Chapter 37
I’ve had enough of my mother not talking to me.
In the four days since our fight, I’ve apologized a dozen times over text.
I would apologize via phone or in person, if she deigned to talk to me.
Was what I said untrue? No. Was it the right way to communicate a lifetime’s worth of resentment?
Also no. She had every right to leave and slam the door on her way out.
I would have done the same. But I’ve apologized and she’s still ignoring me.
I walk into the Meliá Caracas hotel like I own the place. My mother was briefly engaged to the owner forever ago. I got the room number from her husband, so I go straight up without stopping by the desk.
“It’s about time you two patch things up,” he told me in his thick French accent.
Luxury coats every corner of the lobby—soft lights reflect on perfectly polished marble floors; rich wooden details sprinkle the imperial staircase railings and baseboards; plants that seem to grow from the hotel itself adorn the hallways; bronze statues guard the entrance and its clear glass doors, framed with gold.
I considered the Meliá for the wedding too. Seems like it was lifetimes ago.
The elevator ride is short. I march down the hall toward my mother’s room, my steps muffled by the carpeted floors. The walls are lined with antique clocks, adding to the regal air that every room breathes.
My mother’s hotel room door is like every single door beside it, nothing special other than the occupant, but now that I’m in front of it, I can’t bring myself to knock.
Ever since I was a child, I looked up to her.
She was my hero. It was the two of us against the world.
She wasn’t perfect, but she showed how much she loved me. I never doubted that.
Come on, I think. Knock.
But the doorknob rattles before I have a chance to.
My heart races in my chest. I should have called first. Never mind that she’s not picking up my calls, I still should have tried.
I hate when people show up unannounced. Maybe she has plans with someone.
Maybe she’s running late to something. Maybe I’m making an already complicated day even more complicated by showing up. Maybe—
The door opens. There she is, wearing a bright pink suit with needle-point heels. Every bit the diva she’s always been, but her dark brown eyes—my eyes—are sad.
She blinks in surprise when she realizes it’s me but doesn’t shut the door in my face. Instead, she opens it wider.
My shoulders sag in relief. “Please, have lunch with me.”
We stare at each other for what feels like forever. All around us, the clocks are ticking, until she finally nods and steps out.
We don’t hug, but it’s a start.
—
“You’ll love the food,” Mamá says when the waiter leaves. The first words she’s said to me since she left her room. “It’s exquisite. I think I’ve put on ten kilos since I’ve been here.”
She’s speaking too fast, she’s too ready to fill the silence. I don’t doubt I’ll love the food, but unlike her, I can’t do small talk.
“Mamá.”
I pin her with a look. That one word has never sounded so heavy coming from me.
She shakes her head as if to say she’s not ready to talk. But then she sighs. “Okay. You said your piece. Would it be okay if I said mine?”
Though I’m expecting a long speech about how ungrateful I am, I nod.
She wouldn’t be wrong. However, when she begins to speak, she doesn’t look like someone who is about to bite off her only child’s head.
Her eyes are soft, not the stormy way they get when I make her angry.
Her features are relaxed. She’s serene, like the sea before daybreak.
“The things you said to me…” I brace myself, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of the tablecloth. “Were not wrong.”
My eyes snap up in surprise. Under the table my hands still.
My mother smiles, sadly. “Qué? You didn’t think I was capable of admitting when I’m wrong?”
“Historically, no,” I say, which makes her smile seem more genuine.
She shrugs. “Bueno, I didn’t love the way you expressed your feelings, but you were right. I wasn’t always there. You were always there when I needed you. You were more of a mom than I was.”
My eyes fill with tears at the admission. I’m suddenly twelve, thirteen, fourteen again, running after my mother, making sure she eats on time, making sure she takes her vitamins, and making sure she catches her flights. Taking care of her. Taking care of everything.
“And you were so good at that, I never stopped to wonder if it bothered you,” she continues.
“You seemed happy. I thought you were happy. I’m sorry, Marianto.
I missed so much of your childhood, and I am trying to make up for it now.
But you’re not a baby anymore, and you don’t need me to take care of you.
” Mamá swallows, then breathes in with a smile.
“You were so much better than me anyway. I was a desastre. Ask anyone.” She pauses, grimacing for emphasis.
“But I loved our little adventures. I loved having you on set, I loved watching you fall in love with entertainment. I loved that you seemed to be following in my footsteps.”
Her playful smile becomes sadder. I know what she’s thinking: I didn’t. I didn’t follow in her footsteps. I didn’t study acting, I didn’t go to the auditions she got for me, I didn’t do any of it. I resented it so much it made me run away.
“But you went your own way,” she says, her voice small.
“And I’ll be honest, it always felt like you were sticking it to me.
And when you started working at Ellas, and you had no problem being in front of a camera for them…
I suppose I felt that way even more. That might be the reason why I never…
supported you. The way I should have. I’m sorry about that too. ”
“I wasn’t,” I confess. “I love entertainment, I love art and the way it makes people feel. I just never felt the desire to be famous like you.”
“I know that now,” Mamá says. “And I know you love Caracas, and that is why you decided to stay. You wanted a quiet life, so you made one for yourself. I support it now. You’re living the life you intended to live.”
I’m not, I think, but I can’t admit it. Call it pride, call it cowardice.
Maybe it’s both. But I can’t bring myself to admit that the quiet life I always thought I wanted might not be the life I want anymore.
That, despite everything, I’ve missed our adventures, the chaos of it, of her and her world.
The airport reunions, discovering new places and cultures. I miss it.
“Do you forgive me?” Mamá asks.
More tears spill from my eyes. I hate that she even has to ask. “Of course I forgive you. Do you forgive me?”
Mamá gives her head a single, firm shake. “Nothing to forgive.”
We smile at each other across the table. I’m twelve, thirteen, fourteen again but for a different reason. A thousand restaurants, a thousand nights just like this one all over the country, then all over the world. Maybe more. Just the two of us and a restaurant table. Yes, not everything was bad.
But then she startles me by clapping. Once. Loudly. People turn to look at us. My mother doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” she says, “have you talked to Simón?”
Anxiety instantly flares at the mention of his name. I guess expecting her not to bring him up was a fool’s hope.
My silence must be answer enough because she gives me a reproaching look.
“Maria Antonieta.” I don’t say anything.
“Don’t tell me you would deny yourself the chance of love only because it doesn’t fit into your plan.
” I open my mouth to defend myself but she’s still talking.
“Was it something I did? It was, wasn’t it?
It was all the husbands. I traumatized you. ”
“Mamá, it’s not that,” I say, even though it’s a little bit that. “He’s…gone.”
Precious soul that he is, he was right about me needing time. He was right about the timing of it all. Anything we built surely would have crumbled.
“He’s coming back,” she says, like it’s so simple.
“Okay, fine. He comes back, we get together, and then what happens?” I say. “Do I move to Colombia? Do I drop everything and become his groupie? Do I devote my life to supporting my music-sensation boyfriend while he’s out there touring and living his dream? What about my dream?”
I can’t go back to curating my life so that it can fit into someone else’s.
I can’t go back to carrying all the weight, like I did with Alejandro.
I can’t be the one waiting by the phone, forcing myself to believe that his thing is so much bigger than my thing.
The same way he can’t go back to choosing between his love for someone and his love for his career.
Mamá frowns, shaking her head like I’m not making any sense. “Why do you have to do everything?” she asks. “What makes you think Simón won’t meet you halfway?”
“Experience!” I’ve always been the one to do everything, to sacrifice. Giving, giving, giving without getting even half as much in return.
My mother reaches over the table, grasping my hand between both of hers. “Ay, Marianto.” Pat, pat, pat. “Simón is different.”
“What makes you so sure?” I ask.
“For one, he already excels at something I was never really good at,” she says.
I huff. “And what’s that?”
She squeezes my hand tighter. “Taking care of you.”
The fight leaves my body all at once. I don’t realize I’m crying until my mother reaches out and catches a tear trailing down my cheek.
I remember Simón editing my list because he knew I was headed for failure.
He was constantly helping me, coming back to the office with me to sort through the scripts, sitting in the dark with me until I agreed to take the bed and give him the couch.
I remember him making me feel safe, pulling smiles out of me, getting angry on my behalf.
I think of him falling in love with me but refusing to start a relationship because he knew it would hurt both of us in the end.
He did take care of me. Around him, my mind could relax.
The waiter makes his way back to our table, now carrying our piping hot plates. I wipe the tears off my face before he reaches us. My mother pats my hand twice more.
“Think about it?” she says, sitting back against her chair. I nod. “The food really is amazing.”