Chapter Three #3
“Isa, please. Do you really think they cared about us? They had their amazing life, and we were always struggling. If only your father had chosen a different career, we would have been in a much better place.”
I knew she started to resent him a lot when she realized later that owning a restaurant wasn’t the money-maker she’d envisioned.
I’m not saying my mother is a gold digger, but she has always wanted to present herself like we were more successful than we were.
To always be perfect. Nothing can go wrong in her eyes, so they can’t go wrong in mine, either.
“Then why don’t you just sign over the restaurant to me? Then you wouldn’t even have to deal with it, and I can handle everything?” I ask, almost pleading.
She plates the plantains and adds more to the frying pan.
“Because it’s all I have left of Roberto.
It’s how we make our money, mija. Right now, it’s working—everything coming in, we manage just fine.
But if you took over…well, things might be different.
You’d be making decisions, taking a salary, and there wouldn’t be as much left over for me.
How else would I be able to live here? I’m just thinking about how we can keep everything balanced the way it is. ”
“Mami, you bought this place and no longer have a mortgage. I’m the only one using my paycheck for rent. You’ll be fine. And you could still visit every so often.”
Hopefully, not too often. Her giving up the title to me would mean I wouldn’t feel tethered to her anymore. I could run the restaurant the way I want. I’d be free.
I shift between my legs, exhausted after running the restaurant the entire day.
I don’t dare appear tired in front of my mother, though. I wouldn’t hear the end of her rant about how tired she is, because I’m just not allowed to feel exhausted compared to her.
She grabs two plates and begins to serve the both of us, ignoring my plea—I knew better than to bring it up again.
I remember when it used to be three plates.
I’m sure she does too. I look down at the dish, the perfectly cooked steaming pile of rice with black beans poured over on top.
Several plantains sit comfortably on the side, a garnish I can’t wait to shove into my mouth.
I slowly chew on my food, thinking of how to unleash the secret weapon.
The be-all and end-all. The “Can Only Use Once” card.
It’s now or never. And by never, I mean the restaurant will inevitably close, and I will have single-handedly ruined my mother’s life and my father’s legacy and be forever known as the World’s Worst Daughter.
“Mami, I’m going to the wedding,” I state. “It’s what Papi would have wanted for me.”
She slams her fork on the table, causing me to jump.
“Isabella, how dare you! What do you know about what your father would have wanted?”
“Mami, he loved Sofia, and we all had a good relationship growing up. Did you think I’d forget?
I’m sure he’d at least consider going to her wedding if he was alive right now.
Whether you like it or not, we’re all still family.
Not to mention, I’d finally be able to go to that summer camp.
The one you would never let me attend. I deserve at least that much. ”
I watch her face closely, analyzing every muscle movement to determine how this conversation may go. I swear I can see a twinkle of sadness shining through. This is the moment. I take a deep breath.
“Also, attending this wedding will be a great way to show the family how well we’re doing.
I mean, look at you.” I use my fork to point at her outfit.
“You look amazing. And that Prada bag? Don’t you want the family to know you’ve made it?
Rosita? Nosy Maritza, who would definitely tell the rest of the extended family.
Alessandro? They’d all be very impressed with us.
We have a thriving restaurant. And then I could make them feel bad for never coming to Papi’s funeral.
They will see you in a different light. No more ‘poor Valdes family.’ Don’t you think we deserve this?
And I won’t even bring up the business plan. They don’t have to know.”
I can’t believe I just lied so much to my mother. I’m using her worst trait against her for my own personal gain. I’m literally a monster. I’ll have to add this to my “things to talk to my therapist about” list.
“Claro, mija,” she says softly, digesting every word I say.
I can almost see the gears turning in her head. Her face lights up more at the thought of doing something petty against my aunt than letting me go because I want to.
“It’s for a whole week?” She groans. “How could a wedding be so long?”
I pick up my plate and walk to the garbage can to scrape off the last few grains of rice left behind. I open the fridge and take out the flan for dessert.
“Well, it’s a whole thing. The invitation is a bit vague, but it mentions a bridal brunch, the rehearsal dinner, a bridal shower—you know, wedding stuff.” I shrug, placing the plate in the sink.
“Well, who will watch the restaurant, then?”
How could she not even consider herself as an option to run it?
“Faye will,” I suddenly decide.
My skin tingles at the sirens blaring outside the window briefly. Probably the ambulance coming to take me to the morgue when my mother quickly realizes I’m lying to her about this whole idea.
“I can’t trust that jovencita to run my restaurant alone. So I’ll have to do it. Well, I’ll help them. I’ll supervise.”
Suddenly, I feel panic wash over me. It didn’t even occur until she offered to watch the place.
Giving up control of the restaurant for an entire week is not ideal in any situation for me, but especially in one where my mother may discover that the business is doing poorly, and I have been keeping it from her for an entire year.
I feel regretful about even bringing up this conversation.
I should have nipped it when Maria suggested it and forgotten about the wedding.
But I’m too deep in it now. There’s only one way to go.
Sofia knows I’m supposed to show up. Her fiancé is expecting to be wowed. And then there’s the book…
I haven’t even seen it yet—hell, it’s still locked—but I can’t help hoping that by the time the wedding rolls around, I’ll have it in my hands.
If I can just get it open, I could finally discover recipes I’ve never seen before.
It could be exactly what the restaurant needs.
Not to mention, Gabriel is waiting for the money.
I need this. I’m counting on it, even if I’m not entirely sure how it’ll all come together.
“No, Mami. Faye will run it. I’ll have them call me every day and leave her detailed to-do lists and procedures. You can stop by like usual, but she can handle it. So you don’t need to…do anything. Besides, you already do so much.” I can only hope I don’t sound suspicious in any way.
“Esta bien, mija. Fine. Go to the wedding and impress the hell out of them. Then take a photo of Rosita’s face when she finally realizes we’ve done it. We don’t need her. Then I’ll frame it and put it on my wall.”
“Great! So it’s settled then,” I say happily.
The letter throbs against my skin, reminding me of my second task.
After dinner, I help her clean up and put away the leftover food.
As she’s getting everything set up for me to take home, I excuse myself to the bathroom.
Walking toward the bathroom at the end of the hallway, as I do every time I visit my mother, I look at each family photo she has hung on the walls, trying to resurface memories of my father.
I stare at one of myself as a tiny baby being held by my mother and my father, who is hugging us both from behind.
Another one is of my parents at their wedding; my mother has a huge belly.
It reminds me of those typical shotgun weddings my Tía Maritza would gossip about.
My mother assured me it wasn’t one, though.
And I believed her—she’s not the type of person to plan something so scandalous and potentially damaging to her image.
I keep strolling down the aisle, gazing at every photo until I see the one I wish she’d just take down and burn.
“Mami, why do you keep this freaking photo up?” I grab it off the wall and show it to her. She squints her eyes, unbothered to come any closer.
“What do you mean, mija? It’s your quinceanera. Why wouldn’t I have it up?”
“Okay, but did you have to choose this photo?” I point to the image of me in an obnoxiously poofy blue dress with a huge rip down the front, layers of tulle spilling out and my big calves showing underneath.
My face is red and tear-streaked from crying, and I look as if I’ve just run a marathon.
How could she even think this was worth displaying?
Next to me are two other teenage girls. One is Sofia in her beautiful pink dress, looking absolutely ethereal.
Even her crown sparkles through the photograph.
On my other side is the culprit who mutilated my gaudy dress: Valentina Garcia.
Her eyes pierce through me still, sending a shock down my spine.
She shrugs, a smile creeping onto her face. “Because it’s real. You’re my daughter. Not everything has to be perfect.”
“Mami, I look ridiculous.”
“You look cute! And it was the only photo I was able to get before—”
“What? Before you and Rosita had this random fight in silence and I never saw them again? I still don’t know why you can’t just tell me the big secret. Your only daughter,” I reply coldly.
She doesn’t reply, but I didn’t expect her to.
As I approach the bathroom door, I hesitate for a moment. I look to my right and see my mother’s bedroom door slightly ajar. I look toward the kitchen, but she’s busy washing the dishes, her back completely turned away. This is my only chance. The last thing I need for the trip.
I slither into her bedroom, barely moving the door, and tiptoe toward her nightstand.
I quietly open each drawer and shuffle through—just a few painkillers and magazines.
I reach my hands in between the mattress and box spring and slide them to the end, then repeat on the other side.
Nothing. I head toward her dresser and begin rummaging through each drawer, making sure not to make it look like anything was moved.
I silently open her closet and start rifling through the boxes on the floor.
At the far back is a box labeled “Roberto’s.
” Bingo. I reach inside, shuffling through knickknacks, a pair of binoculars, and a few mystery books until I feel a leather-bound journal in my hand. I pull it out.
There it is. The book. The sacred book that houses all of my father’s secrets and recipes I can only vaguely remember the taste of. I reach into my pocket to pull out the letter.
You’ll find what you’re looking for in my journal. You have the key.
So this is it. I’m officially going to Sofia’s wedding.
I’m not sure if I will be able to pull this off, but there are a few things I need to do.
One, ensure my mother doesn’t discover the restaurant troubles or the missing book while I’m gone.
Two, I need to impress everyone, secure that investment, and save the restaurant.
And three, I must figure out what my father wants me to find in this book.