“Mama Mia!”
“Mia Bo-Bina!” Wanda, no question.
“Mia Mija!” Only Tia Rita calls me that.
Chairs are scooted, not lifted, the scrape of cement creating an awful racket as the gray-haired sea parts. Rushing forward are Grandma Helen, Wanda, and one of the bubbies from down the street. Right as I’m wondering where Tia Rita is, I spot her coming from a different section.
Within a handful of minutes, the media will descend, but that’s not the scariest part of this moment.
It’s that my grandmother and her friends are bounding up the steps, and though I’m all for freedom of expression and body positivity, there’s not nearly as much support—or coverage—as I would’ve preferred, is all I’m saying.
Everyone’s had the nightmare where they find themselves out in public only to realize they’ve forgotten to get dressed.
But the thing I wish I could go back and unknow is there’s a worse variation of that nightmare, where the people in their underwear…are actually your grandparents.
Chapter Three
First things first, embrace the grandmother, aunties, and bubbies—not typically my top priority in the middle of a demonstration, particularly with journalists swarming. But if I didn’t stop and greet each member of the self-proclaimed Cronies properly, I knew they’d lecture me for so long that they’d managedto turn it into the sensible option.
As fast as my thoughts are spinning, the instant I’m pulled into a giant group hug, my inner storm calms. Sure, a few concerns continue to whirl in the background, about this unscheduled delay and meeting my new boss and not turning out like my habitually unemployed mom. But with tender arms, these women squeeze and pour healing love into me, demonstrating the strength they possess.
They loudly voice how sorry they are to hear I was fired. I wince and glance at the spot where I left the good doctor, crossing my fingers he didn’t hear.
But he’s no longer there. He must’ve hit his limit of bizarre for the day and returned to work.
I lose track of the rapid-fire questions lobbed at me at once, although it’s not like they pause so I can respond, or even let one another finish speaking. What is going on with my love life and whether I’d met the Rock at one of the Heat games I’d attended, and am I aware of the spiking crime rate in Miami?
“Better you’re here with us,” Bubbie Ruth says, sandwiching my hand between hers. As if what every criminal fears most is an eighty-year-old Jewish woman with a fabulous head of brown-and-gray curls.
Grandma Helen strokes knotted fingers over my hair, and I hold my breath as she reaches the blunt, chin-length tips. As long as I avoided bangs, I assured myself taking scissors to my hair wasn’t a mistake. There’d been something so empowering about the sound and the slice and the inches piling up on the floor.
During our video call last week, my mom declared the cut too short for my round face, the cinnamon tint “completely wrong for your pale complexion.” Needless to say, I no longer felt safe disclosing the loss of my job or asking for help after that.
“So sassy, I love it.” Grandma Helen cups my face in both of her hands, the hazel eyes I inherited from her twinkling. The crinkles that deepen with her smile accentuate her delight. “Look at my beautiful granddaughter, finally here to stay for a while. Isn’t she gorgeous?”
Wanda, the yin to Grandma Helen’s yang, beams at me. “I was going to say…” We’re already fairly smooshed, but her signature 70s beach-babe bangs brush my cheek as she gets extra up close and personal. “God, this skin, so smooth and dewy. Do you even have pores?”
Rita—or Tia Margarita once you’re old enough—returns to the subject of my love life.
“Nonexistent,” I say.
In my peripheral, crewmembers spill out of the news van and gather their gear. I should force my feet into motion, but the truth is, I enjoy the group hugs and mushy greetings as much as they do. The Cronies fawn over me. They feed me and constantly tell me I’m smart and pretty. I’m someone they’re happy to see, not because of what I can do for them, but because I’m me.
I allow myself an additional ten or fifteen seconds to soak in the affection, then I reluctantly break free of the cuddle huddle, holding up a hand at the tiniest squeak of complaint from my grandma.
“You’ve had your hugs, and later we’ll catch up properly. But right now, I need someone to tell me what in the Florida Man Headline is going on.”
…
A stack of newspapers hits the desktop in front of me with athunk,and I blink at the intimidating pile.
Sunshine streams into the sparsely decorated office from the wall of windows to my right, causing the flecks of gold in the granite desktop to glitter. Fronds frame a beautiful view of the golf course beyond, so green it appears someone turned up the saturation. Considering my former office was a tiny desk pushed up against a coworker’s, it should feel like an upgrade, but my mind’s spinning too fast, cataloguing tasks and information.
Jan, my new boss, requires a wider berth due to her mobility scooter, and I can’t believe I didn’t register her sooner given the whine of the engine. She left to retrieve the newspapers, but I got so in my head I’m not sure if it’s been five minutes or an hour.
“In addition to this,” Jan says, pointing to the top left corner of the desk that’ll take a while to feel like mine, “I’ve printed the pertinent online articles and placed them there to catch you up to speed ASAP.”
Now that she’s drawn attention to the overflowing inbox, I can’t handle it being where the outbox goes any longer. Snagging the handle, I slide the plastic tray to the right corner and let out a relieved exhale.Better.
