Never Too Real

by Carmen Rita

  “Ma?” Luz knocked gently on the door of her parents’ room, which her mother had left ajar.

  Sniff. “Yeah.”

  As Luz entered tentatively, her mother was dabbing another tissue at her runny nose. She sat on her bed, an aged and frayed cardboard box to one side of her and what looked like handwritten letters that she had seemed to be sifting through. Altagracia patted the bed on the spot next to her for her daughter to sit down. Luz did and then they were quiet for a while.

  “So. Dees are letters jor father, dis man downstairs, wrote to me when we were apart and I had gotten pregnant with ju.” She handed an envelope to Luz. Her mother’s name was written on the front, in what was unquestionably her father’s handwriting. It was so rare to see handwriting these days, to know your parents’ hand. Luz missed it.

  “Oh, how he loved me—well, he’s always loved me. But oh, dose days . . .”

  Luz smiled at her mother.

  She continued. “But it was hard, you know. Mama, Abuela, was so worried about me, but at the same time happy I broke up with dat moreno.”

  They both rolled their eyes.

  “Luz, amor. Ju know, dose days were hard. Dose times were hard. It was choose him and lose much of my family. But! But gain his family. Great family. An American family who really understood history and education.”

  “I know.” Luz felt her mother needed to be egged on a bit, supported. But she just had to ask: “So, no chance he’s really my pop, huh?”

  “Pffft.” Her mother waved a wet tissue. “Ay, mi linda, nooo . . . I wish, but not biologically.”

  She handed Luz a small sepia photo that looked like it had been taken in the ’30s or ’40s. It was of a striking, long-faced, very light-skinned man with nearly translucent eyes. Only the waves in his pomaded hair and his full lips hinted at his blackness.

  “Dis is your biological father’s father, tu abuelo. Tito.”

  Luz took the picture gently. Wow. Looking at members of your family for the first time was like discovering treasure. And not all treasures were equal. But every one had value, as each closed a gap in your knowledge, your legacy.

  “He’s so handsome,” Luz whispered. And he was. His shirt and tie and jacket were impeccable and looked expensive. His skin, glowing, even decades later. And those are my eyes, she thought.

  “Jes, well, he was a tailor in Santo Domingo. Always dressed so, so perfect.” Her mother sighed. “Ju know his son could have been just as amazing, but he chose another path.” She straightened herself a bit, preparing herself for the turn this conversation would now take.

  “Was he good when you met him?”

  “Good? Well, he had promise . . . and passion.” She wiped her nose. “But, your father, of course, came with much, much more that was good.”

  “Did he know about me? I mean, did he always know that I was his?”

  “Jes, he knew. De whole time.”

  Both cast their eyes down. Luz’s mother was choosing her words carefully.

  “He wanted me to haf an abortion.”

  “He did?” Luz croaked.

  “Jes, he did. But jor father just would no’ let dat happen.” She pointed to the sky for emphasis. “He said: ‘I will take care of her’—or ‘it,’ because, m’ija, at dat time we didn’t know—‘and I’ll raise it, I don’t care whose it is.’ So he did.”

  “Did you guys keep in touch? Did his family know?”

  “Who?” Her mother’s mind was still on Luz’s father, the selfless one downstairs.

  “The other one.”

  “Oh. Well, no. But once in a while I’d hear through Carlitos about him. It was too bad how his life turned out.” Carlitos was her mother’s cousin.

  “So, he has a daughter,” said Luz.

  “Jes. Chris told me. Well, actually my grandchildren told me!” Luz’s mother was smiling.

  “Yeah, well, they talk a lot.”

  “Jes like you.” She smiled.

  “So why am I doing this, Ma? Doesn’t she have any other family?”

  “Don’ ju think she has de best chance wit’ you?”

  “Well, yes, but . . .”

  Luz’s mother was mildly indignant now. “Dat is jor sister. No, dis did not turn out da’ way I’d like it, but listen . . .” Her mother took Luz’s right sleeve between her forefingers and thumb. “Da universe gave ju a gift—jor father gave ju a gift. To live, to be born. I could not haf done it without him. Ju wouldn’t be here without him. And now it’s jor turn. To give someone a new life.” She let go and went for another tissue. “Besides. We are family, and das what we do!”

  Luz sighed. Sure, she thought. We’re family. And now I have family in jail, and a teenager in my house!

  She kissed her mom on the cheek, gave her a big hug. One day she’d actually read these letters, but not now. She knew her father loved her. Now she had to figure out her relationship to this new “father,” this thug baby-daddy to this sullen, doorknocker-wearing teenager in her house. Granted, so far the kids thought she was the coolest thing since junk food.

  But what this conversation had made Luz realize was that she was on her own. Her mother saw only the father who raised her. The man she’d left behind was history. It would be up to Luz to deal with the knowledge that not only did she have a new father, she had a father who was a criminal, who contributed to the cultural stereotype that kept men like the man downstairs from being all they could be. Luz knew how the system of this country was set and primed to trap men of color—women, too—into roles that made the majority comfortable. She knew the odds were against people of pigment. But, with such a straight and narrow father, she also had a chip on her shoulder about the negativity of blaming the system. She, at essence, was a bootstrap girl and now she was coming face-to-face with a system that didn’t even give you the boots. You had to make them yourself, starting out far behind everyone else’s starting line. It would take time for her to see this.

  Right now, Luz mulled thoughts that felt selfish but bubbled up in her biased, high-society, privileged mind. If her biological father was in prison and nature/nurture is about 50/50, did that mean Luz was a thug, too? That she had these tendencies? Or was it like a contagion? And to think that she thought she was all that. Maybe she was a fraud now. She wasn’t really one of the Vineyard folk, just a Dominican chica from the ’hood. Her mother had married well. She’d raised Luz and her brother right. But dammit if Luz didn’t feel like decades of her life had been completely rewritten to include passed-over chapters and subplots like a choose-your-own-ending. Except she wasn’t the one doing the choosing.

  One realization rose to the top of the churning washing machine of her mind as she got up from her mother’s bed. “Yes, Ma. You’re right. We’re family.”

  Chapter 19

  The bathroom lights were dim. Magda was grateful for that. She might not be prissy, but she was still vain. She peered into the mirror, touching the swollen bags under her blue eyes, noting every incoming wrinkle. I look like shit. Someone knocked on the door.

  “In a minute!” She felt like hell, but she had to get out there.

  Magda steadied herself on the sink with both hands. She rolled her head around on her neck slowly, hoping to loosen the tightness radiating upward from her shoulders. Instead, it made her dizzy. She moaned. After two breaths with her eyes closed and head down, she ran the cold tap, wet her right hand and brought it up to her forehead and eyes. Just enough cold water to distract her from the other aches signaling to her from throughout her body. Maybe even the bags under her eyes would take a hike. She loomed close to the mirror again. No such luck.

  Mama. I’m so sorry. I miss you too much already.

  Walking back to the main aisle of the church, Magda passed several cousins, though none acknowledged her directly, their eyes flicking downward as they realized who she was. They were on her father’s side and, like him, they didn’t support Magda’s life “choices.” It’s not a choice, pendejos.

  Her
custom-made black suit fit more loosely than usual. Her mother had passed away just four weeks after her diagnosis, only making it home from the hospital for her last seven days. Magda had been staying in a hotel downtown, not eating, mostly drinking. She had managed to bring her children to see their Abuela early on, before she was too wasted away. Remaining in Miami while their mother, Albita, swung them between Los Angeles and New York for her own work, Magda missed her kids dearly. But she insisted that Ilsa and Nico not come to the funeral. They were too young and it was bad enough that she had to deal with her father and his family’s freeze-out, not to mention her cold-fish sisters. She didn’t want her children to experience it, too—experience the gutting pain of rejection not only from a parent, but from dozens of family members. And in some ways, Magda didn’t feel her family deserved to know them much. Maybe it was punishment. Beyond Abuela, her children had seen Magda’s sisters and their families maybe once a year—and not for want of trying. For their sake, Magda tried to stay in touch with their tías but there was little reciprocity. After a while you just got tired of all the stabbing, in the front, in the back. She was just so tired.

  Magda genuflected in the aisle, her Catholic school memories making the process of being in church again, after decades of absence, automatic. She sat down toward the back pews, though her true place was at front. Magda counted the heads of her siblings and their families as they settled in. As the priest droned on, waving incense over her mother’s coffin, Magda tried to recall all of her cousins’ names. She was batting maybe .200. Many of them she hadn’t seen since she was a child. Oh wow, she thought, Juan had gotten big. She allowed herself a chuckle as his toddler started bucking in his arms, bored and dressed in a miniature tux with a white flower in the lapel. The little one ripped out the flower and threw it at his mother’s head. Juan, a first cousin and a handsome, Euro-looking man, had thrown the family into a tizzy by marrying a dark-skinned Cuban doctor. She wore her hair natural, in a curly, trimmed ’fro that was now the setting for her son’s discarded flower. It looked better on her than it had on him. Lusting after her cousin’s wife was probably not a good idea in church, so Magda shook herself from her warm, forbidden feelings and resumed the game of identifying family by the backs of their heads.

  Hey, Tio Eduardo—tan viejo. Ha! Rosie made it. Mom loved her. Except for that time her dog left a giant poop on Mami’s plants. Dorita. Bruno. Who’s that? Looks like Elba. Haven’t seen her in a bit—oh snap. She grew a behind.

  Magda’s view was obstructed briefly. The woman who passed her pew was lean and regal, with blond highlights throughout her thick hair and barely any need for makeup. She must have been fifty years old, but Magda never failed to be stunned by how naturally beautiful her aunt was. Tia Cristina was her mother’s younger sister. She was rarely seen, as she’d moved across the country to Texas with her husband, whom many described as a violent control freak. Magda recalled meeting him once and remembered how sour he seemed. Like a bitter lemon candy was always in his mouth.

  Eyes turned to Tia Cristina, who was being helped by someone nearly as scandalous: her mother’s brother from another mother. Family folklore was that Magda’s maternal grandfather had had a mistress for decades who lived not too far from his home, and with whom he had a son and a daughter. Of course, few spoke of these siblings or their mother. But Magda recalled her mother talking years ago about Andres and Camilla, her family from another father. She mentioned it in such a nonchalant way, so matter-of-fact, that Magda didn’t dig further. But Tia Cristina maintained contact with them, and here was their half brother, Andres, who carried the same last name but never lived under the same roof. He was older, like Magda’s mother, with a stooped posture. But he was broad and held Tia’s arm for support.

  As gorgeous as it was, Tia Cristina’s face was contorted in despair. All she and Magda’s mother ever did was fight—they had barely spoken in years. And here she was. Making a grand display of her pain. Maybe you should have been around while she was alive, thought Magda. Maybe you wouldn’t be crying so much now, looking so ugly?

  Seemingly in answer to her thoughts, Tia Cristina looked behind her and caught Magda’s eye, her heavy lids communicating something. Magda couldn’t figure out if it was sympathy, or an F-you, or what. Whatever it was, she had succeeded in making Magda feel guilty for thinking such bad thoughts about her. Catholic guilt. Worked every time.

  “Ay, chica . . .” A figure dressed in black embraced Magda, surprising her, her face at chest level.

  “Oh, hey, Cat.” Magda returned the hug. “You didn’t have to—”

  “Oh no, no, of course I’m here. Luz and Gabi are on their way. Gabi coincidentally had a speaking gig in the city.”

  “But I thought Gabi had to get back to Maximo?”

  “For you, hon, she delayed her flight.”

  They both sighed, gratefully.

  “Now, scoot.” Cat motioned for Magda to move down the pew. They were three rows back from anyone in front of them. Magda thought about a “united front” and all, about moving closer, but she almost couldn’t take the rejection. Plus, her mother was the one who truly loved her and accepted her. She was there for her mother, not them.

  After Cat performed her rusty genuflection, she moved closer to Magda. They both looked straight ahead.

  “Well . . .” Cat said. “Looks beautiful.”

  “Huh?”

  “The coffin and the flowers, I mean.”

  “Oh, yeah. Looks nice.” Magda sniffed. No tears in front of this group.

  Still facing front, feigning respect for the service and listening to the dour singing, Cat noted, “They’re still not talking to you, huh?”

  “Not really.”

  “Magda. That just sucks. Sucks.”

  “Eh. Used to it, I guess.”

  Cat bent to find her hymnal.

  “Hey, gals, move over.” Luz wore snug pants of black sateen, pointy-toed kitten heels, and a silk sweater with a wide neckline. An ear cuff rounded out her funk. Luz skipped the genuflection. Gabi stood quietly behind her, still in her loud keynote speaking clothes, all bright orange in a sea of black and gray.

  “Hey, chicas.” Cat scootched and smooched her friends, then leaned back while Luz and Gabi each took turns to lean across her and hug Magda tight.

  “Thanks for coming, girls. Really,” said Magda.

  “Listen, I’m here for ya. God only knows how few of these people are. Shit,” Luz commented.

  Cat winced at her friend’s brashness but knew it rang of truth. That was why they were here. They knew that as powerful and rich as Magda was, she was poor in familial love and acceptance. And as much as she tried to hide it, it stung her deeply. Family was everything, not only to her, but to all of her friends. And though each of them had trouble with some family member or other, none had been frozen out so absolutely.

  Gabi ended up at the far end of the pew. She locked eyes with Magda, her former lover and dear friend, and mouthed, I love you.

  Magda returned a Thank you as they all attempted to face forward and listen to the service.

  “Listen,” Magda whispered to Luz, “I hope you don’t mind, but Gabi filled me in.”

  At mention of her own familial worries, Luz raised her dark brows. “Oh! Oh, that’s fine.”

  “Jesus.” Magda shook her head. “I lose family, you gain family . . . Fun, right?”

  Cat sat in the middle, absorbing it all. When Luz had called to tell each of them about her kids’ new “roomie,” everyone was incredibly surprised. Each of them had family secrets. The twin cousin with Down syndrome sent away to a home, never to be spoken of again. The other cousin who looked like no one else in the family. The aunt with the female friend she was a bit too close to. How a grandmother had really supported the family financially. And how one uncle supported three families.

  But Luz’s family had seemed such a picture-perfect, high-class model of success and joy that the revelation of a half sister from the �
�hood and a con as a real father—well, it threw everyone off, with maybe a pinch of schadenfreude.

  After the church service, Magda stood at the cemetery alongside her chosen family: Luz, Gabi, and Cat. Only the closest of family members remained. Magda found it bizarre that, of all the funerals she’d attended, this was her first cemetery visit, but now she realized why mourners avoided the part where someone you knew and loved gets put into the ground. She made a note to herself to call her lawyer and have him draft up a will addendum. Magda needed to be cremated. This was just too awful.

  Cat, knowing Magda’s mother only slightly, was visibly distraught. Though out of courtesy she made an effort to tamp her emotions down. After all, it wasn’t her mother. But Magda remembered when Cat’s dog had died. She was a mess. That’s what happened when you had no kids. Loneliness.

  As soon as she thought it, Magda scolded herself for judging someone who loved her enough to fly from New York to Miami. Then again, Cat was currently out of a job, but still getting paid through her contract, so she could be looking for something to fill her time. Or, she now had time.

  “How you doin’?” Luz checked in with Magda.

  “Good.” Magda didn’t take her eyes off the casket, now hovering over the pit in the ground. Slowly it began to descend. Magda noted some wailing from off to the right. Of course, she thought. Gotta be loud. Gotta make a show.

  “Oh geez. It’s your aunt.” Gabi tugged at Magda’s jacket sleeve and gestured at the small commotion.

  “Oh no,” Magda muttered.

  Tia Cristina was making her way to the hole in the ground, where the casket now was fully out of sight. Hunched over, bobbing as she sobbed, wailing and lurching, she was still strangely glamorous. But her aim was true and it seemed as if everyone watching reached the same conclusion at the same time—she was going to jump into her sister’s grave.

  “Ayyyyy,” her mother’s little sister wailed. “Ayyyyy!” It got louder.

  Her eyes not believing what they were seeing, Magda was frozen still. She then spotted Abuela Olga, a grandmother-in-law, ambling forward, closing in on her aunt. Abuela Olga was old-school. She was compact, short, wide and burly, her daywear usually a bata, the in-house robe-nightgown uniform of abuelas worldwide. But today she was dressed in her formal wear, a dark skirt suit with a flower pattern that enveloped her broad frame like gift wrapping on a box. Her brow set, she was as focused on Cristina as everyone else was, but she was the only one moving.