The way she says my name instantly turns me into a small child on the verge of tears. No, I must be strong.Stand your ground, Isa. The future of the restaurant depends on it.
“Well, her fiancé is an investor, and I thought it would be a great way to expand the restaurant by showing him a business plan. All I’d need is to make a few dishes. We could end up making more money. It would be good exposure and—”
Suddenly, a hand is in front of my mouth, covering my next word.
“Absolutely not. We don’t need their money.”
Yes, we do.
“And we certainly don’t need their exposure.”
Yes, we certainly do.
“Mami, if this is about you and Tía, I—”
Her hand reaches back toward my mouth.
“Ch, ch, ch, ch, we don’t talk about that,” she says, shushing me.
“But no one even knows what happened between you two,” I state, pushing her hand away softly.
“And it’s going to stay like that. They’re toxic. You are not going to their wedding, mija. Especially to beg for money. End of discussion.” She stands up, grabs her bag quickly, and rushes out the door.
I sit there for a moment, in shock about what just happened. Surprised? No. Shocked. Definitely. Mariposa would never let her pride falter. Begging them for money would be a cardinal sin to her.
“Well, shit,” Maria croaks. “What now?”
“Don’t worry. I’m going over tonight to help her make dinner. I have to go to this wedding. It’s my last chance to save my father’s restaurant. I have one final trick up my sleeve.”
“Okay, prima, but it better be a good one.”
* * *
I head down the street toward my mother’s apartment building, which is about twice the size of mine. She’s rented there for thirty years—my entire life and then some. When you think of people who live in the city, the true locals, my mother would be one of them. She notices every time someone new moves into the building or when someone leaves. She’s been around through the neighborhood’s gentrification and watched as so many businesses had to close shop.
When I was younger, I remember my father saying that he wanted to open a restaurant for me and my mother that could stand the test of time. One that wouldn’t be affected by the economy or the neighborhood shifting. One that could withstand it all. La Mariposa closing is absolutely not an option. It’s his legacy. It was supposed to be mine.
I stand in front of her building. The five stories are mocking me, daring me to enter. I have half a mind to just walk over to the Dunkin Donuts in the corner, eat my weight in munchkins, and just go to the wedding. But I can’t. I grip my coat pocket, feeling my father’s letter burning a hole through the fabric. What if it’s something I’m not ready to hear? Something that changes everything? I’ve carried it with me all day, but the thought of opening it feels too final, too emotional. Part of me isn’t ready to face whatever my father left for me in his final words. I walk up to the door and let myself in through the main lobby. I consider using the elevator but decide the stairs are a better option. I’ll get some movement in and have a bit more time to figure out exactly how I will convince her to let me go. I really only have one thing—the secret weapon. I’m not sure if it will work, and I have never had to use it before, but it’s my only option.
The closer I get to her door, the more pungent the smell of seasoned black beans becomes. It’s almost intoxicating. I can already picture myself chowing down on a massive plate of rice and beans, maybe even with plantains on the side for good measure. Finally, I reach the front door, just a mere few inches away from the peephole. I take a deep breath, already dreading this visit just like every other visit, and let myself in.
“Hola, Mami!” I try to sound enthusiastic and like we didn’t have a weird tiff at the restaurant earlier.
“Hola, mija.” She sounds fine. The tone of her voice doesn’t indicate that she’s still upset. This is a good sign. If I want to get to this wedding, I must approach it lightly. Strategically.
Years of practice have taught me that I should be doing something the second I step inside her house. Whether it’s cleaning or cooking, I need to be helping in some way. I can’t walk into my mother’s house and relax. That’s just not allowed here. God forbid I ask her if she wants help. That’s like committing a cardinal sin. She’d argue that I shouldn’t have to ask her if she needed help. I should just “pick up a broom and start sweeping.”
Even when my father was alive, when I wasn’t at the restaurant bothering him, I just helped her around the house, even though she constantly left it spotless. This has led me to always be on edge when I come over. It’s one of the reasons I was so excited to get my own place. For peace and quiet. The lack of guilt if I just want to spend the entire day on the couch binge-watching trash TV.
My mother is standing above the stove, methodically stirring the black beans. There’s a moment of silence between us.
“Did you visit Papi today?” I ask casually as I rush to the kitchen to cut the plantains to prepare them for frying.
“Si, claro, mija. I always do.” She doesn’t look up from the stove.
Something tells me she knows I’m still hung up on the wedding.
“I brought him the flowers you picked out.”
