Okay, for the time being, I accepted those good intentions. Right now, the priority was calming our pain.
And something that both scared and hurt me was going back to the house in Encino. The children needed clean clothes and a few other things, because the ceremony had been delayed. The bureaucracy involved in recovering my mother’s body was really dragging things out. It was all going so slowly. Dayanna accompanied me along with Johnny and Jenicka. The four of us drove to Encino for the first time since the incident. It was raining really hard that day and we all had lumps in our throats, not knowing what to say.
The tears started rolling down our cheeks as soon as we opened the front door. The mansion felt empty and cold. Nobody was laughing in the kitchen, nobody was singing in the living room, no one was shouting on the phone in the office. And my mother was watching us from the framed photographs that stood on the piano and hung from the walls.
In her bedroom, her bed was just as she had left it five days before: her pajamas off to one side, the sheets rumpled up and a book lying on the blanket. I threw myself on top of the pillows, and as I breathed in the scent of her perfume, I burst into tears.
It was the same bed where I would tell her all of my problems, and where she would console and advise me, all the while gently stroking my hair.
“God, this is not how I dreamed about returning to this house someday. No, not like this.” I protested, crying to the Lord.
On a chair next to the nightstand I saw one of her red dresses that she must have worn before leaving for Monterrey. I grabbed it and put it in a plastic Ziploc bag that I found in the kitchen.
“I’ll keep it forever,” I said to Dayanna. “I don’t want her scent to ever go away.”
With pain in my heart, we left that bedroom so filled with memories and began to gather up the shoes and clothing that Jenicka and Johnny would need. We also put a few pictures of my mother in a bag, and with that, we left. The emotions were too intense for us to stay there even a minute longer.
“Have you heard from Esteban, sister?” Dayanna asked as we rolled down the hill.
Esteban had called me the day of the accident. It was the first time we’d spoken directly since the whole mess began. We didn’t talk at all about the scandal. All our attention and all of our words were focused on my mother and the accident. He sounded so sad! I swear that Esteban still loved her, despite the fact that she had walked out of his life and publically humiliated him.
“Chiquis, I want to be there with you and the kids. I want to be there for you during all this,” he begged. I told him he should ask the rest of the family, because I was in no position to be making such decisions. Tío Juan and Grandma Rosa said yes, but Tía Rosie was against the idea.
Interestingly enough, the rest of my aunts and uncles bore him no ill will. Not even secretly. Like me, they all believed Esteban was a good husband and a good stepfather. That’s the only thing we saw. If he had been unfaithful, or anything else like that, none of us had ever seen it. God only knows, or perhaps my mother did, but she never showed us any concrete evidence.
But with everything that had happened recently, my tía Rosie was afraid that if we allowed him into the house in Lakewood, it would only generate more unwanted rumors. Esteban wouldn’t give up, though. He called me the night before the ceremony—which would be broadcast internationally on a number of different channels—and again he pleaded: he wanted to be there.
“No, Chiquis,” my aunt refused once again. “With so many cameras there, his presence would just be a distraction. Remember, the true purpose here is to honor your mother, to dedicate each and every moment to her.”
This time, my tía Rosie was quite right. Public relations and what people might say left Esteban excluded. Therefore, again, I ask for your forgiveness, Esteban, for not including your pain with that of the family.
The Celestial Graduation of Jenni Rivera took place on Wednesday, December 19. By then, they had recovered my mother. I won’t say “her remains,” as it was said in the media. I prefer to say “my mother.”
We also refused to call it a funeral or a memorial. Dolores Janney Rivera was always the best student. And one of her greatest dreams, which life wouldn’t allow her to achieve, was to graduate from a great university. Her three oldest children were also unable to give her that joy. So on that day, we decided to fulfill that dream. Now, we would see her graduate with the highest degree that can be earned in this world: the final diploma granted to us by God. Jenni Rivera would graduate from this life with honors.
That Wednesday, our favorite day of the week, we left the house in Lakewood at four in the morning to avoid the media and get to the Gibson Amphitheatre early. We left our cars in a nearby parking lot and got in an RV that would take us around the back, near the stage entrance. We had donuts, and we fixed our hair and made ourselves up for the big moment.
My poor Jacob! He, who had done our makeup on the most important days of our lives, was not there on that December morning to make us laugh and make us shine beautifully inside and out. The whole family will always remember those who were with my mother on that plane: from our dear Jacob, to Arturo Rivera, my mother’s friend and publicist, who helped turn her into a star in Mexico, to Jorge Sánchez, the stylist who pampered her like a goddess, to Mario Macías, her faithful attorney who handled a thousand and one tasks. That morning, while we waited, we prayed not only for my mother, but for all of them. We will never forget them, nor will we forget the pilots, Mr. Miguel Pérez and his young copilot, Alessandro Torres. We privately mourned them all, because they were my mother’s final companions, and they will forever be a part of our mourning.
After the final prayer had been uttered, it was time to walk out onto that tremendous stage. The Gibson was where my mother had grown to become a star in front of her adoring Los Angeles fans, her homies. And it was there that we all would bid farewell to her cocoon, her cocoon made from the finest wood, where our beautiful butterfly lay at rest. We refused to refer to it in any other way.
When the music began, I took a deep breath, squeezed Johnny and Jenicka’s hands tightly, and together we took our first few steps toward that beautiful cocoon at the front of that enormous stage, joining the rest of our family.
Immediately, the most tender and passionate applause I have ever heard in my life filled us with warmth and love. I couldn’t even cry. I was in something of a trance, like a zombie. As if there were a gentle drunkenness in my soul.
I won’t deny that, during the ceremony, I experienced a bit of embarrassment and a few moments of intense anxiety. There were a number of great artists sitting in the front row who blindly believed that I had betrayed my mother. I didn’t dare make eye contact with them. I could also make out Ferny among them and I couldn’t manage to look him in the face either. Sorry, Ferny. My nerves got the best of me.
When it came my turn to stand before the microphone and give my speech, I had to pull out a little slip of paper. The stress and fatigue prevented me from memorizing what I had written down. Once again, my mind was going crazy. Thousands of eyes are watching me, I said to myself. What are they thinking? That I’m a whore, a hypocrite? Some kind of slut? Oh God, all I wanted to do was focus on my mother, on her love, on her beautiful graduation filled with butterflies and applause, but it was so hard to do.
Right there, standing in front of the microphone, I heard my mother’s voice again, something that hadn’t happened since the previous week at my grandma’s house. “Be strong, Chiquis. Be strong, mija. Momma is here with you. Don’t worry. But don’t bitch out either. Don’t back down.” And just like that afternoon at the grand opening of my salon, when I had to face the cameras all by myself, I felt someone grab my hand. I don’t know if it was just my imagination, or if it was Johnny who was still latched on to me, but that hand helped me face the arena packed with thousands of fans on their feet, deeply emotional. What if someone shouts something rude? I asked myself. I felt that hand again, and all my fe
ars vanished. I spent the rest of the graduation ceremony with a sense of profound peace.
I’ll never forget the beautiful songs that Joan Sebastian and Ana Gabriel performed in honor of my mother. There could have been no better homage. Nor will I ever forget the words of Pepe Garza: “Jenni was perfect because of her imperfections.” I could understand that better than anyone. I loved my mother because I knew that beneath her mistakes was a unique and special human being, and that her love extended beyond the scope of this world.
Once the ceremony was over, the audience formed a long line leading up to her cocoon so that they could leave white roses for their Diva. I stepped aside to let them pass, when all of a sudden the women and girls began to call to me: “Chiquis, come, come over here,” and “Chiquis, come on, we want to give you a hug.”
It took me a second or two to realize that they were offering me their forgiveness. My heart was bursting with gratitude. Gratitude toward the thousands of fans who showed me their love instead of their hatred. They showed me their true greatness, and I humbly accepted the gift they gave me, which was just as generous as the roses they left for my mother.
And in that same instant, I forgave everyone for all the cruelties that had been written about me on Twitter, and for their having convicted me without knowing the full truth. He is forgiven. She is forgiven. I harbor no ill will toward anyone. And I hope they harbor none toward me. I love them all.
I want the world to know that Jenni’s fans gathered that morning to honor her, not to dishonor her memory with bitter looks. That they presented themselves just as they are: the best of the best. I will always be proud of them, and indebted to them for the rest of my life. I love you, J-Unit!
A few days after that lovely graduation ceremony, I had a dream about my mother. This dream was so real that when I woke up, my mind was reluctant to leave its state of trance.
We were all at the house in Encino. My mother entered the room, sat down next to me and wrapped her arms around me. She laughed, she chatted with everyone, but she wouldn’t leave my side. I don’t remember what we talked about; just that her body was permanently stuck to mine, and that we were both overflowing with joy.
You can chalk it up to craziness, or to my mind playing tricks on me as it searches desperately for an end to the pain of a daughter disowned, but that dream was just as real as life itself. Every once in a while, the things you want or hope for end up coming true in mysterious ways.
21.
PIECES OF MY HEART
Now, Chiquis, now, mija, we have to give her a proper burial.” My grandma was the one who was most insistent. She couldn’t bear the thought that six days after the great Celestial Graduation, my mother was still lying in a cold refrigerator inside her beautiful cocoon.
“Grandma, just give me two more days. I want to see the final results from Monterrey. We can’t rush this.”
It had already been two weeks since the terrible accident, and the fans and the media alike had only one question: When would the funeral be? While I, in my newly recovered role as the oldest child, took the baton and refused to bury her. “I want all of her,” I told my aunts and uncles time and again. I wasn’t about to lose any little bit of my mother, however unpleasant that may sound.
The authorities in Mexico warned us that a number of parts had yet to be identified, and that a second round of DNA tests was still pending. It sounds horrific, but I’m telling it like it was. It would be another week before the final exams were conducted on the multiple body parts of the passengers remaining at the morgue. The impact of the plane must have been like that of a wartime missile.
It was my tío Gus’s job to open the boxes as they arrived and put my mother into her cocoon with his own two hands. He was the bravest, and the one who had to swallow the most bitter of pills. I am eternally grateful to him. If it weren’t for Tío Gus, I never would have believed that our butterfly was actually in there.
And while Juan and Gus were in charge of the most difficult of preparations, my tío Lupe was in the studio, recording a song dedicated to my mother. This didn’t sit very well with either Juan or Gus. They couldn’t believe that during this time of pain, before my mother had even been buried, Lupe already had a song ready to mix and master, and was getting ready to relaunch his career.
In fact, to this day, that song that my tío Lupe was in such a rush to release still causes fights in our family.
“Okay, Chiquis, I just got the last shipment from Monterrey. Now it is time,” Tío Gus told me. “The waiting is killing us all.”
“No, tío. We have to run our own DNA test here. I’d never be able to sleep knowing that any other victims might be in here,” I begged, feeling that I was going crazy in my efforts to recover what, up until that point, had been the blood of my blood. “I wouldn’t feel right if we were to have someone other than my mother in this cocoon. It just wouldn’t be right!”
If there was something I inherited from my mother, it was her stubbornness, and this time I won. We postponed the private funeral, which had been planned for that Wednesday, December 26, without specifying the reasons.
Though this delay did provoke some morbid speculations by gossip columnists and other members of the tabloid media: that the Rivera family had postponed the funeral to gain publicity—that we were holding off on the burial so we could take my mother’s body back to Monterrey and hold another Celestial Graduation, after selling the broadcasting rights to Televisa for millions—yes, I heard all that nonsense, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Finally, after receiving the last bit of DNA analysis, everything had been confirmed, and we decided on a date of December 31. We wanted to say good-bye to my mother along with the year, so that every time we celebrated New Year’s Eve, we would be celebrating her. That would also give us the opportunity to begin 2013 with new goals and new energy, if we had any left.
We spent Christmas Day in Encino: the whole family was together there, though we didn’t exchange big gifts or throw a huge party. We just unwrapped the presents that my mother had already bought for my cousins and some of my aunts. She didn’t have time to finish her list, but I didn’t want the gifts she did buy to stay there, piled up in her closet. That night, when everyone had left, I slept on the sofa in the living room with Johnny and Jenicka. None of us were prepared to officially return to this enormous house so filled with memories.
Now, we would spend the year’s end at the burial site. We chose All Souls Mortuary in our beloved Long Beach. It couldn’t have been anywhere else. It’s the city where she was born, cried, laughed, fell down and got back up a thousand times over. It’s her city.
My desire was to have her cremated so that her heart would once again be in one piece, and we could bring her ashes home with us. But my mother had written that there would be no cremation, and that she wanted to be buried. I remember how she liked to joke around and tell us, “When I die, bury me upside down, so that the haters can keep on kissing my ass.” Ah, our Jenni . . . She was unique!
We decided that this ceremony—unlike her graduation—would be a very small and intimate event. No stars, no friends, no cameras and no flowers. Just parents, siblings, children and our closest relatives.
Well, we did add one more name to the list: Esteban Loaiza. My tío Juan managed to convince Tía Rosie that, since there would be no cameras, we’d be safe.
To our surprise, Esteban turned down our invitation. He was really upset with us, feeling that he’d been excluded during those two weeks of mourning. Besides, December 31 was his birthday, and it must have seemed in very bad taste to have chosen such a date to say good-bye to the woman he still loved.
And he was so right. Which is why, again, Esteban, I ask for your forgiveness on behalf of our family. So many mistakes were made when we were blinded by grief.
It was with much of that grief, on that cold winter morning in front of my mother’s cocoon, surrounded by only Rivera family members, that Tío Juan and Tío Lu
pe improvised two songs that truly came from the heart, since nobody had prepared anything formal to say. We all spoke a few words of farewell, or shared an anecdote or two as we saw fit, but that time there was no public and no applause. That moment was just between Jenni and us. No one else.
The mortuary allowed us to take turns picking up dirt from ground and placing it on top of the cocoon. But first, Tío Juan placed a bundle of handwritten letters inside that we had composed the night before, including messages of love, photographs and a ring that I gave her for her last birthday. It was a promise ring, with a precious emerald, that signified my commitment to always honoring her and being a better daughter.
And there we left my mother: covered by a blanket of flowers and butterflies. Now the one who feels incomplete is me, because I left an enormous piece of my heart there as well.
22.
DUST IN THE SOUL
Sister, I want to sleep in my own bed now,” Jenicka said after spending the last several nights on the giant couches facing the fireplace in the living room.
The three of us were still there, side by side, because Johnny and Jenicka didn’t want to be separated, even to go to sleep. Well, me too, but for other reasons. I was finding it really difficult to officially settle back into the house of the woman who ran me out of her life. Even though deep down in my heart, I knew that my mother no longer held any resentment against me, it still wasn’t easy to climb those stairs and go into my empty room or her bedroom, still filled with so many bittersweet memories.
“Don’t even think about it,” Jenicka said, as if reading my mind. “You’re staying right here. This is your house, Chiquis. It always has been. And you can’t leave us alone.”
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