Chapter 12

It wasn’t exactly a smooth introduction. The couple, who had my brother and me locked in bear hugs, rambled endlessly in Spanish assuming we understood every word. Even if I did speak the language, I doubted I would have been able to squeak a word into their nonstop chatter. All I deciphered was that they were our hosts Carmen and Miguel Mendez, our great aunt and great uncle.

Uncle Miguel was my dad’s father’s (my grandfather’s) brother. I had never met him before; actually, I had never even heard his name uttered before my dad brought up this trip. No one ever talked about our extended family in Puerto Rico, which was partly why I felt less connected to them than I did the casts of most reality TV shows. Frankly, I was surprised they even knew I existed; it’s not like any of them cared enough to attend my grandfather’s funeral. Puerto Rican relatives from up and down the East Coast paid their respects, but not a single resident of the island itself—not even his own sibling. I couldn’t imagine missing my brother’s funeral. Heck, I’d sell everything I owned to pay for a ticket to see him one last time—despite the fact that he was currently responsible for destroying my life.

I peered intently at my great aunt and great uncle. They didn’t seem like heartless people. Judging from the enormous grins on their faces (my uncle’s dimples looked exactly like my grandfather’s), they were genuinely excited to see us. Great Uncle Miguel even had tears in his eyes. And as I stared at him, standing on Utuado soil, I could almost feel my grandfather’s presence. I half expected to turn around and see his spirit standing behind us, like some scene from a hokey crime drama the moment after the victim’s killer has been brought to justice.

I wanted to tell my great uncle how much he resembled his brother, but I lacked the sufficient Spanish vocabulary to express the thought. It only took a few seconds to realize that neither my great aunt nor great uncle spoke any English. And for the third time since our plane touched down, I found myself wishing I had devoted more time to studying for my Spanish classes.

My great aunt Carmen, however, did not seem to notice a language barrier. She continued to babble in Spanish without pausing to catch the glazed expressions in our eyes. Her mouth was glued in a smile, revealing a set of yellowed teeth that looked as though they hadn’t spent much time at the dentist. Her long black locks were in need of a touch up (her gray roots were about an inch long) and they fell just to the top of her massive cleavage. Even I couldn’t help but stare at the enormity of her chest (a gene that apparently hadn’t been passed down to me).

Great uncle Miguel was about half her size—at least two inches shorter and about fifty pounds thinner. His nose was long and pointy at the tip, much like my father’s, and a full mane of cropped silver hair covered his head—quite impressive considering I had twentysomething male cousins who were only a few follicles shy of a cue ball. His yellow-and-blue floral button-down (I was tempted to call it a Hawaiian shirt, but being that we were in Puerto Rico I thought maybe it was a “Puerto Rican shirt”) was soaked with giant round sweat stains that I pretended not to notice.

Carmen, who still hadn’t let go of me, led me from the road toward her house by my biceps. I turned and saw Miguel guiding Vince in much the same manner, while Alonzo stood at the car unloading our bags from the trunk. (My big suitcase weighed more than I did and it had taken the three of us to load it into the trunk, so I had no idea how he was going to haul it out solo.) We hurried across their front lawn, and I noticed that the grass was brighter than it was back home. It matched the sea of emerald that had surrounded us on the drive.

We walked to the front door, and I could hear what sounded like a party inside. Numerous voices boomed above the sounds of salsa and clinking glasses. Aunt Carmen tugged the screen door open and dozens of eyes immediately shifted in our direction. Conversations ceased and all I could hear were the beats floating from the radio. I stepped inside, my pupils struggling to adjust to the dim light. It was early dusk, but no lights were on and I quickly guessed it was to keep the room cool. The house clearly wasn’t air-conditioned, which explained Miguel’s sopping shirt. The air was thick with the smell of spices and perspiration, and I could feel beads of liquid already forming on my forehead (whether I was sweating because of the temperature or my anxiety, I didn’t know).

“Um, hola,” I said meekly, flicking my hand in an embarrassed wave.

The crowd took a collective inhale before sputtering simultaneously and rushing toward me like the paparazzi to a diva. At least twenty strangers buzzed in my ear, hugging me and chatting nonstop. I twisted my neck and saw Vince engulfed in a similar spectacle. With so many different voices in such dense accents talking all at once, I couldn’t make out a single Spanish word they were saying other than “hola,” “chica” and what sounded like the name “Lilly.”

Confused and uncomfortable (I was never big on people touching me, not even ones I was related to), I tried to introduce myself.

“Hola. Me llamo Mariana,” I shouted.

But they still kept uttering “Lilly” repeatedly while stroking my hair and patting my face. I tried to squirm away, stretching my head back and raising my shoulders. I briefly caught a glimpse of Vince laughing hysterically. He was having a much less difficult time with their up-close-and-personal introductions. His face was beaming and his arms were spread wide like a king greeting his subjects. I could tell he was loving this.

“No, you don’t get it. My name’s Mariana. I’m not Lilly,” I stated as I tried to weasel free from the pack.

“Soy Mariana. Me llamo Mariana,” I repeated slowly, thumping my chest as they continued repeating “Lilly.”

“Vince, a little help here,” I called, turning toward my brother, who was still laughing and enjoying himself. “Who the hell is Lilly? They think I’m Lilly.”

Finally, the familiar sounds of English emerged from behind me.

“They’re not saying you are Lilly. They’re saying you look like Lilly,” said the young, feminine voice.

Everyone instantly hushed. I spun around and was face-to-face with my own reflection. Well, not really. But I was staring at a girl who could pass for my sister, if not my twin.

She was about my age and roughly the same height and weight. Her hair was the same shade of brownish red, her face was round and pale, her cheeks pronounced and covered in freckles, and her eyes small, almond-shaped and brown.

“Whoa,” I mumbled.

“I’m Lilly,” she explained, though I had already figured that out.