Page 66 of The Crush
“No,” my mother says firmly, stepping forward to place her hands on both my arms. “No, we’re not angry with you, mija. We’re just—”
“You’re just punishing me?” I say, pulling out of her grasp again. “The only person I’ve seen in the last month is Gabe. You’ve barely spoken to me in weeks. You told me I couldn’t come home.”
“Yourfatheris the one—” She lets out an undignified huff. “He worries for you and thinks he’s doing what’s best. I’ve been trying to talk to him.”
“Is it so terrible for him?” I ask. “I’m really that disappointing?”
“No, that’snotit. We only want your life to be—”
“I want myownlife,” I counter. “I want my own choices.”
“AndIwant that for you, too.” Her eyes search my face, willing me to understand. “That’s why I fought so hard for you to go away to school. I wanted you to have the choices that I didn’t.”
I let out a frustrated laugh. “What choices?”
She looks as if she’s about to argue again, but I continue. “I appreciate you letting me go away to school but I still didn’t—I went to a schoolhechose. For a degreehechose. And then I came right back likehewanted. I havealwaystried to be whathewanted. Whatyouwanted. What everyone else but me wanted. What choices have I had?”
“I—” My mother looks down at her dress heels, speechless for what I think must be the first time in her life until she says, “I see.”
She doesn’t say anything else before she turns and walks back to her Suburban, the subject seemingly closed for the day even if it’s not closed for good. I trail behind her, waiting as she opens the trunk and pulls out a bag that she cradles carefully before handing it to me.
“I know Tadeo will be setting up his ofrenda today. And I wanted you to have some things, too,” she says softly, emotion in her tone before she straightens. “I’ll bring food on Tuesday, too.”
“On Tuesday?” I ask, looking from the package to her.
“Yes, Isa,” she says as if I’ve asked something ridiculous. “For Día de Muertos. Are you making the recipes?”
“Well, yeah, but…”
“Then I will come help you on Tuesday.” She shuts the trunk decisively, then turns toward me. Her hands go to my face again, and I wait for her to tuck that same rebellious strand behind my ear. Instead, she simply cups my cheek before she says, “You havenever been a disappointment.Ever.And I love you, always. No matter what.”
My mom hugs me then, the contents of the bag getting pressed between us as I hug her back. “I love you, too.”
Fifty
Daniel
I like seeing Isabel’s photos on our ofrenda. Displayed alongside candles and incense, calaveras and marigolds, dishes of salt and plates of pan de muerto, pitchers of water and bottles of whiskey and wine.
I like to hear her talk about them, share passed-down memories as she touches the items paired with each loved one. A shawl and a watch for her grandparents on her father’s side. A jeweled earring and a pair of reading glasses for those on her mother’s. Family she only really knows from the stories she remembers well enough to tell on her own.
It’s easier, I think, focusing on her pieces than on mine. Or maybe, I just don’t remember the things I thought I would. Haven’t for a long time.
A little over three months after I left, Día de Muertos had been the first holiday to pass me by, the occasion not even remotely considered when the DEA let me know I would be going on a two-week recon mission in Bolivia.
As it happened, I spent those couple days meant to honor the dead barely making it out alive, a last-minute raid going so far sideways that I didn’t quite believe it when I was leftstanding, let alone when I finally made it back to my temporary apartment unscathed.
That year, I had missed setting up an ofrenda by accident. Afterward, I hadn’t wanted to welcome her to somewhere I didn’t want to be.
I hadn’t wanted her to see.
My chest is tight as I look at the photo, holding it as firmly in my left hand as the item in my right.
I’d had it with me the whole time I had been away, tucked away along with a well-used, abandoned prayer card in my bedside table in every city I’d lived. A few times, I had even tucked it into my tac vest, too, believing it might be able to protect me better than the metal plates that stood between me and a bullet.
It did, I think. After all, I lived.
I reach forward, carefully arranging the rosary along with the photo, its rich red frame almost a perfect match for the colored beads. My fingers run along each of them while I try to remember the right words.
