Chapter Fifteen Bianca
Chapter Fifteen
Bianca
The flight to New Orleans had been quiet.
Headphones in, sunglasses shielding her eyes although the cabin lights were dim, Bianca’s thoughts were heavy.
The news from her doctor still echoed in her thoughts—the cancer is back.
Touching down at Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport stirred something inside her.
It wasn’t just the cancer, but thoughts of deception that had haunted her for many years of her life.
She wondered if the cancer was the consequence of the betrayal she carried.
Bad karma always had a way of striking those who deserved it.
Her Lyft dropped her off in front of her abuelita’s old shotgun house in the Seventh Ward.
She still owned it but hadn’t lived in it for years.
The porch sagged slightly, and the bougainvillea along the fence bloomed fiercely.
Abuelita Josefina’s birds of paradise also thrived in the front yard.
Bianca stood on the steps for a few minutes before going inside.
The house was quiet. The staleness of being closed up hit her nose immediately.
She dropped her bag near the door, flipped on the ceramic lamp, and walked slowly to the kitchen.
Everything was exactly as she’d left it the last time she was there.
She made coffee the old way—the way Abuelita made it—percolator on the stove.
It was late for coffee, but she needed it.
The coffee on the plane hadn’t come close to satisfying her caffeine craving.
She sat at the table with her phone. She texted Remi: Landed.
I’ll call you later. Don’t worry the girls. I’m okay.
The lie came easily. She was far from being okay.
A few minutes later she was at her laptop, signed into her boutique’s system, catching up on orders for Chic Threads and scrolling through inventory reports.
She was trying to focus on anything that took her mind away from CT scans, lymph nodes, chemo, or the sobering tone of her oncologist’s voice.
The distraction didn’t last long—the silence of the house pressed in.
Her mind drifted to thoughts of Chic Threads.
It had been her one good thing. The thing that had given her so much pride, and forgiveness in a sense.
She only wished Abuelita could’ve seen it.
She’d have been so proud of the young girl who had given her so much grief.
The girl who was complicated and had trouble following her around everywhere she went like a dark shadow.
She had found herself in more bad situations than she could count.
But Chic Threads was a far cry from the Bianca that Abuelita knew.
The Bianca that Abuelita knew stayed woven in her grandmother’s prayers.
She still remembered the night the cops had pulled her and Lissette out of a stolen car on Elysian Fields.
She hadn’t even known it was stolen—just that Lissette said they had a ride.
She said her boyfriend had a new car, and Bianca didn’t ask questions.
The flashing red and blue lights, the cold metal cuffs pressed against her wrist, had her shaking.
She was sixteen. That night could’ve gone a thousand different ways, but Abuelita had shown up at the station, the colorful wrap covering her salt-and-pepper hair.
Rosary beads were strung from her neck like armor.
She didn’t say a word in the taxicab ride home, just held Bianca’s trembling hand in silence.
That silence, somehow, had said more than any lecture could have.
She was disappointed, yes, but she gave her grace. She always did.
Maybe it was because she felt sorry for her.
After Bianca’s parents walked away, leaving her in Abuelita’s capable hands, she had always been left to piece together her own sense of belonging.
And although Abuelita was passionate about their Cuban heritage, consistent and unwavering about passing it on to Bianca and Antonio, the lessons never fully sank in—not right away.
They were there always, but Bianca just chose to ignore them.
She preferred to do her own thing. She was trying to find her way, and always hoping to make sense of the ache that came from being left behind.
Her parents’ absence had made her vulnerable.
And that vulnerability had hardened into defiance.
It was the reason she was so secretive about things, why she carried them like a shield.
Because if she held them close enough, no one could take them away.
She had chosen to come here instead of her uptown home, to feel closer to Abuelita.
This house, tucked away in the older part of their New Orleans community, still carried the essence of her grandmother—her spirit still suspended in the creak of the floorboards, the faint smell of rose water and tobacco, the soft sound of old Spanish lullabies seemed to echo faintly in the quiet of the house.
Rosary beads were still looped over the bedpost in Abuelita’s room.
The curtains that she had sewn by hand still hung on the windows throughout the house.
The kitchen drawers were still lined with the same floral paper—hadn’t been replaced in decades.
She told herself that she might refurbish the house, but she couldn’t bring herself to erase Abuelita’s memory.
Even after her brother Antonio threatened to put it on the market, she’d somehow managed to keep him at bay, at least for now.
Bianca ran her fingers along the edge of the laminate counter-top, remembering the mornings she used to sit at this very spot, watching Abuelita brew coffee and warm sweet bread on the stove.
Back then life was simpler. Abuelita had been her anchor, the voice that reminded her she came from a family of strong, resilient women.
Now, Bianca needed to feel that strength again, to remember that she was stronger than she was feeling.
She had to remember who she was before the diagnosis, before the divorce, before the distance she now felt with Mila.
She lit a candle in the kitchen to rid the house of the staleness.
Later in the afternoon, she met Dr. St. James in her private office uptown. The woman greeted her with a gentle hand on her arm and warm eyes, and a kindness in her voice that Bianca needed. “I’ve reviewed your charts, Bianca. We have a few options, and they’re aggressive but promising.”
Bianca nodded slowly. “What’s the best one? I don’t care how hard it is.”
“I say we start with chemo and see how that works. After that we’ll try radiation.”
“Okay,” Bianca said softly.
“We’ll schedule a port placement and get your first round of treatment started as early as next week. Will that work for you?”
“Yes, I’ll be here next week to begin treatment.”
“Good. Let’s kick butt.” This time Dr. St. James gave her a smile. One that eased her fears, gave her a little bit of hope.
Walking out of the office, though, Bianca felt detached, like she was watching someone else’s life unfold.
She pulled out her phone again and there were no messages from Remi—not a single one.
She hadn’t expected to hear from Mila, but she’d thought Remi would’ve replied to her text from last night.
Nothing. She started a text to Mila, then stopped.
Started one to Remi, deleted it. Instead, she typed: Two weeks, then I’m back.
Save me a glass of wine. She meant for it to be light, but just as she pressed Send, her throat tightened.
That night, Bianca stood on her abuelita’s porch with a glass of red wine she really didn’t want and watched the street become dark.
A neighbor’s music played faintly—zydeco.
Crickets buzzed in the night air. It was the kind of New Orleans night she remembered and loved growing up.
She and Remi would play hopscotch in the middle of the street in the summer until the streetlights came on, and then they would retreat to their separate houses, only to do it all again the next night.
And now, facing the fight of her life for the second time, she told herself she would love again—and this time she wouldn’t take that love for granted.
She’d dance again, but to a new rhythm. She’d laugh again, but more heartily.
It wasn’t over. She had so much more life to live.
She just needed to get through these next few weeks.