When Abuela turns back to the TV, I exchange a look with Manny. “It’s a good day,” he assures me, wheregoodis code forlucid. Then, he lifts his voice and addresses Abuela. “Isn’t it, Mrs. Vasquez?”
“Why are you asking me?” she snaps. She launches into a tirade in rapid Spanish about how her new doctor doesn’t know anything and how stupid they all are and how she can’t believe her own granddaughter would leave her in this place.
Manny shoots me a helpless look. I’m glad he doesn’t speak Spanish because I’d hate for Abuela to get a reputation as a mean old lady—I don’t want it to go on her old person permanent record, or get her blacklisted from Bingo or something.
“Abuela, English,” I cut in. “You’re the one who taught me it’s rude to speak Spanish aroundgringos—no offense,” I add for Manny’s benefit, though I’m not sure he’d know what to be offended about.
She makes ahmmphnoise, her eyes following the Mexican actors as they throw themselves around the set of her favoritetelenovella. “I can’t believe they let youhave that hair at your job,” Abuela grumbles, still frowning. “You’ll never get a promotion.”
“Good thing I just quit, then.” She doesn’t really need to know it hasn’t happened yet; she’d just try to talk me out of it.
That gets me her full attention, and she spins all the way around to face me. “What?!”
“I’m… gonna go.” Awkwardly, Manny ducks his head and trots out of the room. Gotta appreciate the ones that know how to get out of the way of family drama.
“You quit that good job yourtíogot you?” she demands.
I narrow my eyes. “Is that what he said? That he got me the job?”
She sniffs. “Bettina told me.”
Of course he took credit. Of course he talked about it to hismamá, who talked about it to Abuela. Gossip is an Olympic sport for these women. The entire congregation probably knows, so I need to choose my words.
“It…” I search for the right description. “It served a purpose. I’m not cut out for working in an office, Abuela. I don’t like it.”
She clutches her rosary in hands that tremble no matter which meds they put her on, and casts her eyes skyward, nearly as dramatic as the people she watches in a literal soap opera. “Dios mio. My granddaughter would rather live out on the streets than keep a good job because shedoesn’t like being in an office,” she says, trying to mimic my American accent. She lifts a brow, mirroring my expression. “I cleaned houses for 47 years, Madison Rosa. You think I liked it? No, I did it to put food on your table and pay for your education and those expensive computers you always wanted.”
I sigh. As a Catholic, she has an advanced degree in guilt. “I know, Abuela—”
“What are you going to do if not work in an office?”
“I’m going to start looking for another gig. You know I don’t like being bored.”
“More computer nonsense, no doubt,” she says, disdain creeping into her tone. “My neighbor Joan’s daughter is a professor at the college. Francine’s granddaughter is a doctor. You’re smarter than both of them, and you waste your potential on thesemáquinas.”
“Abuela—” I cut myself off, hearing the frustration in my tone at the tired conversation. “I don’t want to fight.”
“Hmmph.”
I sigh. Her ire and judgment used to really bother me, but now it just rolls off my back because I understand why she lashes out. She wasn’t always a mean old lady. She knows she’s losing pieces of herself, and all I can do is watch her hate it and feel guilty about putting her in a home, even though we made that decision together.
It’s fucking awful.
Abuela raised me when her teenage daughter was killed in a car accident and my teenage father washed his hands of the tiny brown baby that would “ruin his bright future.” I became herhijita—her little daughter. She paid for me to go through private school—Catholic, obviously—and bought me my first computer. She was ridiculously strict and probably the reason I started rebelling to begin with, but she also made every birthday cake I’ve ever had, kissed all the boo-boos, came to every school recital, soothed the tears after every breakup, celebrated all my achievements and pushed me to be better.
I can’t let myself get mad at her. I refuse to. Even though she doesn’t really understand or accept me, she’s all I’ve got. And she loves me in her own way.
In my arsenal, misdirection is the best weapon when dealing with Abuela in this mood. “What have you been working on here?” I tilt my head to get the full picture of the incomplete jigsaw puzzle spread over her table. So far, only the perimeter is complete, but the picture on the box has kittens in a field of daisies. Too freakin’ cute.
The table is barely big enough to hold all the pieces, but I take a seat and start sorting by kitten color. “It looks new,” I observe as my sleeve comes away covered in tiny cardboard shavings from the cutting machine.
“Manny brought it,” she replies, her voice crackling before dissolving into a harsh cough that makes me frown. She doesn’t seem too bothered by it, but I’ll need to remember to ask if she got her flu shot.
“That was nice of him.”
“They’ll pass it around when I’m done, but it’s nice that he brings it here first, I guess. He says I’ve never lost a piece,” she adds with some pride.
When Abuela starts to struggle out of her lounger, I refocus on the puzzle because I know better than to offer her a hand to get up. The agony of each step shows on her face as she makes her way over to the table, clutching her bad hip. She settles next to me, in her usual spot facing the windows in the chair with the memory foam cushion.
