But perfect days come with expiration dates. Right now, we’re stopping by her home before returning to Wakefield. I wish I can stop time and make this last longer.
After another half hour of driving, we arrive at her place. The wind slaps my skin as soon as I exit the car. I pull the flaps of my hat to keep my ears warmer, but I wanted a face mask instead to protect my nose and mouth from the chill.
My auntie lives along the Great Highway, which gets the brunt of the fog. This neighborhood is the coldest in the San Francisco Bay Area. I run towards her who is in front of her home searching for her house keys. She doesn’t shiver, and she maintains her cheeriness as if she’s on a tropical island instead of being blanketed by this dense mist. I rush inside as soon as she unlocks the door, leaving her to laugh at my expense.
When she turns on the light, I sink right into her mid-century leather couch, trapping my hands between my armpits for warmth. Auntie Helen heats the kettle for tea after turning on the heater and firing up the fireplace. As she busies herself, I glance around the parlor. My auntie is an architect which shows in the home’s commitment to modern decor, clean lines and geometric shapes. I love her home, and I cozy up to the sofa as the room reaches that perfect warm temperature.
“Sweetie!” She calls out from the kitchen. “Can you get me paper towels?”
“Ok.” I stand up and head downstairs.
My aunt’s basement doubles as her work office, where she draws up blueprints and works on her designs. Furnished with the same sophistication and sleek style, it’s the coolest room in the house.
As I descend the stairs, I search for a plastic bag of paper towels, and I find it in the corner. I beeline for it and grab four rolls so she doesn’t have to waste her time here for absorbent paper.
As I make my way back, something catches my eye. There’s a box on the enormous desk and beside it are photo albums. Curious, I head over to the table. I bet my aunt was perusing them but forgot to put them away.
The albums appear dusty. It’s a marvel seeing them now because with smartphones and social media, no one keeps physical copies of photographs anymore. I brush the dust with my fingers and smile when it shows a picture of her as a newborn. When I flip to the next page, I see more photos from infancy to her toddler years. There are even pictures of my mother as a smiling eight-year-old, holding her baby sister after she was born. I have never seen her in this light, and I wonder when her life became sour, making her the dragon version of this little girl.
I turn to another album, and this one holds memories of my aunt in her teen years. The vigor and energy showcased in these photos are consistent with how I’ve known her.
When I reach the last page, I see a curious image. A picture of her lying on a hospital bed, wearing a hospital gown. She carries something on her chest while looking up at the camera with tired eyes. Undoubtedly, she’s cradling a baby, and I’m wondering whose child she is holding. My aunt has no kids.
Then, my breath hitches as a thought enters my head. I gaze at the stairs, knowing she’s preparing snacks for us in the kitchen. I’ve just unearthed her secret and violated her privacy. A sudden sadness overcomes me at the idea that she may have had to give up motherhood, especially since she would have made an exceptional mom.
I slip my finger through the sleeve and take out the picture. I flip it around and sure enough, a handwritten date is inked on the blank white glossy paper.
“February 28, 2003,” I read out loud.
I furrow my brows. Something is wrong. My heart stops and my hand shakes as my brain registers the significant date. That’s my birthday. Suddenly, I’m fourteen again, staring at my mother’s sneering face.
I should’ve known you’d turn up the same way.
Lightheaded, I grip the edge of the table. The weight of this piece of paper crushes my lungs as if it’s a block of concrete on my chest. I can’t breathe, but I have to know the truth. I run up with the yellowed picture still in my hands.
When I land on top of the stairs, I hear my aunt whistling in the kitchen. I almost feel guilty for breaking her moment of happiness. She hears my footsteps and turns as she rests the tray of warm biscuits on the counter. “I’ve been waiting for those.”
I say nothing, making her pause. When she drops her gaze to my hands and sees no paper towels, her brows furrow. “What’s wrong? You don’t look well.”
She walks towards me, her palm lifting to touch my forehead, but I move away from her. She stops and her eyes widen.
“Who are you?” My voice shakes as I ask.
She knits her eyebrows further. “What are you asking, sweetie?”
I lift the picture up to her face so she can see it. “Who is this baby in your arms?”
She gasps. “Where did you get that?”
“What’s going on?” I ignore her question. “Tell me!”
Her mouth quivers, and her eyes pool with tears. “I was hoping you wouldn’t find out this way. I was planning to tell you when you turn eighteen…”
I shake my head. I reduce her voice to a mere echo as she confirms what I’m suspecting.
She continues. “I was only sixteen. And your grandparents wouldn’t allow me to keep you. They took you away from me and gave you to your mom, who already married your father. This was the perfect solution because my sister couldn’t bear a child, and they had to hide this scandal.”
I half listen because my mind only registers how cold this home has become despite the warmth coming from the fireplace. As my shock dissipates and my anger rises, I find my voice. “So you’re my actual mother.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “So sorry, honey.”
I face her, my eyes burning with rage. “For what? For leaving me with those monsters, who abandoned me in a mental institution at eight? Who controls me with fear and psychotropic meds? Who had me under house arrest so I wouldn’t end up like you? Pregnant at sixteen?”
I watch as she cries, but I have no pity for her. “Tell me what you’re sorry for. I was being abused in that home, but you never came and saved me.”
“Honey, I couldn’t…”
“Don’t,” I said, interrupting her. “For years, I had wished that you were my mother instead of that woman. But knowing what I know now, I’m not sure. If you had ever thought that I would embrace you and thank my lucky stars for this revelation, you’re mistaken. You are no better than my so-called parents. In fact, you are worse. How could a mother stomach watching her child being mistreated?”
This will hurt and sting her, but I can’t empathize. I want to escape, but again, I’m trapped. I can’t drive and have no car. It’s forty-four degrees outside and I will die from the chill if I wait at the bus stop. And I have no phone to call Julian. I stare at my aunt-turned-mother, who’s now coming closer to me, and I panic. I spin around and run up the stairs. Once I reach the guest room, I slam the door and lock it. I head to the corner and slump to the ground, putting my knees up against my chest. My arms wrap around them, and I cry. I sob in the darkness, feeling alone and lost as my most beloved aunt shattered my world with her betrayal.
Chapter 48
Julian
The pitter patter of raindrops mixes with the sound of Kanye West’s, “Only One.” I’m in my room on this rainy afternoon blaring it on my speaker. The track is a dedication to his daughter in the perspective of his deceased mother. It is a song about grieving, coping and healing — a fitting soundtrack to my current mood.
It’s five o’clock, and I’m sitting at my desk doing what feels natural to me — sketching. My mom brought it to my attention that she had noticed new pieces on the wall. I glance up and peer at Jo’s window, agreeing with my subconscious that she may be the reason for this inspiration. Fartface and Godzilla Breath are back.
A yawn breaks my concentration, and I rest. I only woke up three hours ago, and since then, I appeared once downstairs to eat a late lunch. But I only had an appetite for drawing today. I study my artwork and knit my brows.
This sketch needs to be perfect, but there’s a detail missing. I rub my neck to collect my thoughts until the memory that inspired this piece reminds me how to enhance it. My fingers loosen their grip on the graphite as I draw her eyes. I want to capture that gaze—that nuanced look she saved for that moment, gazing at the one she loved. Then my focus moves to her lips as I give the same detailed attention to her smile.
Minutes turn into hours, and I examine my work. I trace a finger along the outline of her face. Then, I scrawl on top of the page her name. Lexie. I grab a tack from my drawer and walk over to my wall. I pin it next to my other sketches, where I will memorialize her there forever.
As I return to my desk, I stare across my window. I’m disappointed to see that my friend is not home, though I’m aware that she’s spending the day with her aunt in San Francisco. On more than one occasion, I wanted to call her until I remember her phone is at the bottom of the river.
I lean back in my recliner and place my laced fingers behind my head for a good stretch. My weary muscles thank me, but my mind is somewhere else. As I right myself in my chair, I turn my attention again to Jo’s window. Nothing has changed, of course. The room remains dark and the curtains stay still. But I can’t help feeling that something is wrong. This past weekend I’ve found myself in tune with her. It’s as if this strange psychic connection we had is reborn.
I stand up and shimmy my shoulders to get that unease off me. I hope I’m mistaken, but my mind betrays me as I bite my fingernails. An idea enters my head, and I grab my phone, praying that I still have her number. I had it under, “Helen Joy’s Aunt.”
As I scroll through my contacts list, I whoop with joy when I see her digits. I waste no time and call her. To my surprise, she answers after one ring.
“I’m so glad you called,” she said.
My heart races as my instincts proved me right. “Ms.Madrigal, is everything ok?”
She pauses, and I hear her exhale. I worry, and I tap my feet with impatience. “Physically, she’s fine, but emotionally she’s not.”
I stand from my chair and get my car keys. “Can I see her?”
“Please do. I’ll text you my address.”
Within a second, my phone alerts me I have received a message. I take a deep breath to calm myself. I look one more time at her window and wonder what happened. After putting on my joggers and my hoodie, I set off for San Francisco.
***
Jo emerges from her aunt’s Victorian style home in a loose t-shirt and jeans. Her hair is unruly and her curly strands are sticking out of her ponytail. Head bowed and arms wrapped around herself, she looks gloomy and defeated. As she descends the stairs, she’s swallowed by the fog, and I remove my parka because she’s not dressed for this weather.
When I reach her, I wrap my jacket over her shoulders, but she doesn’t acknowledge me. It’s as if she didn’t even notice me. I place my hands on her arms and whisper to her. “I unlocked the car. Just go right in, Jo.”
She nods and continues to walk without a word. I turn to the doorway where Aunt Helen stands wrapped in a shawl and leaning against the frame. Her tear-stained face is undeniable, and I climb up the steps to talk to her. “What happened?”
She sobs and wipes her tears with a tissue. “Oh, Julian. It’s another skeleton in our broken closet. I’ll let her tell you when she’s ready.”
I glance at Jo, who sheltered herself inside my car but is staring into space. “What can I do to help?”
“Just be a good friend.” She squeezes my hand. “Her parents will return tomorrow, but I’ll be there tonight, so she’s not alone in that big house. I just want you to have a head start, so she’ll have distance from me.”
I nod and with a last goodbye, I leave her.
***
Inside the car, Jo stays mute, but she repositions herself and curls into a fetal position. She lays her head against the window as she blankets herself with my parka.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
She shakes her head and closes her eyes. But she squeezes my arm as reassurance. I shift, so I can take her offered hand and place it in mine. She doesn’t protest, even when I set our intertwined fingers on her hip, so I can hold her while I drive.
She stirs after a moment. “How did you know?”
“How did I know what?”
She repositions and tightens my jacket to cocoon herself. Finally, she speaks again. “That I needed you.”
I take a deep breath and tighten our clasped palms. “We’re each other’s lifeline, so I will always know when to find you.”
She nods with no reaction, as if this link between us is logical and defies rational explanation. After a few minutes, I hear her heavy breathing, signaling to me that she’s sound asleep.
Chapter 49
Josephine
A disembodied voice wakes me from my slumber, making me worry that Alexa never found her light. But she sounds gentle and perfect and a lot like Aunt Helen. I fight not to open my eyes and acknowledge her because I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.
She’s sitting on my bed, stroking my hair as I lay on my side. She knows I’m pretending to sleep, but she feigns ignorance and doesn’t pressure me to talk to her. In a few minutes, she’ll leave and my heart will break. But my hurt refuses to allow her to crawl back into my life. I am not prepared to face the betrayal, the lies and the emotion from accepting my direct biological link to her. Even now, I’m still not ready to acknowledge her as my mother.
She’s telling me something important, but I closed myself off so I can’t hear a single phrase. As I lay, I transport myself back to my aunt’s house when I laid on the ground, sobbing for hours. She was crying outside the room, begging me to let her enter. She, eventually, stopped but remained there, knocking on my door to check on me until Julian arrived to take me home. When I emerged, it was dark, and I found her sitting on the floor, red-rimmed and exhausted. I uttered no assurance as I pass her.
So here we are, with my aunt trying her best to salvage a severed relationship, while I’m here refusing to budge. Prior to this discovery, my story was terrible but predictable, and I’ve become a master navigator of my hellish bubble. After this shocking revelation, my bubble popped, leaving me defenseless because although my life hadn’t been ideal, it’s the only world I had ever known. The existential question of my identity rears its ugly head, so I am more confused than when I started.
Another twenty minutes pass before she stands and leave my side. But not before she leans over to give me a kiss on the temple. When the door clicks shut, signaling me she’s gone, I’m once again alone with my thoughts. Tears spill, and I curse at myself for allowing myself to cry. For a minute, I want to run after her and forgive her. But, alas, my pride gets in the way, so I stay put and glue myself to the mattress.
After ten more minutes of self-pity, I fall asleep until I’m awakened by a sound earlier than my alarm. When the noise stops, I open my eyes and sit up in bed. Hanging on the closet door is a pink cashmere sweater and a white pencil skirt. On my dresser, the red indicator light of my flat iron blinks.
My mother is back.
***
I shift in my seat as I adjust my tight skirt. After two weeks of wearing jeans and sweatshirts, my mother’s preppy outfits are even more uncomfortable. I peek at myself in the side-view mirror and frown at my straight hair pulled in a high ponytail. My doppelgänger, the stranger that occupied my body since I was fourteen, stares back at me.
I sneak a glance at my mom as she turns to our school’s street. She’s slimmer, and her undereye circles are visible even under layers of expensive makeup. As for my father, I haven’t seen him since he arrived. He was already resting in his bedroom by the time I emerged for breakfast. My mother doesn’t take to sharing news with me, and as usual she remains silent on the matter. Hence, the results of my father’s consultation stay a mystery to me. But considering my recent discovery that they are not my biological parents, I’ve
taken to the idea that they are mere strangers—nothing more than my legal custodians until I turn eighteen. I don’t care about their welfare any more than they care about mine. Now I know why they’ve been so detached with me.
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