Page 58 of One Hotlanta Night
charlotte
Before I even have a chance to open Vivian’s car door, my family spills out the front door and rushes toward us. “Miguel!” I hear Paquita’s high-pitched squeal. For seventy, she’s such a spry young thing, beating everyone else to pull me down in a hug. I’m a full head taller than her, but she never misses a chance to remind me she could still take me over her knee if she wanted.
“¿Cómo está, mi nieto?” She releases me, patting me sharply on the cheek. Paquita’s cheek slaps—or “love taps” as she calls them—are worse than the mafia movies. Her love stings.
“I’m great, Paquita,” I reply in English. Not just for Vivian’s sake. We’ve all grown up with my mother’s family speaking to us in Spanish, but it was easier for us to respond in English. As we got older, I understood more, but am not as fluent as I’d like. That’s my sister’s territory. She has used her skills to help neighborhood families translate and help their kids navigateschool. Her heart knows no bounds, and I hope she finds an all-encompassing love like the one I’ve found with Vivian.
Speaking of, I reach for her hand, bringing her to stand at my side, where she belongs. “Paquita, this is my girl, Vivian.” Paquita’s eyes sparkle as she takes in my lovely lady.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” Vivian says, holding her hand out to shake. Paquita shakes her head and Vivian falters for a moment, confusion washing over her pretty face until my grandmother reaches out and kisses each of her cheeks before pulling her into a fierce hug. “Ella es perfecta,” she mouths at me over Vivian’s shoulder, and I nod.
“Lo sé.” Vivian glances over her shoulder at me. “She was just saying how happy she is to meet you.” I wink at her. Paquita rolls her eyes at me and Vivian looks adorably confused. “C’mon, it’s time to meet the rest.”
“Is… is yourentirefamily here?” she asks hesitantly.
“It’s family dinner.” I shrug. “Everyone who can, comes. And my friends want to meet you too.”
“Okaaay,” she says slowly, blowing out a breath. “A warning might’ve been nice.”
I laugh and squeeze her shoulder. “Relax, mi amor. I want to show you off. And I’m right here with you.” She looks up at me like she’s trying to figure me out. Whatever she’s looking for, it must be all right because she rewards me with a small smile and follows me up the sidewalk where we’re immediately surrounded by the rest of my loving and overbearing family.
After all the introductions are made, we finally make it inside. The house is warm, comfortable, and not quite big enough to handle all the entertaining they like to do. We’ve never minded being packed in like sardines, though; the cozier, the better. Delicious smells waft from the kitchen where Paquita’s playing her favorite Latin radio station, and I smile. Proof for Vivian that I wasn’t just blowing smoke when I said we danced in thekitchen. Vivian’s in good hands—literally, as Paquita’s clutching them—with my grandmother, and appears calm if a little wide-eyed. So I take the opportunity to ask my sister, “Where are Mom and Dad?”
She lets out a frustrated sigh and pulls me toward the kitchen, away from the noise. “Mom’s not having a good day, and Dad had to work late again. They’re coming,” she’s quick to reassure me. “But it will probably be later on. You know how it is.” That I do. Isabella’s eyes mist over a bit, and my gut twists. She’s taken on the lion’s share of caregiving ever since I left. Even though moving was the best choice for me, it’s not fair that she has to shoulder the burden alone.
“Have you talked to her again about getting a nurse, even just part-time?”
“No!” my sister whisper-shouts, her dark eyes flashing. “You know Mom wouldn’t want that, and that’s what I’m here for. She doesn’t need some stranger coming in here; that’s my job.”
“But is it, really?” I ask gently. It’s the same argument we have all the time. Isabella’s compassionate nature lends itself to taking on everything by herself. She loves our parents and feels it’s her duty to care for them exclusively. She’s the one who keeps the household running smoothly, gets Mom to her appointments, and makes sure there’s dinner on the table every night. Her selflessness is genuine. She does it out of love for family and not just a misplaced sense of responsibility. It’s the way we were raised, after all. Family above all else.
But she’s still a nineteen-year-old girl—well, young woman at this point—although she’ll always be my baby sis. And she deserves to live her own life and not just cater to everyone else. When my mom’s health worsened during high school, Isabella decided not to pursue college after graduation. Instead, she chose to stay home to care for our parents. Knowing that there’s someone looking out for them was a large part of why I feltcomfortable enough to leave. But the guilt eats at me that I’m chasing my dreams while she’s not.
Baking has been her passion since she was a kid, and she has built a solid reputation for making everything from birthday to wedding cakes. She’s got the business sense to take this from a hobby to a thriving enterprise if she had more time. It’s just another way she makes people happy. Her love language is serving others, which is also why she won’t budge when it comes to taking care of Mom. She’s determined to do it herself and doesn't believe anyone else can do a good enough job. Maybe Dad could, but he’s so busy working to support the family. So my sister does it with a smile on her face—most days.
“Isabella…” I say, and her eyes fly up to mine, already on the defensive.
“Don’t start,” she warns.
“Don’t you want to go out and live a young person’s life? It’s a little early to move into the senior center,” I tell her lightly, trying to inject some levity.
“I go out plenty,” she protests.
“Do youreally?”
“Look, Michael, I know I’m not like most of my friends. A lot of them have gone off to college or moved out of state. It’s not like I have my core group anymore. But I’m happy doing what I do. You know no one else could care for Mom the way I can, and private nurses are expensive,” she says in a hushed voice, looking around to make sure no one hears.
She continues, “Paquita and Grandpa do what they can, and they give me breaks when I need it. But you know this is the best solution we have at the moment. She needs me,” she pleads, looking into my eyes so I can read her intent. “And as long as I’m in a position to help, I will. We won’t have them forever. And I owe her,” she finishes, her voice trembling slightly.
My heart tightens at the reminder of Isabella’s childhood leukemia. She spent two years in and out of the hospital; we thought we were going to lose her at one point. I still remember that Christmas we feared would be her last. We kept the holiday decorations and twinkling lights up in the house until February; anything to lift her spirits.
Thankfully, she made a full recovery six months later, and you’d never know she’d ever been at risk of dying. But the medical bills were so high that they’re still paying off the debt years later. My mom had quit her job to take care of Isabella. She researched everything she could, looking into alternative medicine to support recovery and preparing cancer-fighting meals. Whatever it took to save her baby girl.
A few years after Isabella was officially in remission, Mom developed early-onset arthritis and fibromyalgia, quickly ending up needing extra care herself. No one will say it outright, but doctors have hinted that the extreme stress and measures Mom took to help her daughter may have caused the illnesses that plague her now.
Mom has never said anything to that effect, but Isabella carries that mantle of guilt on top of her innate desire to help people. So there is no persuading her otherwise. She insists on being the one to take care of our mom. I send money each month to help cover costs, but time is probably more valuable to her than money, and that’s something I can’t give.
“You’re a saint, you know that, right?” I pull my sister in for a tight hug.
