Page 23

Chapter 22

Rina

" A nd make sure the boys are ready for the charity event this weekend. It's taken me six months to secure this spot for them."

"On it, boss," Toby says. "I've got it. You really have nothing to worry about, just relax."

Relax. Me, relax? I'm pacing on the front porch of my grandma's old house. The one my parents moved into after she passed. Mom decided it was what she needed—to return back to her roots. The ocean breeze, the sound of the coquis. It brought her life after so many years of losses.

And it's been years since I've come to visit. The last time I called her was to tell her I was getting married.

Part of me hoped she would talk me out of it. But my mom understood the desire to become a mother. It had been a longing in her heart for so long.

So she didn't talk me out of marriage. She just expressed that she would hope it would be with someone I could trust. Looking back, I wish I would've listened.

I walk up to the hammock hanging from the wooden rafters and push it. It swings softly away and back to my thigh.

Relax.

"Ok, Toby. Thanks for holding down the fort. How are things going with Ms. Cobbs?"

He pauses. "Do you want the truth or for me to say what you want to hear?"

I scrunch my nose. "The truth, Toby. Always the truth."

He laughs through his nose again. "She's good, boss. Like really good."

Of course, she is. Jenny would be good at anything she decided to do.

"Okay," I tell him. "That's good to hear."

"Is it?" he questions.

"Yes, Toby. I can accept defeat when it happens."

"Yeah, okay," he says sarcastically.

"Stop that, or you're fired."

"Ms. Lopez, no offense, but you need me. I'm not going anywhere, and you know it."

"Let's just see how this week goes before you go off getting too cocky," I tell him.

He agrees and we hang up.

The screen door squeaks open, and I turn to see my mom holding out a mug of coffee.

"Un cafecito?" she offers.

"It's like eighty degrees out here, Ma."

"So? It's always good weather for coffee."

I take it and she sits in the creaky rocking chair that her own mother used to sit in. I remember sitting at her feet as she told me stories every summer I'd come to visit.

Stories of her growing up with sand between her toes and the sun warm against her skin. Of neighbors who would fill her house with laughter and strangers who became friends during hard times.

"Do you miss her?" I ask my mom as she slowly rocks. I lean against the metal railing. The chipping white paint falls to the cement porch as I do.

"Every day," she admits with a soft smile. "But she left us this beautiful home. A beautiful legacy. And she got to meet her granddaughter. Your Abuela left us a happy and fulfilled woman."

Mom looks at me.

"Are you happy? And fulfilled?" I ask her.

She looks around. "I've made my peace with my disease, Rina. I know now that it was all beyond my control. And it's the same for you."

One day, maybe. But getting the call from my doctor a few days ago and learning that I have the same autoimmune disease as my mom—it was the last thing I needed. The nail in the coffin that was my rapidly sinking life.

Redmond couldn't give me kids. But even if I were to get pregnant, there would be a high likelihood that I wouldn't be able to carry the baby to term. I'd be destined for a life of losses, just like my own mother.

And that news is what brought me back to her.

I nod and take a sip of my coffee, looking at her swollen ankles. "Are you taking your meds, ma?"

She tosses a hand at me. "Those pills just make me feel worse."

"It's hot here. Your feet swell."

"Rina, you're not here to take care of me. You're here for me to take care of you. You're my daughter, not the other way around, mija."

"Ma—"

The door swings open and my dad, scruffy and white-haired, comes out with a plate full of sandwhichitos. "How are the two most beautiful women this world has ever seen?"

He sets the plate down on the tiny table in front of my mom. "Ay, Beto."

"What?" he takes the seat next to her. "Am I wrong?"

I snatch a little sandwich off the plate and stuff it very unladylike into my mouth. I don't even finish chewing it before reaching for another.

"So beautiful," my mother eyes me as I stuff the second one in my mouth.

My dad laughs and I look between them both. "What?" I say, mouth full of mezcla.

"Nothing, don't mind her. You eat, baby girl," my dad insists.

"Yes, eat. You're wasting away," Mom observes.

I'm not. I'm about the same weight I've always been, but I guess my sunken eyes and sullen look don't give the illusion that I'm healthy.

"So what are we going to eat tomorrow?" I ask, mouth already salivating at the thought of all the delicious home-cooked food that will be gracing our Thanksgiving table.

"Lechon! I'm digging up the hole and roasting a pig out back," Dad says, taking a bite of a sandwich.

"And we don't have a turkey, but the neighbors’ chickens keep sneaking into our garden and pecking at my plants, so I'm going to cook one and show the rest of them not to mess with the Lopez family," Mom says, nonchalantly as she sips her coffee.

I stop the hand about to bring another tiny sandwich to my mouth. "Are you two serious?"

My mom's face doesn't falter, but my dad's laugh gives it away immediately.

"Not about the chicken, but definitely about the pig. It's already out back," he says.

"And he's not digging a hole. I bought him a roasting box to make things easier.

"Though we could always go old school and dig a hole, tie it up, spin it out over the hot coals. We just have to wait until all the blood has drained out."

I set the sandwich back down on the plate. "I think I just lost my appetite."

"Oh, come on. Nothing like a home-cooked pig to get you into the holiday spirit," Dad says.

The thought of a pig hanging from the limb of a tree doesn't exactly scream holidays to me. But it's what my parents both grew up with. It's what I'd eventually want my kids to experience whenever it was time. I'd never want them to be out of touch with their culture.

"Wanna see it?" Dad asks.

I hold both hands up, "No. Thanks, though. I'd rather just eat it without knowing what its face looked like the moment you ended its life."

Dad shrugs. "Your loss."

I laugh. "Yeah, I think that's a loss I'm willing to take."

The night is quiet except for the island's song outside my open window. The little tree frogs that call Puerto Rico home come alive at night to sing an enchanting song for us all.

In the distance, I can hear the water lapping on the nearby shore. My Abuela's house is a nice refuge. But even so, I keep tossing and turning.

I hear the crunch of tires on the rock driveway outside and some doors open and close.

"Are you sure this is it?" I hear a woman's voice say.

"It's what the map brought us to, so I would think so," a man answers.

I sit up in my bed because I recognize those voices.

Another door opens and closes. "Next time, please don't let Libby drive on the curves. We almost got arrested."

Oh my God.

"I'm the best girl for the job. I don't know what y'all are complaining about," Libby hisses. "Besides, I'm pregnant. If a cop’s gonna let anyone off the hook, it'll be me."

There's no way. I toss the light sheet from my legs and slip into my sandals, padding quietly across the living room and switching the porch lights on.

Looking through the small window near the door, I see them.

My friends.