what a good wife did for her husband. Pitying her for losing her Puerto Rican ways. Making fun of her Spanish, even though Mami spoke it fluently and taught it.
Mami told me those days were like living in a concentration camp in her own home. Once, she wanted to push the âNazi witchâ out the window. Itâs horrible to make light of the holocaust. Mami was always conscious of things like that, so imagine how bad my grandmother made her feel. Thatâs when she knew that it wouldnât work. That they would never hit it off and become great friends. And she threw down wife law; and my father had to listen.He accepted her terms, because he loved my mother. He loved his mother and family, but he loved us more. It was simple.
This time around wasnât any better. She had arguments with my father all the time. Itâs kind of blurry, but I do remember Isabela crying and saying how her own son had turned his back on his mother. I felt bad for her. I felt bad for Dad, too, standing in the kitchen as Isabela tried to cook some terrible dish I wouldnât eat. She kept pointing a spoon at him. He looked trapped, his back against the fridge, ruffling all my artwork that Mami had posted. I could hear them from the living room while I read. It got louder, their yelling, and I knew Mami would be able to hear it across the apartment, from the bedroom, where she was trying to recuperate. Then Isabela started saying stuff I couldnât understand about Mami being hollow, huecaâmy father would explain later, although he never told me what it meant. I couldnât understand the rest; it was in Spanish. Sometimes my grandmother would talk in English, which was pretty good. A solid Catholic education, she used to say. Money buys anything in PR, my father would say behind her back.
But they kept it up in Spanish, heated, fast, furious words coming out of their tongues like fuego. They suddenly stopped. My mother stood facing them both in her terrycloth robe, her hand on her stomach. She turned to me and ordered me to my room. I grabbed my book and ran to my bedroom, where I could still see and hear them. Isabela yelled something about âthe truth.â Mami shuffled closer and stared at my father. âI want her out of here, now!â
Isabela left the next day, on an evening flight to San Juan. I saw her only that one time on the family trip to PR, and not at the funeral, after she died from breast cancer. My father visited her at the hospital in her last days and attended the funeral alone.
Six
----
The violent dreams continued. They all had the feel of a cheap, hand-held camera movie in an endless horror film festival. In all of them, I kept seeing blood everywhere and heard frantic, disembodied screaming. Every time, I woke up startled, disoriented, and after getting my bearings, would slip into a funk.
I had been living in the Guest House for weeks. I informed the college authorities of my housing situation. Stay as long as you need, they said. Of course, they were charging me, but it wasnât really expensive. But thatâs not the point. I had my âownâ place, my so-called inheritance, and I felt stupid having to pay any kind of rent. Worse, how was I supposed to make the squatters move out? The Riveras owed my parents six monthsâ rent. So on top of everything, I had to file legal proceedings against them. Julia knew nothing about this legal mess. I wasnât even sure she knew about the house. Sad to say, but we werenât at a point where I could confide in her, and I didnât want her involved in something concerning my parents. Miguel âMiccoâ Montero, a colleague, wished me luck, telling me squatters had ridiculous rights in Puerto Rico.
I was now a perpetual guest, an insomniac and unfocused. I wanted to play some b-ball, run maybe, go lie on the beach, but sometimes I sat on the patio, sipping a cup of strong, sweet, black coffee, and let my thoughts
Mami told me those days were like living in a concentration camp in her own home. Once, she wanted to push the âNazi witchâ out the window. Itâs horrible to make light of the holocaust. Mami was always conscious of things like that, so imagine how bad my grandmother made her feel. Thatâs when she knew that it wouldnât work. That they would never hit it off and become great friends. And she threw down wife law; and my father had to listen.He accepted her terms, because he loved my mother. He loved his mother and family, but he loved us more. It was simple.
This time around wasnât any better. She had arguments with my father all the time. Itâs kind of blurry, but I do remember Isabela crying and saying how her own son had turned his back on his mother. I felt bad for her. I felt bad for Dad, too, standing in the kitchen as Isabela tried to cook some terrible dish I wouldnât eat. She kept pointing a spoon at him. He looked trapped, his back against the fridge, ruffling all my artwork that Mami had posted. I could hear them from the living room while I read. It got louder, their yelling, and I knew Mami would be able to hear it across the apartment, from the bedroom, where she was trying to recuperate. Then Isabela started saying stuff I couldnât understand about Mami being hollow, huecaâmy father would explain later, although he never told me what it meant. I couldnât understand the rest; it was in Spanish. Sometimes my grandmother would talk in English, which was pretty good. A solid Catholic education, she used to say. Money buys anything in PR, my father would say behind her back.
But they kept it up in Spanish, heated, fast, furious words coming out of their tongues like fuego. They suddenly stopped. My mother stood facing them both in her terrycloth robe, her hand on her stomach. She turned to me and ordered me to my room. I grabbed my book and ran to my bedroom, where I could still see and hear them. Isabela yelled something about âthe truth.â Mami shuffled closer and stared at my father. âI want her out of here, now!â
Isabela left the next day, on an evening flight to San Juan. I saw her only that one time on the family trip to PR, and not at the funeral, after she died from breast cancer. My father visited her at the hospital in her last days and attended the funeral alone.
Six
----
The violent dreams continued. They all had the feel of a cheap, hand-held camera movie in an endless horror film festival. In all of them, I kept seeing blood everywhere and heard frantic, disembodied screaming. Every time, I woke up startled, disoriented, and after getting my bearings, would slip into a funk.
I had been living in the Guest House for weeks. I informed the college authorities of my housing situation. Stay as long as you need, they said. Of course, they were charging me, but it wasnât really expensive. But thatâs not the point. I had my âownâ place, my so-called inheritance, and I felt stupid having to pay any kind of rent. Worse, how was I supposed to make the squatters move out? The Riveras owed my parents six monthsâ rent. So on top of everything, I had to file legal proceedings against them. Julia knew nothing about this legal mess. I wasnât even sure she knew about the house. Sad to say, but we werenât at a point where I could confide in her, and I didnât want her involved in something concerning my parents. Miguel âMiccoâ Montero, a colleague, wished me luck, telling me squatters had ridiculous rights in Puerto Rico.
I was now a perpetual guest, an insomniac and unfocused. I wanted to play some b-ball, run maybe, go lie on the beach, but sometimes I sat on the patio, sipping a cup of strong, sweet, black coffee, and let my thoughts
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