I sit on the third-floor landing of our building, waiting for my breath to slow. Though I’m getting bigger—finally—it’s still not hard to hide. Abuela’s size-twelve clothes make it easy. But I can’t run up five flights no more.
Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez were in the mail room, bundled up like there’s a blizzard outside. It’s like forty and sunny. But that’s old folks for you. Mr. Rodriguez was trying to get the mailbox open. His wife was hollering at him to hurry it on up. It’s a good thing they didn’t have the mail yet, ’cause she would’ve been hitting him with it otherwise.
I went to our box quick and checked it. Empty. I’m overdue for a letter from my papi. Way overdue. Last one I got was in summer. I slammed the door so hard, the Rodriguezes stopped their bickering and stared at me. Like I was the one about to take off my husband’s head with a holiday catalog. I huffed out and took the stairs. Wasn’t going to share an elevator with those locos.
I unzip my coat and tug the sweater away from my armpits. I climb the last two flights to our apartment. Someone’s cooking habichuelas. The smell of garlic and sizzling green peppers gets my tummy way too excited.
Abuela’s home when I get in. I’m counting another one of the baby’s kicks. He’s kicked twenty-two times since I left school. I don’t stop to think it’s way too early for Abuela to be off work. She and I have traded only single words since the hospital. Most ain’t been pretty. We been avoiding each other like we perros y gatos.
She’s sitting at the kitchen table. Gato is in her lap. She’s stroking him hard, the way he loves, flattening his ears to his neck. Toto’s boots aren’t at the door. He’s the one who’s usually here by now. My stomach flutters. But it’s not from baby kicks.
“Maribel, how you feel?”
My insides drop. Abuela hasn’t asked me that since she thought I had a healthy baby inside me back in September. Angelo joins in, kicking up a rhythm like a little Loso.
My bag slides off my back. It thunks to the floor. I want to grab my belly. But I don’t.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Abuela’s not looking at me. Gato’s purring like a leaf blower. “You have something you want to tell me?”
“No.” I turn to go to my room.
“Not so fast. Ven acá. Come.”
My fingers get all stiff. I don’t like being ordered around. Ignoring is one thing. But I’m not going back to the way things were when I first started living with her.
Gato pushes his face against Abuela’s hand. He’s angry she’s let off petting him. Abuela’s fingers are bare. Her rings are off. The mug that says Juan in a million that she only uses to soak her jewelry sits on the counter with a bottle of Tide. They’re in the spot Papi’s envelope usually is. I’ve got a letter written. Telling Papi about Angelo. I wrote it right after I changed my mind. When I got back from the hospital. I’ve been waiting for Abuela to put out the envelope. She hasn’t yet.
“What do you want?” I ask it through my teeth. I want to yell it. The memory of her telling me to get rid of my baby hangs like a half-bitten nail begging to be ripped off.
Abuela stands. Gato falls to the floor. He dashes away, runs over my foot.
“You have something to say?” Abuela’s voice gets louder with each word. She steps closer.
I go to move back. But I’m against the door. I want to hug my belly so bad.
“Really?” I say. I can’t help pour on a bit of sauce. My lip itches like mad. I rake my teeth against it.
Abuela comes in front of me. Grabs my sweater. Rips it upward, exposing me.
I expect her to scream. To stomp. To hit the wall. That’s what she usually does. But she doesn’t do any of that. She stares, her milky eyes searching mine. She makes a face like I’ve thrown dirty laundry water at her.
“What you done?” Her voice is a hiss.
“What have I done?” I’m screaming at her now. “I saved my baby—your nieto. That’s what I done!”
I grab my bag from my feet. I stomp to the bathroom to pee. I head to my room. It’s always a mess. But today it looks like a tropical storm hit it. Clothes from my dresser lie on the floor. Papers, the ones I was hiding in the bottom drawer, the ones from Doc, scatter across my bed. The letter to Papi sits on my nightstand. I bet she read that, too.
Quick, I grab up socks and underwear, the pants that still fit me, and three sweaters. I take Doc’s papers, shove them in my bag. I leave the letter to Papi. She can have it. I also leave one of Angelo’s pictures. I put it on my comforter, on top of the sand below the coconut tree. It’s the one where you can see his perfect nose and his little fingers, despite the huge crease down the middle. I have a copy. A perfect one. She can have the wrinkled one. I want her to remember what she wanted me to throw away.
I storm to the bathroom. I pee again. Now that she knows I’m pregnant, I don’t need to hide that from her anymore.
Abuela’s still standing in the hallway when I head to the front door. She doesn’t say anything. Her anger swirls like dead leaves, plastic bags, and Styrofoam coffee cups caught in a breeze on the city sidewalk. But mine, mine is hurricane-force wind that will rip off your roof, lift your boats and throw them football fields inland.
I don’t say anything either.
I shut the door behind me.