Damas, Dramas, and Ana Ruiz

by Belinda Acosta

  Ana wasn’t surprised when Carmen refused to go to school the next day. She told Diego he could stay home, too, but he didn’t want to.

  “Unless you need me here,” he said to his mother, as he was going out the door.

  “No, mi’jito. I think we’ll be fine.”

  Carmen wasn’t talking. She did not come out of her room most of the day, playing her power punk and pop CDs, the Sweethearts, Girl in a Coma, Piñata Protest, before moving on to los oldies, Blondie, Joan Jett, and the Go-Gos. Around noon, she turned to the hard stuff borrowed from her brother’s room: the Ramones, Black Flag, and some other raw nerve music that finally made Ana ask her daughter to listen with her headphones on. Carmen didn’t argue, but as soon as the music went silent, Ana worried about what was going through her daughter’s head. Maybe distance was best for now.

  Ana kept trying to track down a photographer and deal with all the last-minute details of the quinceañera. As planned, the girls showed up after school with their mothers carrying baskets and bins of hair rollers, brushes, lotions, and sprays.

  “Bianca told us to come here for the final fitting,” Alicia, or Mari, or Patti said.

  Ana sent them to Carmen’s room and tried to make small talk, offering the mothers iced tea, but they could all tell something was wrong. They were asking a thousand questions Ana didn’t care about: Panty hose or bare legs? Lipstick or lip gloss? Would the girls get to ride in the limo to the reception? Who would drive them back to their cars? Ana was relieved when Bianca showed up, and, just like always, she was happy to take charge.

  “Siéntate, Tía,” Bianca instructed. Ana sat on the couch with the other mothers. The girls came out, one after another, each more adorable than the previous. Even the cousin shaped like an apple looked sweet, a flounce at the hip helping to give her a waistline. Her fry-dyed mother clasped her hands to her heart. (“Ay! Qué chula!”) Bianca pulled out a pair of lacey, fingerless gloves for the apple-shaped girl, who was relieved that her swollen knuckles would be covered.

  “I got gloves for all of you, so you can match. If you want,” Bianca said.

  The girls looked at each other and decided they should all match. Bianca went about checking hems and bodices and clipping loose threads, after which the girls went off, each feeling confident that she looked as lovely as she felt. They were returning to Carmen’s room to change and get ready for the final rehearsal when a soft “ahh” came from Carmen’s room. When Ana finally saw her little girl she was astonished. What had happened to her baby girl? Unlike the others, Carmen’s dress was floor length but strapless, in a gleaming satin with a small shrug trimmed with a wide ruffle, which framed her face like a bud. When Ana got a good look at the dress, she noticed that the shrug was also white but was patterned with white-on-white tiger stripes!

  “Bianca! Where did you find this material?!” Ana gasped.

  “It wasn’t easy,” Bianca said. She began to corral the girls into cars so they could head to church and then to the reception hall for the final run-through. Diego had just shown up when the girls were being herded out.

  “Diego! Don’t be late for rehearsal!” Bianca called over the chatter. When the girls and their mothers and Bianca were all gone, it was just Diego, his sister, and Ana. The house was weirdly quiet. He set down his books and sat.

  “You look nice,” he said to his sister, who was looking at herself in the mirror they’d moved to the living area. She looked at him and smiled meekly.

  “Thanks.”

  “Carmen, let me make you a quick something before we go.”

  “Okay,” she said, and they all went into the kitchen. Ana began spreading some peanut butter and jelly on bread when the doorbell rang.

  Diego went to answer it, and when he returned to the kitchen Esteban was behind him. He was carrying his cowboy hat with a large plastic bag inside.

  “Buenas,” he said to Ana and Carmen, as if he were a guest in the house. Carmen’s mood brightened. She offered her father a seat at the table and asked if he wanted half of her sandwich.

  “Ay, mi’ja. Let me get a look at you.”

  Carmen twirled in her dress and Esteban was amazed at how lovely his little girl was. He looked at Ana, and for a brief moment of grace, they were on the same wavelength. They were both proud of their girl, while at the same time sad that she was no longer their baby but, soon enough, a young woman ready to go into the world.

  “I came by to give you this,” he said. Ana thought he was going to give her the necklace he showed her before, but he surprised her by pulling the plastic bag from his hat and handing it to his daughter. The bag was filled with water and three goldfish, happily swirling around.

  “I remembered you told me, so … I know this isn’t the time, but I wanted you to have them for your pond.”

  “Thank you, ’Apá,” Carmen said. She took the bag from him and set it on the table. “They’re cute, ’Apá!” Carmen could see that her father had something else to say. She took his rough hand and held it like she did when she was a little girl.

  “I wanted to do something because, I know the fish don’t have anything to do with the quinceañera, pero, I—I don’t think I can make it,” Esteban finally said.

  “Why not?” Diego said. He looked at his sister, expecting to see her break into tears or one of her tantrums, but she looked at her father dearly, as if there was nothing, nothing, that he could say that would turn her heart. “Why not?” he demanded again.

  “Shut up, D,” Carmen said. “’Apá, is there something else?”

  Esteban didn’t answer.

  “Why can’t you come?” Diego asked again. Esteban looked up at his son and then back down to the floor. “Well, then, will you tell us what happened yesterday?”

  “Diego, that’s enough,” Ana said.

  “We want to know,” Diego said.

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you, mi’jo,” Esteban said tightly.

  “We wish you would,” Diego said.

  Ana looked at Esteban.

  “Dígales,” Ana said. “Tell them something, if that’s what you came here for.”

  Esteban felt as if he were caked up to his neck in cement. He looked into his children’s faces, then out the window.

  “I am not proud … I’m not proud … some things I’ve done I am not proud of, but I am proud of you. You will always be my children but I …” He put on his cowboy hat and pulled it down near his eyes. Somehow, that made him better able to speak. Carmen sat down so she could look up into her father’s face. She looked like an angel, Ana thought. Her love for her father was still delicate and pure and unmarked.

  “It’s okay, ’Apá.”

  “Your mother is a good woman, and I want you to always respect her,” he continued. “Yesterday …” Esteban cleared his throat again and shifted his weight to the other leg. Inside he was screaming. He wanted to leave. It would have been easier to storm out, shouting obscenities, as if he had been wronged. That would have been easier. But he had decided it was right to stay and face his children.

  “I lost a baby. A girl. She wasn’t that far along. Maybe four months. There was trouble from the beginning.”

  Carmen stood up, looking as if her youth had been drained from her face. Esteban thought about going to her, but the idea of her pushing him away—ay, no!—he couldn’t take it. He continued talking, as Carmen moved to the window and stared out into the pond.

  “Besides you, I have another little girl named Carmela. She’s three.” Carmen felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach. Her face was lifeless. Ana was afraid she’d stopped breathing. Esteban took a deep breath and continued: “But the baby—the new one—we lost her yesterday.”

  “‘We’?” Carmen asked. “What do you mean ‘we’?”

  Esteban didn’t want to cry again. He couldn’t. He bit his lip and scratched his chin.

  “So, it’s not just us?” Carmen asked.

  Esteban shook his head and shifted to the ot
her leg.

  “Why?” she asked.

  Why? Why? There is no real answer to that question, but Carmen wanted to know. For the rest of her life, she would always want to know.

  “Why, ’Apá?” she asked louder. “Why?”

  “Perdóname, mi’jita. Perdóname, pero I have to go get ready to bury my baby girl.”

  Esteban turned to leave. There was no other sound in the house except for the dull thump of his boots striking the wood floor as he walked into the dining area, through the living area, and out the front door. Ana searched Carmen’s face for some sign of what was next. Carmen’s barren expression worried her. She went to her daughter and tentatively put her arms around her, and when Carmen sank into her arms, Ana felt a bittersweet pang. She wanted to spare her children this most bitter disappointment in someone they loved, but she had failed.

  “Mi’ja?” Ana whispered. “If you don’t want to have the quinceañera, we can cancel it.”

  “We can do it,” she said.

  “We don’t have to,” Ana said.

  “Yes, we do,” Carmen said. “Everybody is here, and Bianca and everybody went to a lot of trouble. It’s okay. Only I don’t want him there. I don’t ever want to see him again.” Carmen went to her room to change. Diego stood silently, and Ana turned to him.

  “Mi’jo?” She put her hand on his shoulder, but he turned away angrily and headed for the door.

  “Diego! Where are you going?” Ana asked frantically. But Diego didn’t answer her. She felt a knot forming in her temple. She wondered if she should have said more, or cried, or screamed, or tore at Esteban. She didn’t know anything, but when Carmen returned to the kitchen ready to leave, she knew she wanted to try and make the best of this very strange situation. She didn’t want Carmen to remember her fifteenth birthday for this. How she was going to make that happen, she didn’t know.

  Ana went through the quinceañera rehearsal in a daze, and she took no “I told you so” pleasure in telling her brother, Marcos, that he had been elevated from Padrino de vestidos to the father figure who would escort her daughter down the aisle of the church.

  For once, a sad “Ay, Esteban” was the most he could say, and that was good enough for Ana. She was too worried about where Diego had gone to argue with her brother. She wondered if continuing with the quinceañera was a good idea, if going through with it was right for Carmen, and if there was something she could have done to avoid the whole situation altogether.

  When they got home, Ana called everyone she could think of to see if they had seen Diego, including Sonia and her father—whom of course, she had already asked several times at the rehearsal. Sonia promised Ana that she would call her if she heard from him. Calls to Esteban and Diego went unanswered, and worry was beginning to choke her.

  It was midnight when Ana thought she should call the police. Thankfully, Diego called her first.

  “Where are you, mi’jo?” Ana asked, too relieved to be angry.

  “I drove around, and then I, um, I went and talked with ’Apá.”

  Ana didn’t bother asking what they talked about. She assumed it was one of those conversations that only men understand—with few words about the real reason pulling them together but bringing them to a place where they can at least respect one another. With fathers and sons, Ana decided, that strange, still dance had its own, special tempo, its own frequency that she could never hope to fully hear. Sometimes there are no words to substitute for the simple, healing act of sharing space.

  “You could have called me!” Ana said. “I’ve been freaking out!”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  “I’m leaving now,” Diego said.

  When Ana hung up the phone she heard Carmen get up and go into the bathroom. The sound of her daughter vomiting made her rush in.

  “Mi’ja! Ay, mi’ja!” Ana cried. Carmen’s face was red and swollen from crying. Her daughter was going to be the reigning princess of the day, but she still cried like a little girl, swallowing phlegm until it made her sick.

  “Really, Carmen, really. We don’t have to do it if you are not up to it.” Ana felt guilty. It had been her idea to have the quinceañera. Carmen didn’t want to do it, but Ana kept pushing for it. Bianca kept pushing for it. Carmen may have agreed out of her own sneaky reasons, but the idea of making her daughter go through with the quinceañera now made Ana feel like the worst mother on earth.

  “Carmen, I would understand if you don’t want to go through with it,” Ana said, her voice cracking. “Really, mi’ja. This day was supposed to be for you, and now it’s all …”

  Carmen finished spitting up and Ana rubbed her back and ran a shower for her as Carmen brushed her teeth. Ana made up her bed with fresh sheets. As Carmen showered, Ana wondered how loudly the tías y primas would howl when she called them first thing in the morning to tell them the quinceañera was off.

  When Carmen returned to her room wearing fresh pajamas and her hair wrapped in a towel, she sat on her bed next to her mother.

  “It’s okay, Carmen,” Ana said. “We don’t have to do it.”

  “I can do it. I have to do it.”

  “No, you don’t,” Ana said.

  “Yes, I do,” Carmen said. “I was trying to figure out why you didn’t say anything about all this before, why you let me think you had kicked ’Apá out, and how mean I was to you. I was so mean to you, ’Amá. I was so mean! All the things I said and did. I couldn’t figure out why you didn’t say anything.” Carmen looked at her mother, realizing the million little deaths Ana had suffered because of her. “You deserve a better daughter. I need to try. I need to be as good a daughter as you’ve been a mother.”

  Ana burst into tears. Diego had just come home, and when he saw the two of them sitting on Carmen’s bed, Ana crying and Carmen sitting there, he couldn’t believe it.

  “Damn it, Carmensa! What did you do? Why do you always need to be so—”

  “Leave her alone!” Ana cried, taking Carmen in her arms and Carmen embracing her back. “Leave her alone! Leave her alone! She didn’t do anything wrong!”

  Diego was perplexed. “Then, why are you crying?”

  Carmen was now in tears, too. She looked at her mother and they both exploded into laughter, sniffling and wiping their eyes, crying and laughing at the same time. Diego began to wonder if he should have stayed at his father’s house.

  “No, really,” he said, trying to be very serious. “What did you do?” His question only made them cry and laugh harder. Diego gave up.

  “I’m going to bed,” he said, leaving his mother and sister to continue whatever it was they were doing. He was exhausted. His mother and sister were punch-drunk, finally unburdened of the jagged emotions that had bent their spirits, twisted their smiles, and made them talk to each other with sharp words all these months. It took an hour for them to finally settle down and for the Ruiz house to finally fall into a peaceful silence.

  Diego left the house when the girls started showing up for their primping. He stayed long enough to see how pretty his Sonia was and asked Ana to take a picture of the two of them.

  “Let’s make sure to get another one from Mocte!” Ana said. She woke up in the middle of the night, thinking that Mocte might be able to help her with her photographer problem. She called him as soon as the sun came up.

  “I know this is ridiculously short notice, but do you know anyone who can help me?” Ana had asked.

  “Yes, miss. Me,” Mocte said. “’Member how I got those pictures ready for the Montalvo reception? If that’s good enough for you, I can do this for you.”

  Ana was drunk with relief. “Mocte, you rawk!”

  A crack baby, a ward of the state, a foster child, a huffer, a onetime street hustler, a born-again Christian, a Chicano activist, and a telemarketer. Now Moctezuma Valdez could add photographer to his biography. In a few short years, when he would have the first exhibit of his large-format photographs, Ana
Ruiz would be the first he would thank for helping him discover what he was meant to do with his life.

  Ana turned to look at the houseful of girls and their mothers preparing for the quinceañera. Beatriz came over with pan dulce, made coffee and juice, helped with traffic control, and was ready for any last-minute errands. When Ana told her what had happened with Esteban, she couldn’t believe it.

  “Wow,” Beatriz said. “Wow. Are you okay?”

  “I’m not the one who lost a child,” Ana said. “Carmen said she doesn’t want to see him ever again, but I don’t think that will last.”

  “So, what’s the status with the two of you?”

  “I think I’ve done all I can do,” Ana said. The two friends quietly drank their coffee as they watched the girls and their mothers get ready for the quinceañera. Ana knew most of the girls since they were children, and there was something thrilling and sad about watching them get ready. Ana’s fondest memories of Carmen and Bianca were when they were girls. If only they knew how much they would be giving up when they whined to her about how they couldn’t wait to grow up. There were good things about being a woman, but being a woman wasn’t about wearing high heels or getting to wear lipstick, or staying up past midnight, though that’s what she suspected most of these girls thought it meant. And it wasn’t just about the body changing and going through that transformation.

  “So, what do you think our ancestors were thinking when they started this ritual? What are we commemorating here?” Beatriz asked, as if reading her comadre’s mind. “The death of a girl or the birth of a woman?”

  “I don’t know about them, but I’m celebrating survival,” Ana said.

  “Tía?”

  Ana turned to see Bianca fully dressed and ready to go.

  “Ay, mi’ja! You look so pretty!”

  “Do you think you can handle things here? I want to go show my mom how I look.”

  “Of course,” Ana said. “But watch the time, eh? We’re not going to start without you.”

  When Bianca got to the facility where her mother was staying, Teresa was already dressed and waiting for her daughter near the window in the common room.