by Gaby Triana
“That’s a bit much, isn’t it?” I hurried to my room.
“Don’t get fresca with your mother,” Abuela said.
I cast my grandmother a tired look. I wasn’t getting fresh. They were overbearing, overprotective parents with no reason to treat me this way.
“Sorry to worry you,” I added. “No texting and driving. Isn’t that what you always say?” Trudging into my bedroom, I tossed my duffel bag onto the bed, as they followed me in.
Mom and Abuela jammed my doorway. “Explain,” Abuela demanded. “They called from the retreat and said that you left.”
So, this was about me leaving the retreat. For some reason, I found that easier to deal with than explaining my interest in the occult.
“Of course, they did,” I muttered. The trap was set. No matter what I said, did, or felt, it’d be wrong. I chose to play the fool. “I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.”
“Fine, ni fine,” Abuela scoffed. “Why did you leave the encuentro after I paid three hundred dollars for it?”
“Mami, really?” My mother shot Abuela a look.
I stood by my bed, checking the texts that had come in after my defection. “Is that what you’re worried about? Don’t worry, I’ll pay you back for it.”
“Pay me back,” she laughed. “With what job?”
“I’ll get one. I have all summer.”
My mother attempted to gain control of the situation. “Valentina, why on Earth would you leave? Father Willie said you just up and walked out, right before the presentation. They were going to name you a leader.”
“I know, Mom.”
“What’s going on?” Her eyebrows knitted together. I appreciated she wasn’t drilling me like she did other times whenever my grandmother stood directly behind her, puppeteering her with invisible strings.
“I didn’t want to be there. That’s all there is to it.” It felt liberating to say it so plainly.
“Is that how it is now with this generation?” Abuela asked. “You just leave a commitment when you’re not happy? This is what I was telling you,” she said to my mom. “No follow-through. After she promised Cuco that she’d lead the youth group.”
“No.” I glared at her. “I never wanted to make that promise. You made me tell him that.”
“He was dying!” Abuela said.
“I know he was dying, Abuela. It still wasn’t your promise to make. I should’ve made that decision, not you.”
“It’s what you always wanted.”
“When I was ten, maybe.”
“You loved him.”
“I did love him, but I never wanted to be a youth group leader. I only said that to make him feel proud of me. It’s what he wanted, what you wanted. Right, Mom?” I looked to the woman who should’ve been on my side here. Yet, all my life, she’d been a mediator between me and Abuela.
“Forget the promise for a second, both of you,” Mom interjected. “That’s not what this is about. What made you leave so abruptly? That’s not like you, Vale.”
“How do you know it’s not?”
“What?”
“How do you know it’s not like me?”
“Because I’ve known you eighteen years…”
“You knew Dad for how many? Yet didn’t really know him.” That might’ve been a low blow, but there it was. The whole world knew of their marital problems, why not say it aloud?
My mother sucked in a sharp breath and started pacing my room. “Is this a phase? This has to be a phase.”
“Yes, it’s called adulthood.”
Abuela stepped into the room disapprovingly, as though the very walls offended her.
“Sabe quien tiene la culpa, no?” she muttered to my mother.
“No, Mami, why don’t you tell me whose fault this is?” Mom leaned against my dresser, seething under the surface. “I suppose it’s my fault again?”
“Can you guys argue somewhere else? I need to be alone.” I sat cross-legged on my bed and took a good look around. I was never more hyperaware that my room was that of a child. I suddenly wanted to tear it all down.
“We’re not done with you,” Mom said, and my grandmother’s condemning scowl said it all. No matter what I did, I would never please her. Who could ever live up to the standards set on women by the Catholic Church? Especially women of my generation?
“El progenitor paterno,” Abuela said. “The paternal progenitor” meant my father in code-speak. “He strayed, you let him.”
“Me?” Mom clutched her chest. “You’re pinning him leaving on me?”
“You knew what he was doing, yet you said nothing.”
“You’re one to talk!” Mom blurted. “Where do you think I learned the subtle art of turning my cheek from my husband’s indiscretions?”
“That’s part of being married, hija.”
“That’s part of being abused. I told him to leave. I was angry. Weren’t you ever angry at Papi?”
“Your father never hurt me like that.”
I laughed inwardly. Mom laughed outwardly. “That you know of. 23 and Me didn’t exist in your time. Besides, you’re the queen of denial.”
I sank my head, stretching the back of my neck. These arguments erupted every so often, prompted by something I did or didn’t do right, but it was rarely about me.
“Your father was a model man,” Abuela insisted.
I glanced at Scary Mary, holding her rosary beads. Keeping secrets to prove my grandmother wrong. Something was up the day he wrapped the little lamp as a gift. I was sure of it every time I touched her.
My mother scoffed. “Your ignorance is baffling. Let me talk to my daughter or wait outside.” She turned to me and closed her eyes. “Vale, it’s okay if you didn’t want to stay at the retreat. I…I get it. It just would’ve been better to tell us beforehand.”
“There’s no talking to you guys. You do see that, don’t you? How am I supposed to tell you how I’m feeling when I’m being judged for every little thing I do?” It wasn’t just my grandmother either. My mother played an equal part by not setting limits in her own house.
When my father passed away four years ago, my grandparents came to live with us. That’s what Hispanic families do—they merge. Mom said it was bound to happen. We take care of our elderly. But Dad passed while they were separated, and it was too much for my mom to handle, so she invited her parents to stay with us earlier than planned. Because I needed more to deal with after my father’s death.
I played with the cross around my neck, the one he gave me for my 7th birthday. I immediately saw his handsome face in my mind’s eye.
Then, Abuelo died in May, and it became just us women. I hated the fact that we couldn’t seem to hold life together without men in it. I would’ve thought Abuelo’s death could’ve brought the end of stringency, but thanks to Abuela, the torture continued.
“Nobody is judging you,” Abuela said. Through her Cuban accent, it sounded like “djodjing.” “But you know who is? La vecina de al lado. Your neighbor, Alicia, has seen you outside doing whatever it is you do at night, practicing Santería, or whatever.”
“What?” I barked a laugh.
My mother raised her eyebrows. “You’re practicing Santería, Vale?”
“Mami, where would I even learn Santería in this Petri dish I’ve been raised in? Besides, Santería is a religion, and the truth, if you really want to know, is that I’m tired of religion. I love God, but religion can go screw itself.”
“Valentina!”
“Why would I jump from one to another?”
“Then what are you doing outside at night?” Abuela asked. “What are you doing in this room? With your cards and your candles? Don’t tell me you’re praying, because I know a lie when I hear one.”
My mother’s curious gaze held mine.
“It’s just tarot cards,” I explained. “She acts like I’m worshipping the Devil.”
“What do you do outside then?” Mom asked.
“I sit. Under the moon.
In nature. Listening to frogs and crickets. I burn a candle, a piece of wood, whatever. The point is I’m not doing anything wrong. It’s just meditation.”
“Like yoga?” Mom was genuinely trying to understand.
“No. I’ll explain later.”
“Everything you’re doing is wrong. Everything.” Abuela strolled up to my little bookcase and pulled out the square basket with all my stuff, my tarot cards, candles, crystals and palo santo. My bundle of sage, which to her probably looked like a thick-ass joint.
I jumped toward her, clamping my hands on the basket. “Stop, that’s mine.”
Abuela held up the sage. “Esto es brujería.”
“It is not witchcraft. It’s for clearing energy. Same thing during Mass when they ring a bell or burn incense. Same thing!” I implored my mother. “Why do you let her do this? You let her take control of everything. This is our house. Stop letting her talk to me this way.”
“Vale, I have the same concerns,” Mom explained. “I’m more than a little worried right now. I don’t even know what my own daughter is up to.”
“If I’m telling you I’m doing nothing wrong, I’m doing nothing wrong. If you’re scared of this,” I snatched the sage out of Abuela’s hand, “it’s because you don’t understand it.”
“I would understand it if you talked to me!”
“And I would talk to you if I could trust you!”
Her shocked expression was frozen on her face. For a year, I’d been wanting to talk to her, but she was unreachable. She was dealing with her own pain in her own bubble of silence. “You can talk to me,” she said quietly.
“I will. Soon. But right now, I need you to trust me.”
I grabbed my things, unzipped my duffel bag, and threw them inside. Flecks of ashy sage smudged against my fingertips. I couldn’t stay in this house another moment.
“I do trust you, hija,” Mom doubled-down, while Abuela continued to seethe, muttering under her breath about all the injustices I’d caused her by not being her paragon Catholic granddaughter.
“I still believe in God, I just…I don’t want to be in the youth group anymore. I want to learn what else is out there, decide what I believe in, instead of being forced to follow your beliefs. Do you understand?”
Abuela crossed herself then paced in the hallway. In Spanish, she told my mother, “You need to put that girl back on the path. This is not our way. Our way is through God, Our Father, Jesus, his Holy Son. Take control of this situation, hija, before you lose her.”
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here. I don’t have to follow your lifestyle, Abuelo’s lifestyle, or anybody’s. I’m not even convinced that Mom believes in it anymore. Mom?”
“Lifestyle?” Abuela said. “No, my darling, God is not a lifestyle. He is the center of your universe. Never forget that.”
“Of yours,” I replied.
It was never my mother who insisted we go to Mass, it was Abuela. It wasn’t Mom’s insistence I do my sacrament of Confirmation last year (late, because we were dealing with Dad’s departure)—it was my grandparents’ after they moved in, as if forcing me to check off all the boxes would save me.
Abuela left for the kitchen.
My mother was staring at me, conflict all over her face. Would she ever stand up for herself? Would she ever stand up for me?
I didn’t wait to hear whatever came next. I texted the only other sibling I had, my half-sister Macy. We’d learned about Macy when I was thirteen through 23 and Me. Five years older than me, Macy was the result of my parents’ first separation, the second one happening right after we learned about her, during which time my dad’s heart gave out while living alone.
At eighteen, Macy had decided to take the DNA test and found me and Dad living in Miami. She reached out. I would say the shitshow then began, but my parents’ marriage had already been a shitshow for a while. Macy had kept in touch with me all these years through social media. She always asked when I would come visit. She never had a sister before, but I always held back—because of Mom.
No holding back now. I asked if I could come visit her, to which she immediately replied with an emphatic—Yes! OMG!
“I’m leaving.” I grabbed my bag and shuffled past my mother.
“Where are you going?”
“To visit Macy in Yeehaw Springs.”
“But that’s six hours away,” Mom said, as though it were the other side of the world.
“So? I can’t stay here. You and Abuela need to hash it out. Macy has her own house and a job. I can stay with her while you decide who you’re going to be loyal to.”
My mother recoiled as though hit with a dart. “That’s not fair, Vale.”
“But it’s true.”
Mom’s eyes filled with glossy tears. Abuela had wandered into the kitchen, moving around pots and dishes, while muttering to herself.
“Let me give you money,” Mom said quietly.
I paused in the living room while she rummaged through her purse and opened her wallet. She gave me all the cash she had. “I’ll transfer into your account, too. Tell…” She couldn’t say Macy’s name. “Tell your sister I’m grateful.” And with that, she threw her arms around me and shuddered against my shoulder.
I rarely saw my mother cry. This probably felt similar to when she’d lost my father. I hated that, but still, I had to go. “I love you. It’s just for a little while. I’ll call you when I get there.”
“Drive carefully, hija.” She wept against my T-shirt, then pulled back and wiped her deep, soulful eyes. “Go before she notices.”
I nodded.
Slipping out the front door, I turned back to give her a weak smile. She nodded. Abuela stepped out of the kitchen. She caught sight of me leaving, her mouth open, questions at the ready, the answers to which were no concern of hers.
What is going on?
Why is she leaving again?
How can you let her go?
I could hear the interrogation now. My mother bravely closed the door. As I threw my bag into the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel, I heard my grandmother shouting at the top of her lungs.
My mother, done with restraining herself, screamed back, “ENOUGH!”
FOUR
My little starshine, sleep, oh, so tight
My little moonshine, dream with the night
When you awaken, Love you will be
My little sunshine Heaven gave me.
When Dad passed away, I started a habit of holding the little cross around my neck while I slept. Touching it made me think of him and the song he always sang before bedtime. When he was done, he’d kiss my forehead and “boop” my nose.
Now it was morning, and my dad’s voice faded, as sunlight streamed through slatted blinds. Horizontal lines glowed across pale gray walls onto a colorful geometric tapestry. The bed squeaked lightly when I shifted.
It took me a moment to place myself in the small, simple room—Macy’s house.
Last night, after the showdown with my grandmother and mother, I drove five-and-a-half hour north on the Turnpike. I’d never driven this far from home before, especially up a lonely, two-lane road. The whole time, I kept thinking how radical it felt to run away. In movies, it was normal for kids to go off on their own when they reached eighteen. Felt like real American life to me.
But as the only daughter in a religious, Cuban-American home, leaving had felt wrong, like I’d carried more than just a duffel bag into Macy’s house at 1 o’clock in the morning. It felt like I’d lugged in a boatload of guilt and betrayal, too. Luckily, Macy had welcomed me with open arms, after which she’d quickly excused herself, saying she had an all-nighter to work on, but we’d talk today when I woke up. I’d appreciated the space right from the start.
Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I checked the time—way past noon. No wonder my stomach was grumbling. I trudged across creaky old pine floors into the connecting bathroom. In the distance, summer thunder rumbled. I secretly hoped Mac
y had more work to do, so I could spend time alone. Thunderstorms plus solitude was a combo I didn’t get often.
I headed downstairs, careful not to touch the handrail. Didn’t want any intrusive thoughts at the moment, especially seeing this wasn’t my house. Macy’s home was cute, small, and quaint, with moving boxes in every room. Following the scent of fresh-brewed coffee, I found her in the kitchen standing against the counter, staring into her phone.
“Hey!” She looked up with a big smile.
In full daylight, I took her in. She was several shades darker than I was, which made me wonder what her mother looked like. Our dad was pretty fair with light eyes and hair. Hers was medium-brown and curly, up in a poofy ponytail. Her eyes were hazel green, which I knew because of her photos, not from the shy distance I was keeping.
“Hi, thanks for letting me stay. I don’t know what I was thinking being so bold to ask you like that.”
“What? No. Hey…” She put down her phone and walked up to me to hold my hands. I flinched but let her take them. Her warm, soft hands spoke of a nurturing spirit. Up close, it was like looking into Dad’s eyes. “It’s okay.”
I swallowed a lump and politely took back my hands.
“Listen,” she said. “I’m glad you asked. I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time. Okay?”
I bit my lip and nodded.
“Come on. You want coffee?”
“Sure.”
From the cupboard, she pulled a mug that said Failure is Not an Option and poured coffee, setting it on the kitchen table. “Black? Creamer? Sugar? I haven’t made breakfast yet. Didn’t know if you were the bacon and eggs type, or the avocado on toast type, or…”
“Anything is fine. I know this was last minute. I’m so grateful. I have money for you—for food, bills, and whatever else.” I felt like the few bucks in my wallet would never cover the kindness and generosity this girl I’d never met before in person had bestowed on me.
“Valentina…” She paused at the fridge door, looking at me with eyebrows raised. “Your money’s no good here. Don’t worry, I got you.”
“Thank you.” I took a seat at the table in the outdated kitchen and watched her pull out an assortment of yogurt, strawberries, coffee creamer, and sliced bread from the fridge. I bit back the urge to cry.