post about it on Facebook. I’m glad we stayed friends online before we stopped working together at the firm so I could stay on top of the chisme,” Lucia says, smirking.
“Oh, I didn’t hear anything of it.”
My mother flips her hair slowly behind her head. Her attempt at acting smooth and cavalier. Inside, I’m sure she’s fuming. She hates when anyone brings up Rosita’s name.
“Bueno, I can’t wait to see the photos. It’s supposed to be a whole week’s event, and only thirty people were invited. It feels very exclusive, verdad? Like a celebrity wedding. It makes me want to crash it.”
“Si,” my mother replies dryly. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your food. I need to get to work.”
She turns around abruptly and starts heading in my direction. Shit. I nudge Maria to walk away.
“Hola, Tía!” Maria says as she’s about to walk away.
“Maria! You are looking gorgeous these days.”
“Oh, gracias, Tía.” She does an awkward curtsy and tries to shuffle away.
“You’ll have to tell me your secrets for your body. I need to get on that diet immediately.” She laughs.
“It’s just genetics, mostly, I think.” Maria shrugs, shifting from side to side.
“Maybe you can teach Isabella a few things. So she can quit those Maltas and get rid of this,” she says as she pinches my lower stomach tightly, making me wince.
“Mami!”
“Ay, I’m just kidding, mija. But you do need to eat healthier. No es bueno. You should care more about your figure and how you present yourself,” she mumbles as she rummages through her purse, looking for a compact mirror to double-check that she has no lipstick on her teeth.
I glance over at Maria, who is side-eyeing us while she pretends to clean a table. She is such a little shit.
“How was the rush today, mija?” She walks around the store with her hands clasped behind her back, inspecting the restaurant. This is comparably worse than when the actual health inspector visits.
“Great! Super busy, as usual.” I grit my teeth into a smile.
She looks up at me momentarily, fixated on my strange grin, and then returns to her daily inspection.
I can already feel the walls of my casual facade crumbling.
If there is anything I can’t be, it’s calm and collected. She knows something is up.
“Que bueno, mija,” she says flatly.
I wish I could read minds.
I follow behind her trail like a small bird trying not to lose sight of its mother. She pauses and turns around, causing me to bump into her.
“Cafecito?”
I nod and scamper into the kitchen to pour her some Cuban coffee, which consists of an obscene amount of sugar and espresso.
It’s truly delicious. As I walk back to the table where my mother has taken up residence, I see Maria through my peripheral, giving me two thumbs up.
I turn to her and give her one middle finger up so she’ll stop hovering.
I don’t need a cheerleader right now; I need a miracle worker.
I need Walter Mercado to predict how this conversation will go so I can brace myself.
“So”—I put down her coffee and sit across from her—“you’ve heard about Sofia’s wedding.”
“Claro, mija. How could I not? Everyone I know hasn’t shut up once about it on social media.
Your cousin Yolanda is a bridesmaid and has already posted photos from the venue.
I can’t believe her fiancé bought ese maldito summer camp for her.
And they expect only thirty people to show up?
What about the rest of the family? It’s just like them.
Trying to show off how much money they have and how popular they always were. ”
I watch as she lifts the coffee to her nose, taking a few whiffs.
Not because she wants to embrace the delicacy of Cuban coffee but because she wants to judge how I made it.
I see her nose crinkle slightly before she takes a sip.
It’s not good enough for Mariposa, but it’ll do—which is basically the tagline for my entire existence for her.
“Yeah, so crazy,” I encourage. “It’s, like, a whole week-long thing, too.” I move cautiously as I gauge her temperament.
“I don’t even believe it. Who has the time to attend a wedding for an entire week? And they expect the whole family to stay there the entire time? It’s all for show, mija. That’s what they’re always about.”
“Yeah, who has the time?” I repeat awkwardly. “Certainly not us.”
“You’ll do better than that when you get married, verdad? No week-long circus. Just something elegant and tasteful. For me, por favor. You just need to find yourself a good spouse. When are you going to do that, mija?”
“Mami, when do I have the time? I have to run the store, and need I remind you that every single relationship I’ve had, you had something to say about.”