At my car, we pause and as soon as my gaze locks with his, I feel better. His dark eyes tell me everything I need to know, namely that everything will be fine.
“You okay?” he asks.
I give him a rueful nod. “Just a minor freak-out. Nothing serious.”
His lips tip up at the corners, simultaneously melting my heart and drawing my attention to his unshaven jaw. Hell yes, I want to see that every morning! And I’ll work toward that privilege day and night if I have to.
Scott
My hand aches for days, but I have no regrets. How could I? My encounter with Daniel Patterson has made everything clear to me.
Over the next weeks, Ellie and I have these surreal talks about moving in together, marriage, and finances. I say surreal because I can barely believe we’re going to take a run at this. My excitement dims considerably when we start looking at real estate and I realize how much prices have gone up since I first checked a few years ago. I shouldn’t be surprised. I do pay the property tax on my grandmother’s house after all. Since I want out of East Palo Alto altogether, I guess it didn’t occur to me that its outrageous assessed value would be reflected in other areas of Northern California as well.
Ellie’s not daunted at all – by any of it. Now that the initial shock of my grand scheme has worn off, she couldn’t be more excited, even when we draw up a joint budget and cut way back on our main expense of eating out. She says as long as she’s not forced to subsist on Ramen noodles, she’s good. Actually, more and more, she eats dinner with us at home. It’s worked out well; Ellie spends more time with me and the girls and we’ve asked my grandmother to teach us how to cook. Once we’re house-poor – if we can even get a mortgage – there won’t be any more takeout at all . . . or dinner waiting on the table when we get home from work. And since my work schedule is constant and Ellie’s isn’t, it appears the cooking will fall to me.
Which is why I’m doing more than just chopping onions for my grandmother on Thanksgiving this year. Since my birthday generally falls near or even on Thanksgiving, the two celebrations have been melded into a single event over the years. I get to choose what we eat and I always choose my favorite dish, pozole. Ergo, I need to know how to make it for future reference. I can see why my grandmother doesn’t make it very often though. It’s a bit of a pain in the ass.
With dinner almost complete and Ellie gone to check up on the girls, now is my chance to speak to my grandmother. I’ve been waiting all afternoon to get a moment alone with her, but now I’m unexpectedly hesitant to make use of it.
“Tell me what’s troubling you, mijo. I can hear you thinking from here.”
My low chuckle withers into a nervous exhalation; she knows me so well. I hope that what I have to say won’t wound her, but I can’t in all conscience postpone it any longer. It takes a few more moments, but I finally start with, “So you know how thankful I am to you for raising us all.” I steal a peek from where I’m slicing limes to get a sense of her reaction.
“¿Agradecido?” she echoes, not stopping her chopping of the lettuce into thin strips, but I notice the way her head tilts with question.
“Sí, agradecido. Without you, I can’t imagine how the six of us would have survived,” I say, referring to myself, my three sisters, Rosa and Daniela. “You’ve always been here for us. And I never want you to think I’m not grateful.”
She sends me an askance sideways glance across the few feet of counter space that separates us. “What’s going on, mijo? Have you turned sentimental at the ripe old age of twenty-three?”
Despite my nerves, I laugh. I’ve always loved the laid back relationship I share with her. “No, not sentimental, Abuela, just, um . . . older?” I go back to the limes in front of me to avoid witnessing her reaction to my next words. “Ellie and I . . .” I pause. “I was thinking maybe . . . I just don’t want to hurt your feelings . . . when I tell you that Ellie and I were thinking of getting our own place.”
In my peripheral vision, the knife in her hand doesn’t so much as falter. “Yes, well, I’ve figured that was coming.”
Surprised, I look up at her. “And you’re not . . . upset that I’m going to move the girls?”
Her small frame visibly relaxes. “You’re going to take them, then?”
A mixture of horror and disbelief floods my system. “You thought I would leave them?”
“No,” she says carefully. “No, not really, but I thought there was a chance you would only take Rosa. She is, after all, your only true responsibility.”
Deliberately, I put down the knife and prop my hip on the counter as something sounding a lot like disgruntlement edges its way out of my throat.
“Do not lecture me, mijo,” she warns. “I’ve seen a lot in my nearly seventy-three years and you deciding to split up the girls wouldn’t come close to touching on the worst of it.”
The fact that I’m not at the very bottom of her barrel doesn’t make me feel any better, but she doesn’t give me a chance to grumble about her lack of faith in me.
“But I’m thrilled that you’ve made the decision to keep them together.”
“There was no decision to make. How could you think otherwise?”
“Well,” she says, a sad smile directed at the cutting board, “I wasn’t there for my own children, so it would be hypocritical of me to judge you,”
“What?” I stammer, my head pulling back in surprise. “What does that mean?”
Her knife stills and she gives me her full attention. “When your grandfather died, your mother was ten years old, Javier was eight.” She shuffles over to the sink to wash her hands. “That’s such a vulnerable age.”
I watch her dry her hands before she faces me.
“I chose to work day and night to keep this house instead of being present in their lives. It’s the worst mistake I’ve ever made.”
Mistake? Shock reverberates through me, but she holds up a hand to stop my denials.
“Yes, I know that having the house mortgage-free is a blessing – now. But my children needed a mother thirty years ago. The price of leaving them to raise themselves was enormous. Javier is dead by gang violence and Lilia fell into alcohol and drugs.”
Gut churning, I stammer, “Abuela, you can’t know that wouldn’t have happened anyway.”
“I do,” she says with a serenity that grates against my nerves. “You turned out all right. As did Desiree and Mari. Like you said, I was always here for you.”
“No. Come on.” I shake my head. “By that logic, Jorgie should be a doctor or something. His mother stayed home to raise her kids, giving them all the time and attention in the world. And look what happened there.”
She purses her thin lips and I can only imagine what she’s marshalling in her mind to refute my claim, but I head her off. “I think you’re oversimplifying things. Yes, your influence played a big role in my life, Abuela. But so did my mother’s.”
Taken aback, she falters before turning to the huge pozole pot on the stove to give it a stir.
“I never wanted to be like her,” I explain. “I refused to let Rosa grow up feeling even a fraction of the distrust and embarrassment that I did. Abuela, you worked hard, you set an example for your kids. If they didn’t follow it, that’s on them. You don’t get to claim responsibility for their mistakes. They are, or were, who they chose to be.”