Houston, We Have a Problema

by Gwendolyn Zepeda

“This means you’re healthy,” said Madame Hortensia. “But don’t forget regular checkups, okay?” Immediately, then, she turned over the fourth rune. It was a line bent into a forty-five-degree angle, like half an arrow. She squinted at the booklet again, then set it down and smiled at Jessica for a little while before speaking.

  “This one is very good. It’s for your future, and —”

  “Oh, wait,” Jessica interrupted. “Do you have a rune for family?”

  “What’s that?” Madame Hortensia’s voice was a little terse, as if she hadn’t appreciated being interrupted.

  “Family. See, I’ve been having some trouble with my sister and my parents. Well, actually, it’s more like my parents have been having trouble, and it’s affecting my sister and me.” Jessica thought over what she’d just said, then added, “Sort of.”

  “What sort of trouble are your parents having?” the fortune-teller asked.

  “They’ve been arguing. A lot.” As Jessica thought over how to explain it, she felt a weight on her chest. She realized that her parents’ issues were something that had been bothering her for a while now, even though she’d been trying to avoid thinking about them. “Madame Hortensia, I’m worried that they might . . .” She didn’t want to say it. She wouldn’t say the D-word.

  The old woman’s face softened, but she shook her head. “M’ija, if your parents are arguing, there might not be anything you can do about it. They are adults, so you have to let them work it out on their own. No one ever knows what’s really going on between a husband and wife except for the husband and wife themselves. I suggest you let them do what they have to do.”

  “Okay.” Jessica sighed unhappily. “What about my sister, then? She and I haven’t been so close lately, either.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because . . .” Jessica tried to come up with a succinct way to explain it. “Well, because she’s married, and she and my mother are always trying to make me feel like my life isn’t as good as my sister’s just because I’m not married, but I don’t want to get married, and I told her that, but I guess I said it in kind of a mean way, and now she won’t speak to me, and my mother’s mad.”

  Madame Hortensia looked into Jessica’s eyes for a moment. Then she said, “Maybe you should call your sister and demand that she apologize for purposely making you feel bad.”

  Jessica thought this over. “Well . . . it’s not like she purposely made me feel bad. Actually . . .” She gave an embarrassed cough. “Actually, I’m the one that needs to call and apologize to her. Really, she’s only been trying to make sure I have a good life. She can’t help it if her kind of life is the only good one she knows.”

  As she said this aloud, Jessica knew it was true. Underneath it all, Sabrina loved her. She never would have hurt Jessica’s feelings on purpose.

  “So, as I was saying, this rune is for your future, and it means intuition.”

  Jessica snapped to attention. Intuition for her future — what could that mean? she wondered.

  “Listen carefully, m’ija. This means that you have to follow your intuition if you want to be happy.”

  “Okay. How do I do that? I mean, how do I know what my intuition says, exactly?” Jessica kept talking, wanting to get her fortune straight for once and for all. “I mean, I think a lot of things and have a lot of feelings, but how do I know which one’s right?”

  “Shh, shh . . .” The old woman thought for a moment, then said, “You have to meditate.”

  “Meditate?” Jessica immediately imagined a soccer mom sitting in a yoga position with a cup of flavored instant coffee by her side.

  “That’s right. Not the way you’re thinking, m’ija. I mean you have to take some time alone and sit and think about your future. Imagine a future with the blond-haired man, and a future with the black-haired man. Imagine a future with the promotion, and then how your life might be without it. Then you will know what to do.”

  “Because I’ll receive a sign?” Jessica asked hopefully.

  “Uh . . . maybe. It might come in the form of a sign,” said Madame Hortensia. “But most likely, if you take my advice and really think about the paths in front of you, then you’ll decide on your own which one to take. It might take a while, but soon you will know. And in the meantime, you have to let things develop. Some things you can’t control.”

  Jessica didn’t know what she’d expected Madame Hortensia to say, but it wasn’t “Meditate and let things develop.” It would have been much more helpful to hear, Yes, Jonathan will be your husband someday, or, Go back to Guillermo because he’s learned his lesson.

  Or, at least, Yes, you’re getting the promotion, so go ahead and buy more suits.

  Let it develop. . . . That sounded like it was going to take a lot of time. Like planting seeds for flowers or waiting for a big file to download on a slow connection.

  “Madame Hortensia, I need more help than that. I need to know what I’m supposed to do. I need to know which man is the right one for me.” Jessica knew that her voice was getting annoyingly whiny, but she couldn’t stop. She really did need help.

  “Okay, okay,” said the old woman. “Calm down.” She got up and went through the beaded curtain. For what? Jessica suddenly remembered the good-luck medal lying at the bottom of her orange Fendi knockoff clutch. That didn’t seem to have helped at all. But maybe, she had to admit to herself, it was because that purse had been in her closet all week.

  Madame Hortensia came out with a plant this time. “Here, m’ija. This is ruda — a rue plant. It has many luck and healing properties. Do you have a teakettle at home?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s fine. Just having it in your house is good for you. It’s only six dollars, on special today. Do you want it?”

  “Sure. Why not?” Jessica gave her the money. “This doesn’t answer my question, though.”

  “Not right now it doesn’t, m’ija, but it’s good luck, and it’ll help you to see the answers. Just keep looking for them. And call your sister. And don’t come back unless you have an emergency, okay?”

  26

  The next day, Wednesday, Jessica put on another new suit. As Madame Hortensia had said, it was time to show Mr. Cochran that she was ready to be promoted. She put on the pale blue pants and jacket as though they were a suit of armor and she was ready for battle. Underneath, she wore her chocolate silk camisole with the blue lace. The matching leather mules with the blue satin trim had seemed like a good sign when she’d found them last week at Shoe City. It was time to see what they could do for her now.

  She pulled her best bag — the real Gucci she’d found on clearance after Christmas — and her laptop case over her shoulder. One last check in the mirror: She looked damn good if she did think so herself. Seriously — how could Mr. Cochran not see that she was the best person for the job?

  On her way to work, she hit nothing but green lights. Then, in the garage, she got a space right near the elevators. Then, right outside the elevator, there was a shiny new quarter lying on the freshly vacuumed carpet. She picked it up and dropped it into her bag.

  Not just a penny, but a whole quarter — it had to be a sign. She was going to talk to Mr. Cochran today, and the promotion was as good as hers.

  An hour later, she was sitting at her desk, working and looking awesome, when Ted dropped a legal pad on her desk and almost knocked over her latte. “Safety poster,” he muttered.

  Jessica’s flash of annoyance with Ted instantly evaporated. If there was anything about this job she enjoyed, it was designing safety posters. Instead of using the same template over and over, like everyone else, Jessica preferred to customize the posters for each client. Today’s was for Brox, an oil rig manufacturer.

  The first thing she did was pick out a good background picture of a flaming oil rig from her collection. She was laying out a palette of burnt orange, steel gray, and gas-flame blue when Mr. Cochran strolled in with his morning paper. Jessica followed him to his offic
e in order to take hold of her opportunity.

  “Mr. Cochran, do you have a minute?”

  He looked up from the papers in his briefcase, then closed it. “Uh . . . yes, Jessica. What do you need?”

  “I was wondering what was going on with the new broker position for our department.”

  He made a perturbed face. “How did you know about that?”

  Jessica frowned right back. Did he not remember their conversation from the week before? “I helped Olga with the posting. Remember, I asked you about it last week?”

  “Oh yes. That’s right.” Mr. Cochran seemed to have lost the conversational thread. He was already unfolding his Wall Street Journal.

  Jessica persisted. “So, I was wondering when you’ll be interviewing for the broker job. Because I’m planning to apply.”

  Mr. Cochran scratched his ear with his pen and peered at the wall behind her. “Okay. That’s great, Jessica. I’ll let you know.”

  Jessica wondered if she should casually mention her subscription to The Wall Street Journal now. No, she decided — there was no way to bring it up without sounding fake. “Okay. Well, I can’t wait. Thanks, Mr. Cochran.”

  “Close the door behind you.”

  That went well, she thought as she went back to her desk. Mr. Cochran didn’t seem very enthusiastic, but then he never did. She had let him know in no uncertain terms that she wanted the job. She was being persistent, and he was bound to appreciate that. She practically had the promotion in the bag, Jessica told herself.

  Later, at lunch, Marisol hugged her as they took their seats by the aquarium at Mai Lam. “Girl, you look awesome. So what’s been going on?”

  Over their Thai coffees, Jessica filled Marisol in on all her latest, including her dilemma over Guillermo’s art show. It turned out that Marisol had already heard about it through the nonprofit grapevine and had already assumed Jessica would be there.

  “I want to be there, but I don’t know if I should go,” said Jessica.

  “I don’t get what the problem is. If you want to see the show, why don’t you just go?” asked Marisol.

  “Because . . .” Jessica sighed. She didn’t know why it wasn’t obvious to Marisol. “I don’t want to end up sleeping with Guillermo again!”

  “Then don’t sleep with him.”

  Jessica shook her head and made herself a mental note. As soon as she had more time, she was going to find her friend a hot guy to get it on with. That way, Marisol would understand what she was going through. She tried to explain. “It’s not that easy. It’s like he has some power over me. I see him, and I can’t help but sleep with him.”

  Marisol shook her head. “I can’t wait to see this guy for myself. Too bad I can’t go to the show.”

  “Oh, that would be perfect!” Jessica exclaimed. “You could go with me and keep me out of danger.”

  “No, I can’t go. We’re taking my dad to the ranch for Father’s Day, remember? I’m leaving Friday night.”

  “Oh. That’s right.” Jessica sighed. She considered telling Marisol about the plant she’d bought from Madame Hortensia and asking what she thought. Marisol had actually been born in Mexico, so maybe she had some insider information on it, like a recipe or something.

  But sitting there in a well-lit restaurant in the middle of the day, Jessica suddenly realized how silly she would look, confessing to buying a magic plant. She sighed again. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Just go, but don’t let him see you there,” Marisol said with a slight eye roll. “Wear dark glasses or something. Just look, then leave.”

  “Oh, my gosh. That’s a good idea. No wonder you’re a social worker.”

  “Ha, ha. Seriously, Jessica — if it’s going to make you this nervous, just don’t go. Like you said, things are going well with Jonathan now, right? So forget about Guillermo. Let him find another woman to be his art groupie.”

  Jessica thought she had been more than just Guillermo’s “art groupie,” but she decided to let that comment slide for the moment. “Here’s the thing, Mari,” she said. “I never really told Guillermo I wasn’t going to see him anymore. He doesn’t even know I’m seeing someone else. As far as he knows, we’re just going through one of our regular spats, and I’ll forgive him the next time we’re together. That’s what always happens. He doesn’t realize yet that everything’s changed.”

  “So you’re going to his big show to tell him about Jonathan?” Marisol asked archly. “Are you going to dump him right in front of everyone?”

  “No. Of course not,” Jessica said. She stirred her vermicelli, trying to formulate her thoughts. “Actually, I don’t know what I’m going to do. Really, I shouldn’t tell him anything. Maybe he won’t even notice — he hasn’t even called me once since leaving the invitation at my door. There’ll probably be plenty of women at the show willing to take my place,” she mused. It wasn’t a happy thought.

  “So why go?” Marisol persisted.

  “Because . . . I don’t know. I just . . . I just can’t get him out of my head, you know? I want to move forward with Jonathan, but it’s like Guillermo won’t let me. I have to go to his show to tell him good-bye — even if I just tell him in my mind. You know? I need some kind of closure here.”

  Marisol nodded. “Okay, I get you.”

  Jessica smiled and reached over to pat her friend’s hand. It was good to have someone understand her, even if sometimes she could barely understand herself.

  27

  Luckily for Amber Chavez, Jessica had decided to forgive her. The singer, actress, and now model had secretly married her Labor Union of Love costar, Troy Grodin, the week before. Jessica had read it on the Internet and then bought Hola! magazine for the exclusive pictures of their wedding in Cabo San Lucas. It turned out that Amber Chavez wasn’t such a sellout after all. She had a new song out, and the lyrics went like this:

  I fly around the world

  With my diamonds and pearls

  But you know I’m still your homegirl!

  I love men in every color of the colorwheel,

  But you know I’m keeping it real!

  Jessica downloaded the single and couldn’t stop playing it. It had a really good beat. Plus, she liked the message. It was true — it didn’t matter who you hooked up with. It was possible to stay true to your culture, even if you dated someone from another. Amber Chavez had proved that, and Troy Grodin loved her for it. He may have been a crappy actor, but he was obviously an awesome guy. Just like, obviously, Jonathan was an awesome guy, even if he was different from Jessica.

  Also in her issue of Hola! magazine was a smoking hot picture of Amber Chavez’s ex, Enrique Salvaje, the Colombian ballad singer. After seeing that, Jessica decided to name her kitten after him, because they resembled each other around the eyes. She would call him Ricky for short.

  Friday at noon, Amber Chavez’s song pulsed from her car speakers as Jessica drove home for lunch to check on Ricky. When she got into her apartment, she was confronted by a horrific scene.

  On the living room carpet, in order, was her rue plant, knocked over; a clump of dirt from the plant’s pot; a bunch of its leaves, wet and mangled; and a tiny puddle of sticky green liquid. Then, Enrique Salvaje — the kitten, not the singer — fast asleep. At first Jessica thought he was dead. But, no, apparently he was just worn out from destroying and then puking up the rue plant.

  He woke up and slowly stretched while Jessica watched anxiously. He seemed fine, but she was still worried. She wanted to call Madame Hortensia but had the feeling the fortune-teller wouldn’t appreciate hearing from her without an appointment.

  There was one other person she could call — an expert on cats and plants both. Her mother. Jessica picked up her cell and called her mother’s work.

  “Hawthorne Elementary.”

  “Mami, it’s me.”

  “Jessica. What’s wrong?” Her mother’s voice was businesslike but concerned.

  “Mami, I have this kitten, and I h
ad this plant, and the kitten ate the plant and threw it up.” Jessica watched as Ricky tried to climb her leg, then started to sharpen his tiny claws on her hose.

  “What? Where’d you get a kitten?”

  “I just got him. A friend gave him to me.” Jessica bent and gently unhooked Ricky from her stocking. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “What kind of plant was it?” her mother asked.

  “Rude . . . ruda?”

  “Ruda. A rue plant,” her mother supplied. “Did he throw up all the leaves he ate?” Mami’s voice was calm now, as if this sort of thing happened all the time.

  Jessica checked the carpet again. “Yes, I think they’re all out.”

  “Well, he should be fine, then. Throw the rest of the plant out and get him some catnip instead. Does he look sick still? What color is he?”

  “He’s black. He looks okay now. He’s busy being bad, actually.” Jessica was glad they could bond, in a way, over Ricky, but she hoped her mother wouldn’t ask her any more. She didn’t want to go into details about how she’d gotten him. “So . . . how’ve y’all been doing, Mami?”

  Her mother lowered her voice. “Fine. I guess Sabrina told you what happened with your father and me. That was nothing. I just felt like going out, and Sabrina met me for dinner. I got home at ten and your father wasn’t even there, so I went to sleep. No big deal.”

  Jessica could tell, though, that her mother had some serious residual anger going on. She didn’t correct her mother’s assumption that she’d spoken to Sabrina. She wondered if she should take up for her father and relate some of the conversation she’d had with him that night. Then, remembering that Mami was at work, she decided against it. Really, she should just go see them both in person — and she would be seeing them in person, because this Sunday was Father’s Day. “So . . . are we still on for Sunday?” she asked tentatively.

  “Yes. We’ll see you at lunch. You’re still coming over to help me with the barbecue, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Jessica had almost forgotten about the whole thing. She didn’t even want to think about it now. All she could do was hope her parents would be in good moods and everything would come out okay.