I don’t care that Lourdes calls the car that because we all poke fun, but I don’t like her calling it a piece of junk. That car holds memories of our father. A reminder of his hard work and sacrifices he made for this family.
It was common in our neighborhood to see other men running off and neglecting their wives and kids. I could never relate. My father held it down. His onlyviciowas the time he put into that car. It was a way for him to relieve stress and be creative. The older I get, the more I realize that the roles life hands us as parents can make us feel stuck in understanding who we are outside of those things. That car is a sacred piece of who he was outside of his role as a father and husband. His need to express himself as an individual.
I remain quiet for the rest of the meal and let Lourdes put on a grand show of reminding Desmond and me how much she is above us. At some point, in the middle of her rant onthe modern-day female not knowing how to garden, I offer to change Dakota James’s diaper. We exit the dining room, the toddler thrown over my shoulder with his two middle fingers up in the air.
“Písale güey!” Demond yells, and I slam my foot on the gas.
La Pepto Bismol roars, encouraging us that she might start up before the familiar stuttering of the engine begins. When she gives out, I look at Desmond through the windshield. His fallen expression mirrors mine.
Somos bien jodidos.
“How long has it been sitting out here, Ma?” Desmond shouts from the curb to my mother.
“I haven’t touched that thing since your dad died,” she shouts back from the front lawn, where she’s watching the kids play soccer with Tom.
I remove the key and meet Desmond, who is searching under the hood.
“What’s wrong with it?” I ask.
“I don’t know much about mechanics, but from the way it sounds, it could be the starter. Mom can’t drive, and if it’s been sitting here since Dad died, some of the parts could have deteriorated.”
I look at our mother, the smile on her face as she watches her grandkids, sitting on the steps of the only home we’ve ever known.
“Can we even sell it?” I’m not willing to part with it just yet, but I know my father would do it in a heartbeat if he had to.
“We could, but it won’t be enough. Not in this condition.”
Desmond and I can pull our weight with the rent, but the past due medical bills are still piling up. Debt collectors have been harassing us nonstop.
“Should we ask Lourdes?” I whisper.
“No. Mom already borrowed a thousand dollars to fix the roof when it was leaking.”
I let out a sigh. I forgot about the roof. My mother’s debt wasn’t extremely high, but the problem was that her luck was low. Things just kept happening out of the ordinary, as it does so often to people where I’m from. We didn’t have a cushion of money to fall back on, savings were rarely heard of, and inconveniences meant major setbacks.
“How much could we get if we fixed it up?” I ask, despite feeling a large weight on my chest at the thought of selling the car.
“I think if we could get it running, a vintage car like this could easily sell for $60,000. More if you reupholstered the seats and gave it a new paint job.”
I look down at the engine, and then at the rosary hanging from the rearview mirror. I had to get past my pride and reach out to Manny. I had to do it for La Pepto Bismol. It was that or sell beef tallow, and I refused to sell menudo-flavored face cream.
3
ISABEL
Everyone’s so creative
Another week came and went, and I was no closer to figuring out a solution for the car. I talked myself out of letting go of my pride and calling Manny, and instead, went to every other mechanic shop in town. With the repairs and restoration, the car would cost anywhere between $15,000 and $20,000.
Fate would have its say, though, and per usual, in the most inconvenient of places. And I mean really fucking inconvenient because today of all days was my comeback day to the gym.
According to a “how to make my life suck less” google search, exercise is one of the top ways to boost your energy and elevate your mood. Impulsively, I signed up online for a gym right by the hospital and adjusted my schedule to wake up earlier and get in some exercise to boost my serotonin levels.
As expected, my body was unsure what the hell was going on. I was trying to follow a butt workout, where you use a machine that was clearly not for your butt, for your butt somehow? The girl in the video, who is toned and eats her body weight in protein, instructs you to wrap your feet around ametal bar and pull your knees to your chest. She makes it look easy in the short TikTok clip.
The only problem is I am not as tall as the said Instagram model. My legs pull the bar down, and it’s clear I’m unfamiliar with how the machine works when the heavy bar flies up, making a loud thud that has everyone in the gym turning their heads towards me.
I debate whether I should lower the weight and try again or cancel my membership altogether. Laying there flat on my ass, I stare at the ceiling contemplating my next move when a large figure comes into view above me, my whole body stilling at the sight of him.
