“Uhh,” I say as she leans on her hip and crosses her arms.
“Uhh,” she says, mocking me. I don’t take it personally. We all know that Sonya’s a bitch. “Aren’t you going to let me in? Your own abuela?”
I step aside. “Welcome to our humble abode, Amá.”
She snarls as she takes a look around. “It looks…” I can tell she is searching for some kind of compliment. “The same.” She looks pleased with herself. It must’ve taken a great deal of effort to not make an offensive comment about the brightness of the yellow walls, or maybe the obscene shine of the olive linoleum floors. Or maybe the fact that it looks like people actually live here.
Amá Sonya’s home looks like the inside of a fridge. Like, one of the new ones they have lined up at Best Buy, smelling like cleaner with undertones of new plastic. Only instead of cleaner and plastic, it’s built with granite and quartz, and the underlying scent is of Louis Vuitton’s Spell on You. That’s her style—she acts like she’s country-chic, but the truth is she’s pure luxe. Right now she’s got on a cream tweed skirt-suit that looks custom-made for her small frame. I’m pretty sure it’s Chanel. Her pointed stilettos match the outfit exactly, all except for the bloodred sole. She’s covered in pearls and diamonds, and she pushes her peachy matte lips out in distaste. I once looked up the price of the lipstick she uses. It’s exactly three of my car payments.
She looks just alittleout of place here, amid Nadia’s homemade curtains, vintage dining table, and herbs growing from coffee tins along the windowsills. Not to mention us. Sky’s got on old, patched-up bell-bottom jeans and a tank top covered in what is probably real baby eagle feathers. Nadia’s adorned herself with one of her floral-patterned cottagecore dresses, almost vibrating with the brightest pinks and oranges imaginable. I’m wearing my usual—matchy-matchy spandex athletic gear in all shades of purple. It’s an “I work at the gym” style I still haven’t kicked even though it’s been weeks since I’ve set foot in a gym of any kind.
Nadia puts her hands on her hips. “What brings you here, Sonya?”
Amá Sonya huffs. “Can’t a woman visit her sister anymore?”
“Ay,” Nadia responds. “Que drama.”
“Que drama nada. Are we celebrating the return of la luz or what?”
Before Nadia can respond, Sage appears in the doorway. She’s got on jeans stained with dirt paired with a neon blue tank top. On her ears are turquoise set in silver, probably handmade by Sage herself. “We’re heeeere!” She sings like an opera singer, only terribly off-key. Next to her stands Laurel, her best friend, wearing a white linen wrap dress and the cutest kitten heels, matching her red lipstick exactly. She carries a giant bottle of Patrón in her arms as she greets us.
“Come in,” Nadia calls.
Sage stops short when she sees Sonya. “Oh, hey, Amá. I didn’t think you’d be here.”
Amá throws up her hands as best she can, since a giant Celine satchel probably filled with bars of real gold sits on her forearm. “Everyone thinks the matriarch of this familia would miss a spring equinox.”
“Well, you haven’t been to one in…” Sky begins, but fades out as Sonya levels a glare at her that could freeze hell.
“When’s the last timeyouwere at an equinox?” Sonya demands of Sky. “In the flesh, mija. Not as a half ghost.”
“What Amá means is of course she’s been to every equinox ever,” Sage says. “We may not have any sort of proof, or memory of it even, but she was there.”
“Yeah, she was there all right, just like you, Sage,” I mutter, then wince. My MO is to get mad at everyone, especially when things around me get chaotic. For years, Sage was my go-to symbolic punching bag. And once, a literal punching bag. But I’m trying to be better now.Tryingis the key word.
“What was that?” Sage narrows her eyes my way.
I lower my eyes as my cheeks heat. “Nada.”
“Okay!” Laurel says, lifting the tequila again. “Who’s ready for a shot?”
Every single one of us answers in the affirmative at the same time. Even Amá, who I have never seen drink anything besides sparkling water sourced from some Swedish mountain, Kona coffee, orange-essenced champagne, or, on very special occasions, extra-dry Manhattans.
Sky and Laurel prepare the drinks as the rest of us settle in the living room. Unlike the kitchen, which is painted marigold yellow and is always bright with sunlight pouring in thick as bright silk through its two enormous windows, the seating room has always been dark. There’s only one window facing in from the north, which does nothing to lighten the walls painted a deep forest green. Nadia’s filled up the room with all kinds of antique lamps, from brass floor lights glowing with amber, to Tiffany-style, composed of glass shades as colorful as tropical fruit. We only have two lamps on tonight, though. The candles are doingthe work of lightning, making everything look like a shade of underwater blue flicked with startling orange and gold highlights. It’s like the set of some dark academia film. That or horror.
Nadia begins the celebration by reading her favorite Joy Harjo poem. It’s called “Remember.” I’m probably not the sort of personality that would take to poetry, but you can’t grow up in this house and not have poetry become some part of your emotional body. Nadia didn’t read Dr. Seuss to us when we were little ones—she read Linda Hogan and Octavio Paz and Margaret Atwood.
To me, this particular poem is a blessing for someone new to this earth. Or maybe an older person who has been made new in some cosmic way. I hold my breath until Nadia reaches the lines I love and hate the most, on mothers: “You are evidence of / her life, and her mother’s, and hers.” I have to turn my head away at this part every year, so no one sees my eyes welling up. But it’s no use. There’s no way anyone misses the way the clouds instantly darken outside, the way rain falls as fast as a heart breaks. Everyone’s nice enough to pretend they don’t notice.
I throw my shot back the second she reads the last word. “More, please,” I say, lifting up my empty glass.
As I sip my second shot, Nadia serves the sangria she’d made the night before. It’s her own recipe, made with white wine instead of the traditional red, and she adds just a little seltzer water for “especia.” She and Sky had cut up apples, limes, oranges, and strawberries to soak in it overnight. It tastes exactly like summer in Cranberry—thick and bright and sweet.
Laurel jumps up to help Sage cut the flan. One is coconut, the other traditional, with the flavors of vanilla and burnt sugar taking center stage. Soon we’re all stuffing our faces. Well, everyone except for Amá, who cuts tiny pieces of her flan with a fork andknife, wincing as she eats, like anyone would believe it’s not fucking amazing. I’m convinced Nadia can’t produce a subpar flan even if she tried.
This is when the chisme portion of the event begins.
“So, when are you all going to get a man?” Sonya begins, glaring at everyone except for Sage. Not even Laurel, who is not related to us at all, is immune from Sonya’s pointed, accusatory gaze.
