CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“I miss them so much.”
“READ US ANOTHER ONE, Aunt Lexi!”
An oomphh leaves me as Uncle Franco’s youngest spawn dives onto my belly like I’m a freaking mattress, while the others laugh like it’s the funniest thing.
I slam the book shut and roll her off me. “That’s it for the night, you little rascals. It’s past your bedtime.”
All five of them whine in protest, giving me sad faces. I don’t fall for it this time, though. I’ve been trying to get out of here for the past two hours, but each time they’d give me sad faces and puppy dog eyes I’d end up caving and staying for “ten more minutes” to play games or read them stories. The little rebels know it’s well past their bedtime and are using me—sucker that I am—to stay up late. Uncle Franco warned me they were tricksters, and I didn’t listen.
“Come now!” I clap my hands to get them into action. “Under the covers.”
Realizing that I’m now immune to their tricks, they begrudgingly do as they’re told.
“Now, close your eyes and say your prayers before I turn out the lights.”
Eyes squeezed shut, small hands clasp together, and an inharmonious chorus of whispers ensue.
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
Keep me safely through the night
And wake me up with morning light.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take
Amen.
I switch the lights off, close the door behind me, then pad down the hall. I find Mama in the kitchen pouring a cup of tea, wearing a frumpy nightie and with large rollers in her hair. I love her so much.
“Have they finally gone to sleep?” she asks me.
I snort. “I doubt it.”
“No escuchas,” she scolds me. “I don’t know why these little ones do not like to sleep.”
As a cacophony of noise from the adults drinking and gambling out on the veranda spills into the house, I arch an answering brow at her and grin. It’s almost midnight. “I think you’re the only person in this house who actually likes to sleep, Mama.”
On cue, a yawn pries her lips apart and she shakes her head. “And then they crawl around like caracoles in the daytime.” She dunks a teabag. “You never told me if we will have to go away when all the work starts?”
“No, Mama. I’m doing add-ons. There’ll be no knocking down of any walls or anything so your life will be disrupted as little as possible,” I tell her. “Things will, of course, be noisy and messy in the daytime, but you’ll be at the restaurant anyway, so all should be fine. Plus, I’ve put Uncle Lenny in charge of overseeing everything since this is his wheelhouse. You don’t need to worry about anything, Mama.”
I’ve decided to use the “reparation” money to build on three more rooms and two bathrooms to the house. The living situation here is just too crazy. Too many occupants for such a small space. And since it doesn’t seem as if anyone plans on leaving anytime soon—if ever—I’ve chosen to do it for the sake of the kids. We have the land space to accommodate the additions. The backyard will shrink to next to nothing, but something had to give.
“Okay, that is good.” Mama picks up her steaming mug and moves in to kiss my cheek. “Buenas noches, hija mía. Te quiero.”
As she shuffles out of the kitchen and down the hall, I grab a beer from the fridge and amble out to the veranda. Leaning against the wall, I take a swig of beer and watch the Mendez family drink, eat, play, and enjoy life.
The morning after my balcony moment with Trent, I woke up with a strong and aching urge to be around my family. Inexplicably, mind-bogglingly, I’d suddenly missed them in a way I never had before.
I told Trent I needed to be with them for a while and, without question, he drove me here.
My entire life, everyone in my family—except Mama—irritated me. That irritation then morphed into resentment when Mama got sick, and no one stepped up to the plate. Yet, somehow, the two weeks that I’ve been here with them so far has filled a hole in me that I had no idea was even there.
Only now do I understand why, as dependent, unambitious, and unreliable as these people are, Mama still keeps them around.
I still don’t like them, and I’m still chafed by them, but I do love them.
Taking another a swig of beer, I walk over to the dominoes table, pull out a chair, and join the game.
~
IT’S AROUND 2:00 A.M. when I pull myself away from the game table with a yawn and bid my family goodnight. It’s the weekend, so they’ll probably go all night, and I cannot keep up with them.
I cross the street to Monica’s. With five kiddies crammed in my old room, there’s zero space at the house for me aside from Mama’s bed, so Monica welcomed me into hers, as usual.
Letting myself inside with the key she gave me, I’m not expecting anyone to be up at this time, but a soft yellow glow spills into the entryway from the living room.
As I pad into the room and round the large family couch, Monica comes into view. She’s on the floor, her knees tucked under her, albums and loose photos scattered all around her. A large album is opened in her lap, her head down, a curtain of tight curls hiding her face.
“Monica?”
She must not have heard me come in because she jerks in surprise, her head snapping up.
And my heart falters at the rivulet of tears down her face, the clumping wetness of her lashes.
With quick hands, she tries to wipe them away. “Oh, hey, Lexi. I thought you’d gone up already.”
I clutch the keys in my hand and point dumbly in the direction of the front windows. “No, I was playing dominoes with the fam.”
She bites her lip and nods. “That’s good. That’s really good. Family is good.”
I go and kneel down beside her amidst all the open albums and loose photos. Wedding photos, baby photos, birthday parties, beach days… “Do you mind if I ask what’s wrong?”
With a jerky shake of her head, she brushes her fingers over one of the pictures in the album on her lap. It’s a picture of the entire immediate family: Her, Flavio, Tripp, Tillie, True, Trent, Torin, and…me. Torin’s arm is around my shoulders, and though it looks casual in the photo, I’m certain we were dating in secret here.
I don’t remember exactly when this photo was taken, but in it we are by the poolside in the backyard, all grinning happily.
“I just wish I could go back…into these moments,” Monica murmurs. “I miss them so much.”
Most mothers would be happy that their kids have grown up, moved out, and no longer needed them. But I’ve been around here long enough to understand who Monica is: She’s a nurturer. She lives to give of herself and thrives on being needed. Her family is her purpose.
With that knowledge, it would be a futile attempt to remind her that, with the exception of her beloved Flavio, she still has her family. If I do, she’ll tell me, “It’s not the same.” And I’ll understand what she means.
So, I reach down and flip to the next picture in the album, and together we look through them, all of them, reminiscing on memories that aren’t even mine.
~
MONICA FALLS ASLEEP on the couch while regaling me with stories of her boys when they were kiddies. I fetch a blanket from upstairs to cover her, then quietly gather up the albums and pack them away.
After, I take a warm bath and climb in bed, but have trouble falling asleep. Restless, I flip back the covers and pad out to the kitchen and make myself a cup of chamomile tea in the hopes that it’ll help.
Mug hot between my palms, I meander about the house as I sip chamomile, the heat warming me from the inside out. I’ve somehow found myself outside Trent’s old room.
I test the knob and discover it’s unlocked.
I let myself in.
It looks just as I remember it—Lakers posters all over the dark blue walls, a chest covered in basketball stickers at the foot of the bed, a desk and chair next to the window, a beanbag in the corner, and a basketball hoop on the far wall.
Though, it didn’t used to be as clean and tidy as it is right now. Because he’s no longer here, duh.
I drift over to his dresser, touching the items there. A globe map, a bobblehead Michael Jordan, and a framed picture of Monica and Flavio.
I squint when I notice something folded up and stuck into the lower corner of the dresser mirror. Setting the mug down, I pluck it out and unfold it.
It’s a picture of me. I couldn’t have been more than fifteen and I’m smiling cheekily with a finger to my bottom lip. It’s difficult to tell when or where it was taken because whoever else was in the picture with me has been cut out, the edges jagged and worn.
I flip it over and find scribblings on the back.
I love you.
I hate you.
I lied. I still love you.
But I really, really wish I could hate you.
Judging from pen point and ink, all four lines were written at different times. And my heart breaks for teenage Trent. To be in love with a stupid, oblivious, self-absorbed girl who looked him over and went straight for the older brother. That couldn’t have been easy for him to deal with or accept. Especially at an age where we barely understood our emotions or how to process our feelings. I understand now why he’d turned to Maggie.
If he’d resented me back then, he never showed it, because I never felt it. He used to piss me off, irritate me, press my buttons, but I can’t say I’ve ever felt real hate from him. Ever.
But I really, really wish I could hate you.
Pressing the picture to my chest, I pad to his bed and flop back on it, staring up at the plain ceiling. I want to text him and tell him I’m in his room, but I don’t have a phone, as I’ve decided to remain unplugged while I’m here.
Trent and I haven’t spoken since he dropped me off two weeks ago. Monica told me he called for me several times on the house phone when I wasn’t there, but I’m yet to return any of his calls. I figure it can’t hurt to see if, after an extended time of not seeing or speaking to him, my feelings will remain the same. Just so I know this is not some “Oh my god, I almost died, life is so short and precious, so I love you and want to spend the rest of it with you” phase.
I’m quite often fickle and impetuous, so I want to be sure this is true, genuine, and real. Because that man, that wonderful, amazing, beautiful man, does not deserve anymore of my fuckery. He deserves the best of me, all that I am and can be, doing right by him and making up for lost time, so I need to make damn sure my heart is in the right place.
Rolling onto my side, I pull my knees up to my chest.
My restlessness is no more.
In no time at all, I’m lost in unconsciousness.