Never Too Real

by Carmen Rita

  She caught her reflection in a mirror at the top of the stairs. Two deep frown lines marked her brow. I don’t remember those, she noted. They were just like her mother’s. Ma had once been tempted to Botox them away but feared the possible side effects; besides, Luz’s father had said over-my-dead-body. But her mother had earned those crevices above her nose. She’d had a hard life before meeting Luz’s father. She’d lived five times more lives than Luz ever would. Those lines made sense.

  Now, seeing them on herself, Luz thought: Is it my turn, now? My time to earn those lines?

  “Can I have a glass of cab, please?” Cat leaned into the bar, fairly empty at five in the afternoon. Finding herself suddenly with too much time on her hands, no show to go to, no makeup room to run to, Cat had worked diligently to avoid being at a bar, any bar, at 5:00 p.m., but this was an essential exception. She was meeting up with the girls for some much-needed hermana support. The early hour had been Gabi’s request. Gabi wasn’t currently going out at night unless it was directly tied to her business. She’d said her little one was having trouble and she had to pick him up from daycare by 7:00 p.m., at the latest. Cat wondered if that was the whole story. Gabi was more than capable of handling things, but she’d been harder to reach than usual. It wasn’t like her.

  Ah. Cat took her first generous sip of wine. That’s so good, thought Cat. I could do this every day. But I won’t. Have to make sure I don’t. She was secretly pleased in that moment that her friends tended to operate on Latin Time when they met: L.T. Working in broadcast had trained Cat to live her life by the clock. Late was never a good thing, and even though she knew her posse was always half an hour late, she couldn’t break herself of her on-time habits. And now she was grateful to be alone, calming down a bit more with each pull of drink from her glass.

  “Oh, hey!” A tipsy, red-faced commuter in a suit and open tie called out to Cat from his bar table two yards away. He sat with a middle-aged blonde who, rather than being a fellow red face, was stone-faced. Cat saw him out of the corner of her eye and hesitated, sensing him as an “NF,” a not friendly. She couldn’t ignore him, though, lest he turn cranky and raise his volume. She looked at the bartender to make sure he was paying attention to this. He returned Cat’s look and gave her a nod: I got you, sister. Cat turned only her head toward the voice.

  “Yes?” Though she tried to give folks the benefit of the doubt, she’d had her share of stalker-crazies in the past, so her body was tight in apprehension.

  “Hey, aren’t you that girl with that show?”

  Oh no. He was a worse person than she’d thought. She should have been late, just this once.

  “Yeah, I am . . . that girl with that show,” Cat replied, her tone between possibly friendly and don’t-mess-with-me, smiling without her eyes.

  The bartender kept his eye on the tipsy guy while the rest of his body went about the business of cleaning and prepping the bar.

  “Yeah, good show. Good show.” The man raised his glass. His companion stayed quiet.

  “Thanks.” Cat turned her head back to the bar, gave him a small glass raise in return, and took another sip of wine, checking her phone with her other hand. Body language for “we’re done here.”

  It could be pleasant to be recognized, but it didn’t always turn out so well. Her first red flag was this guy’s happy-hour crimson face. The second and third flag were his shoes (ugly, but functional, trading-floor shoes) and his hair (ashy blond, tamped down with too much product). Cat recognized that he was likely not someone who lived in the city, around brown people, or liked things brown people liked, like immigration.

  “Ya know, do me a favor and tell that Joe guy with the other show that he’s an asshole.” The drunk paused to swallow. “He lost me a ton of money.”

  Cat didn’t respond but instead gave him a nod just like the bartender had given her: I hear ya, brother. She then thanked the stars for sending in a large group to sit down between them—just in time, preventing Dios knows what. Geez, where are my friends? Cat wondered.

  “You want another one?” The bartender gave her a feel-for-you face.

  “No, no, thanks. I’m good.” Cat craved another glass but knew she’d have to pace herself. It could be a long evening and she was much too thirsty and on edge.

  “Hey, chica.” Magda had snuck in behind Cat and now leaned in for a cheek-kiss hello.

  “Thank God you’re here. Freakin’ douchebag over there was giving me shit.” Cat gestured with her head. At the same time she also noted with envy how Magda never had bags with her. It seemed so freeing. No baggage.

  “The fat fuck. Want me to tell him off?” At nearly six feet, with a rich chip on her freckled shoulder, Magda feared no one.

  “No, no. Just . . . Anyway, how are you?” No television talk for Cat. Moving on.

  “How are you doing? You okay?”

  There was no getting away from talking about her show cancellation yet. Each of Cat’s friends had to check in and make sure their girl was going to be all right.

  “Ya know, life goes on,” Cat said, rather unconvincingly. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “You’ll do more than that. You’re a brown girl, for Pete’s sake! We’re in demand, chica.” Magda’s drink arrived quickly and she promptly sucked down half of it in one swig, ice clinking.

  Cat had filled in the gang via group text on the night of her last show. Her substitute set of sisters had pinged her back all night, back and forth, until they were assured Cat had exhausted any rage or despair that could move her to do anything that would bite her in the ass later.

  “Sorry, gals, I’m here!” Gabi shuffled in, loaded with bags, Cat noted. Including a handbag big enough for Mary Poppins—though stylish as all heck—plus what Gabi called her subway bag, a tote with extra shoes, books, magazines, water bottle, snacks, and whatever else she needed to get through the day. Cat felt exhausted just looking at it all. She loved Gabi, but anytime she felt torn and depressed about her lack of a husband and children, Gabi would bluster in loaded down, scrambling with her bags. It was a reality check.

  “Okay, where are we?” Gabi embraced her friends as they made room for her at the bar. “Oh, and wine list please!” She waved to the bartender eagerly.

  “Ay, Catalina-mía, how are you feeling?” Gabi patted Cat’s well-coiffed hand and bored in with her eyes of truth. Gabi could see through souls. She wouldn’t tell you that she could, or what she saw, but she always knew what was really going on behind your words. There was no sense in hiding anything. Though sometimes, she would reject or ignore what she saw. She knew she did that many times in her marriage.

  “I’m . . . I’m okay.” Cat’s eyes welled up as she reached for her near-empty glass. The bartender brought her another, plus a water, as he took Gabi’s drink order. He must recognize me, too, Cat thought. That’s the only time I get special service.

  “So, where’s your mind at? What’s your agent got cookin’?” Gabi the Fixer.

  “A few things, some pilots. But I can’t work for another six months—contract ban.” Cat paused. She’d never stopped working since she was at least twelve years old. This was a new way of living, life in a foreign land.

  “But you’re getting paid, right?” Money-balls Magda. “’Til your deal ends?”

  “Oh, sure. Gracias a Dios. And I have a couple of speeches coming up, so . . . that’s something.”

  “You have got to know that this is really the beginning of new things, new opportunity, right?” Gabi nudged.

  “Gabs, I know that, but right now it just sucks.”

  “Of course it sucks . . .” Magda chimed in. Sunniness not her strong point.

  The women were quiet for a moment. Gabi’s tendency to move quickly and forge ahead was inspirational but at times it came off as too instructional, so she stepped back a bit. Magda wasn’t onboard to let Cat mourn either. She knew how cutthroat the media business had become and she knew the power of timing, of keeping yourself always in
the game.

  “Look,” Magda said, “you’ve got one more day to feel sorry for yourself. And then you need to realize that you cannot take this personally. You are great at what you do. People love you. Some sucky execs don’t. But the streets are littered with on-air folks laid off in the past five years whose faces will never meet the gaze of a studio camera again. One day they’re in your kitchen every morning, the next day, they’re out. Right?”

  “Yeah, I mean, Karla was great in the mornings and I can’t even get a hold of her now.” Cat held back a tear. “I think she’s done . . . And she was great.”

  “Hon, you’ve got something, though, that others don’t—a niche, right?” Gabi had built herself up from a small client base, from her first book, to guest spots on TV, and then eventually a thriving speaking and consulting business. She knew branding and she knew niche. Cat had to admit that.

  “Yeah, but, and here’s the thing, I hate doing it. If I have to talk about a fucking loser company again . . .” Cat’s eyes stared at a knot of wood on the bar. She knew she was dropping a bomb on her friends. Cat herself hadn’t known this for sure until she articulated it—that she was worn out when it came to her main topic. As the words left her mouth, she felt there was no turning back. And it felt good, if very frightening.

  “Cat!” Gabi said. “Really? You hate covering business?”

  Cat nodded, her eyes down in a bit of shame.

  “Okay, well, that requires more thought,” Magda said as she chewed ice. She was on her second drink and it was barely six o’clock. “Have you told your agent yet?”

  “No, I mean, I’ve hinted . . . I suppose I have to.”

  “Have to? Listen, chica, if this is your happiness, head that way. But make sure you’re not just angry. This would be a big move, no?” Gabi took a levelheaded stance, then paused for Cat’s nod that she’d heard her. “Look, your bills are getting paid. Give yourself some time to figure out what’s next before you make a big jump.”

  Cat knew what she didn’t want to do, but she didn’t know what she wanted. She felt rudderless. And she could never swim that well. Cat had been the personification of purpose ever since grade school. But, without purpose, what was next? If she didn’t figure it out soon, she’d fall off the grid.

  “Hey, you—don’t forget to talk to Joe!” the red-faced interloper halfheartedly called out to Cat on his way out of the bar, pointing.

  “Yeah,” Cat responded. His blond companion looked over, eye daggers ready. Cat followed with a soft but snarky, “I’ll do that.” Taking a slug of water, she watched his back as the door closed behind him. Well, she thought, at least Joe still has a show.

  Chapter 8

  Magda’s oxblood designer loafers were propped on her desk, soles barely scuffed. As she reclined in her office chair, closed her eyes, and massaged her temples, she thought, Can I go one night without drinking? Just one.

  The door was closed, Magda’s office quiet. The loudest thing was the vanilla air spritzer, a few pfft-pffts to smoke out any lingering scents emanating off her from the night before. Magda didn’t like the quiet, didn’t like sitting, but she had little choice as her hangover was holding her hostage. Of course, there always was her favorite cure. The bottle stood at the ready in the bottom drawer of her desk, and a coffee mug rested next to her keyboard. When tempted, she’d tell herself, No, not at work. Okay, maybe. But not until 5:00 p.m.

  It was well before five.

  Magda was jostled by her cell phone’s ping, alerting her to a voice mail. She couldn’t bear to look, refusing to acknowledge the Siren song of the notification, grumbling instead at herself inside for forgetting to change her settings. Thirty seconds later, there was a knock at her door. The leader of this multimillion-dollar business straightened herself up, opened her eyes for the first time in several minutes, and popped a breath mint.

  “Come in,” she croaked. “Oh, hey, guys.”

  Magda loved her team. As the five young staffers entered, each offered a “Hey,” “Hi,” or “Buenas,” then sat in whatever chair was available, some on the floor. Though a sincere financial leader in venture capital, Magda’s firm was aligned more quasi with the casual hipness of west coast tech style—hoodies, kicks, and jeans—rather than the Brooks Brothers and Tory Burches of Wall Street. But unlike the typical west coast venture capital firm, which was lily white and completely male, Magda’s was led by a gay Latina with a colorful, gender-balanced staff. Diversity was her competitive advantage. Plus, she had a chip on her shoulder about straight white males like her father. They’ve ruled for too long, she thought. Our turn.

  “Troops! What’s up?”

  Her vice president, Ricardo Huang, a thirty-something curly-haired brown Jamaican brothah with a Chinese grandfather, began rattling off updates on their to-do list as some took notes quietly and others listened carefully, ready to chime in. Magda was a fun boss, a fair boss, but she demanded the best of them, just as she did of herself, at least professionally. Today, though, she struggled to focus. Magda’s thoughts kept wandering to her mother. It had been a month since her last visit and she was due for a drop-by soon. A tug of curiosity pulled as Magda remembered that she’d seemed different when they spoke yesterday, off. Magda couldn’t put her finger on it. She had sounded weak—tired. And how skinny she was lately. What was going on? Was she stressed? Was her dad having (another) affair? What—

  “Magda?”

  “Yeah?” She straightened.

  The only other blonde in the office stood at the door: her South African assistant, Lyra. “Um, it’s your dad?”

  “My dad?”

  “On the phone.” Lyra scrunched up her round, pink face. Magda checked her cell on top of her desk to see if he had tried her there. The voice mail was from another firm. No call or text from family. Weird.

  “Tell him I’m in a meeting and I’ll ring him back.”

  The room was full of wide, quiet eyes. Once she came out of the closet, living and identifying openly as a gay woman, Magda’s father had considered her essentially dead. There was no screaming row. It happened quickly and quietly, the way she suspected her father would get rid of anyone he wanted to get rid of.

  “Sorry, Magda, but he says it’s urgent.”

  Three months after her college graduation, Magda (still addressed as the more proper “Magdalena” by her family) came home to Miami following a mind-expanding backpacking tour of Europe—the usual wealthy-kid-finding-herself rite of passage. Unlike her compatriots from college, however, Magda went abroad not only to drink and sleep her way through Italy, France, and Spain, but to put enough miles between herself and her family so she could listen to herself, be herself. That meant a sultry affair with an older, wealthy, married Spanish woman who loved young ladies without shame. It also meant shedding femininity like old skin. Magda molted away her skirts, lipstick, and long hair. No more pretending to be what she wasn’t. Magda was gorgeous, but from now on she’d be her kind of gorgeous, which meant jeans and T-shirts with designer sneakers or loafers, and custom suits tailored to accent her figure in a more boyish way. And a floppy-front, under-buzz haircut that made her look like the lead singer of an eighties synth-pop band. Her signature move became flinging that blond flop of hair back, like Elvis, sending many women, straight and gay, into a swoon.

  After the trip, sauced and savored, Magda showed up at her childhood home in the middle of a Wednesday morning, looking much less a prodigal daughter than a son. Her siblings were off to college themselves or hanging out with friends before the start of the high school year. When Magda showed up unannounced, she could see through the windows only her mother was home, busying herself around the garden, household staff puttering on the sidelines, all busy. Magda had her hands full with bags, so rather than drop them and go for her key, she rang the front doorbell instead. The sun sat on the back of Magda’s neck, exposed by her new haircut, and it felt good, liberating and new. She’d missed the hot, tanning sun and humidity of home,
but not long hair. The door swung open.

  “Ay! Magdalena?!”

  Magda’s eyes struggled to adjust to the house’s dark interior to see who answered.

  “Oh, hola, Miranda!” Magda noted the open jaw and drained pallor on the housekeeper’s shocked face, but she just smiled and walked right in, straight through her stupor.

  “Holaaa . . .” Miranda managed to mumble. She was struggling to close the door and release the handle. This dear woman, whose own daughter the family had put through college as if she were one of their own, wasn’t surprised that Magda was gay. She’d walked in on Magda kissing a female friend when she was a teenager, and probably knew her inclinations even before then. Miranda didn’t need a diploma to know the truths of the people she had seen nearly every day for the past thirty years of her life. The people whose drawers she had to tidy up and papers she would pile neatly. What shocked Miranda was Magda’s physical transformation. She had hoped that as long as Magdalena remained feminine, the beauty queen, that no boats would rock, that there would be peace en la casa. She might even have done like Miranda’s friend Elena did back home: She married otro gay; then they did what they had to do to have two children together but kept their true lives and loves as secret as possible.

  But this. This look. Magda’s hair gone, her makeup gone, dressed like that. Oh no. Miranda watched her ward walk down the hall, even her walk now different. More confident.

  “Mama?” Magda called into the kitchen.

  “Ja, m’ija?”

  Magda plopped her bags onto the floor by the breakfast table and went into the refrigerator for something to drink. Her mother stomped the soil off her shoes and took off her gardening gloves as she entered the kitchen. In front of her was the backside of someone wearing a pair of hiking boots, partly covered by half-tucked cargo pants. The rest of the body of the person in her kitchen was behind the refrigerator door. She was confused.