Chapter 3
“W HAT DECADE WOULD YOU SAY DESCRIBES YOUR MOOD?” I glance up from the computer.
My mother’s face scrunches up and her body shifts from left to right. “My mood is my mood,” she responds finally, tired out.
“The twenties?” I suggest. “Or maybe the sixties?” She shakes her head, disgusted with these options. Like those decades personally wronged her.
“Right, we’ll come back to that one.” I check that there aren’t any pets beneath me and nudge the kitchen stool closer to the counter. I click on the arrow and the next question pops up on the screen. “Would you describe yourself as a sunrise or a sunset?” I’m filled with hope she’ll get into this one.
“What does that have to do with the windows?”
“This helps them get a sense of your personality, so they can put that into the design,” I explain.
“They should come meet me.” It’s Saturday morning and she isn’t going anywhere but Mom’s long black hair with its single patch of gray is freshly washed and blow-dried, and she’s wearing her favorite lace choker. The thin black one that makes her look like a lounge club singer.
“They will. But we need to do this first. I’d say you’re a sunrise.”
Her shoulders rise and fall as if to say, “Tomato, tomahto.”
Dejected, I click on “sunrise.” I considered filling this out on my own, but I really wanted her to get excited about the project. And less upset about me taking on another big expense for our house.
Last year it was the roof that needed replacing. I only have three payments left on that. Now we need to replace all the old windows with new storm-impact-proof ones.
Our roof guy recommended it. He said hurricane-force winds can break through windows and lift the entire roof off a house. I’ve had nightmares about it ever since. In my dreams, our house gets picked up by a tornado and dropped haphazardly in dangerous places. I wake up and our small, Spanish-style house is hanging precariously off the edge of a cliff, or in the middle of a busy airport runway.
I’m afraid we’re one hurricane season away from a “We’re not in Kansas anymore” situation. Still, my stomach constricts at the thought of the cost. I tap my thumbs nervously on the counter to try to drum away the anxious thoughts racing through my mind. Like how I sent the deposit check to the design team exactly one week ago. Before I heard about the potential layoffs. And before my “El Rico” debacle last night.
He’s completely knocked me off my game. What did he even mean about not wanting to make the album in Miami? I push the thought away and focus instead on my failure to get a single usable quote from him for the press release.
I should have stuck around for the performance, but I was desperate to get out of there. Had I stayed, I could have scoped out his Miami fans and asked them a few questions. Hearing what they had to say about René recording his first album could have been interesting. More interesting than what he gave me anyway. Which was nothing.
“Okay, this section helps them assess your ideal color palette.”
Mom grins and raises a single eyebrow. “I can do the curtains myself,” she offers.
I know what she’s trying to do. She’s trying to save me money, but I want to skip all that and get to the part where she’s excited to get something done right. What could be better than custom-made window treatments by the very people who are making the windows?
“Trust me, they’re really good at curtains and blinds.” And tearing down walls.
I haven’t told her about the biggest part of the project yet. She’s not happy about the windows or the curtains, so there’s no telling how she’ll react when she hears I’m having them replace the small window in the sunroom with a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall glass panel. It will brighten up the entire house and let the outside in. She’ll be able to enjoy her garden more. I’m sure she’s going to love it. I just want to make the house safer and nicer.
“I have no doubt you can do the curtains, Mom. But they’ll use an actual tape measure and not their arm,” I tease.
She humphs. “Don’t make fun. My arm is exactly one yard. Almost exactly.”
I let out a sigh, grateful an almost tense moment is over. Working together on anything for the house is such a delicate balancing act. I know she needs me to help with big things like this, but then she gets upset when I want to do them properly. When I hire actual professionals and not her friends. Or when I have the audacity to pull the proper permits.
Mom refills my coffee, then using a spoon, smacks large ice cubes in the palm of her hand until they resemble the crushed ice she knows I like but our old fridge quit making a while ago. She pours them into the glass and I smile. I want so much to make her happy, but sometimes it feels like an impossible task. She has no idea the amount of vendor research I’ve done or the fact that I’ve personally spoken to past clients for references.
“Okay, just a few more,” I say brightly, getting us back on track. “Where in your home do you first go to in the mornings?”
“The bathroom,” she teases.
I can’t help but laugh. “ After the bathroom.”
“To the sunroom, to feed Baby.”
“What about when we don’t have Baby?”
She purses her lips, not wanting to imagine a time when we won’t have the injured duck she took in a month ago. In addition to our full-timers—three dogs and two cats—Mom takes in fosters all the time. We’ll often have a litter of kittens in the tub so tiny, they don’t know how to pee yet. She’s up all night rubbing their bellies in a circular motion after they drink. And now we have a duck. I have many concerns about the duck. Wildlife violations and all that. But Mom was born in Cuba, and Cubans fix things. The crushing lack of resources forces you to be, well, resourceful. “Resolver” is Mom’s favorite word. One must resolve things for oneself. You don’t hire professionals, or buy tape measures, or call the city when a duck appears on your lawn with an injured leg. In her defense, the duck’s limp has gotten better.
I’m losing her. Mom’s light hazel eyes, almost green in the sunlight, are staring out the kitchen window. She doesn’t seem to age, my mom. In the living room, there’s a large black-and-white photograph I took of her for a college photography class. To me, she still looks exactly the same. In the picture, she’s holding a small cactus in each hand near her boobs, with the widest, most mischievous smile. Dad loved that picture, said I captured her essence.
“Do you like to entertain?” As soon as I’ve read it out loud, I try to read Mom’s face. I wonder if she’s gone where I have. To the memory of all the parties we used to have. To Dad and his band performing here near the kitchen. Moving the furniture in the living room against the walls and filling the house with salsa music. How he’d leave the band in the middle of a song to dance with her. Walking away from his shiny mustard-colored conga and abandoning his friends on the guiro , maracas , and the clave to fend for themselves.
I shove the memory away. Keep your face to the sun. Take the money and run. Just a little trick I do whenever I feel stuck or overwhelmed. I summon a catchphrase or a song lyric and move on with my life. Sometimes I make one up. Anything uplifting can become a mantra when you need it. Get on the bus, Gus. Chug along, little Suzie. Buy some new pants, Dan.
Some might call it avoidance and to those people I would say: When you’re going through hell, don’t pitch a tent. “Let’s just get to the next one.” I try to move things along. “Describe your idea of—” I stop myself. Describe your idea of a perfect date. There’s no need to go there. Mom hasn’t been on a date since Dad passed away six years ago. She rarely socializes at all.
Her mind seems to be fluttering around. I worry the questionnaire may actually be depressing her. “You know what, let’s just get to the best part.” I click past a series of questions.
Who doesn’t love before-and-afters? And there are some breathtaking ones on this site. I stop when I find what I’m looking for. A picture of a gloomy living room side by side with its transformation, a bright, gorgeous sun-drenched space. A small-windowed wall now has a floor-to-ceiling glass panel like the one we’re getting. I turn the laptop around with flair.
“ Ay ,” she winces, waving a hand in the air.
“You don’t even want to look at them?”
“It’s too much money. We shouldn’t do it.”
“I got this. I’ve already signed the contract, I told you. And sent the deposit.”
She looks me in the eye and gives me a weak smile. “Okay, okay.”
I feel the familiar jab of disappointment.
This shouldn’t be such a struggle. It’s clearly what’s best for the house. The place that’s morphed, grown, or shrunk depending on our needs. Like when Dad passed away, I turned the garage into an in-law suite we could rent out for extra income.
I can’t do anything about the decor, but I’m in charge of the finances and general upkeep.
Our house is pale pink, with a matching low perimeter wall that keeps the wild plants in. The yard is spotted with palms that are neglected yet somehow thriving. The grass grows in patches and there are pavers that don’t lead anywhere. Inside, there’s dark floral textured wallpaper, large comfortable couches, and a farmhouse dining table. The vibe is Copacabana meets Little House on the Prairie.
“They’re so talented, you’re going to love it. It’s going to be okay, Mom.”
I’ll just have to wait for the right moment to tell her about the extent of the project. For now, just making sure she doesn’t demand I cancel the entire thing is a win. Based on this bizarre questionnaire, I can see why she may not trust these people to pick out her curtain rods, let alone knock down a wall.