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“Ooh, that sounds exciting,” I try to joke, hearing how flat my voice is almost makes me wince.
“Don’t make me fill out the application for you,” he threatens and I sigh again. There is a job opening for marketing manager in our firm, and I was asked to apply for it by several of our executive directors. I felt so honored to be approached about it, and I have every intention of applying but I just can’t bring myself to actually sit down and do it.
“I’ll do it this week,” I promise him, hearing the emptiness in those words. He narrows his eyes at me, calling my bluff.
He leans forward and places his hands on my desk, bringing himself down to my level as he looks in my eyes and says, “I’ll print it out and bring it over here myself.”
I roll my eyes. “So dramatic.”
“No,” he argues. “You deserve this job, you worked your ass off for this job, and no one else is getting this job. Do you understand?” I look at him, warmth filling my cold heart at the emotion in his voice.
“I understand,” I say, and I give him a small real smile.
“You’ll also finally get a real office and I can come hide in there to get away from Deb,” he jokes, and I manage a small chuckle. He continues, “John and I are going out to dinner for our anniversary on Friday. You should come. A few people from work are coming and then a few friends from his restaurant.” He smiles.
“I’ll let you know if I can make it,” I tell him. He holds my eye contact, obviously sensing the lie.
“Okay,” he says, knocking his knuckles against my dark wood desk once before straightening up and walking back towards his own area.
It’s not that I don’t want to celebrate him and his longtime partner, but it's still hard to be out and around people.
I try to imagine getting dressed up—not in work clothes but in my ‘going out’ clothes—and being around people for dinner and even getting a drink or two. But my stomach sours at the thought of enjoying myself at all. Even for just a night.
I sigh as I start pulling the papers out of the box, feeling a small amount of contentment as this task requires focus and my mind can’t wander as much as it normally does.
FIVE
NOW, SUMMER
I stand in front of the deep brown wooden door for four minutes. I let my eyes trace the grooves, lines, and swirls carved into it while I allow myself a few moments of procrastination before I find the courage to reach out and open it.
I shouldn’t feel this much anxiety, especially since it’s my own home. But it’s what is inside that causes the anxiety.
I’ve lived in New Jersey, and more specifically the US for most of my life. Having moved here in second grade, this is mostly all I remember. The only memories I have of Puerto Rico are the busy streets outside our house always buzzing with cars and people, the old woman down the road selling the best empanadas, and the stray dog that my parents forbade me from feeding because he would never leave us alone but I didn’t listen—I named him Chico.
I’m convinced that anything else I think I remember are just stories my family told me or from photographs that were shown to me.
My father lived in the States when he was younger while he studied law at Columbia University in New York City. He was the first of his family to attend and graduate college. He moved back to the island after graduation and opened his own firm. Several years later, he was offered senior partner at a firm in New York City by an old colleague and he knew he couldn’t turn it down. He and Mom had been wanting to relocate our family to the States for years.
But my dad didn’t want us living in the city. Having lived and worked there before, he didn’t want the city life for his kids. He wanted us to grow up in a small and safe town, somewhere we—my younger brother and sister, and I—could have the space and freedom to be kids.
So we packed up our lives, including my abuelo and abuela, and we all moved to Penbrooke, New Jersey. We smushed ourselves, all seven of us, into a small three bedroom house until we were able to afford a bigger space—my parent’s dream home.
My family is the best. Maybe a little overbearing and intrusive, definitely loud and nosey, but truly the best. I take a deep breath and open the door, stepping inside to the familiar warmth and comforting smell of my mom’s cooking. This alone brings a small smile to my lips.
“Ana?” my mother yells from the kitchen as “Conciencia” by Gilberto Santa Rosa plays in the background. I try to not focus on the music.
“Hey, Mamá,” I call back.
“Hola cariña, cómo estás?” she asks. Hi my dear, how are you? I hang up my jacket in the closet and walk through the family room to get to the kitchen.
“Hey, I’m good. How are you?” I respond in Spanish. I find her in front of the stove stirring something in her huge metal pot. She finishes, placing the spoon on the counter and covering the pot with a lid before turning and walking over to me. Her dark hair is pulled back into a bun on the nape of her neck, silvers and grays streaking throughout the strands behind her ears. Her dark brows are slightly furrowed even though her brown eyes, the same shade as mine, are twinkling in happiness, the way they always do when they look upon her loved ones. Her face bears more lines than it did a few years ago, but she is still so beautiful. People often say I’m her spitting image, that when my mom was my age we could have been twins. I have always found that to be the greatest compliment. My mother is everything I want to be in life.
She hastily turns the music off before she walks over to me and pulls me into her arms in the most familiar embrace. We’re around the same height. Softness fills her arms and middle more than it did when she was younger. She likes to say she carries her years and memories in more ways than just the wrinkles around her eyes, but in the weight around her middle, her arms and legs.
“I’m more full of life now than I used to be, and I love every ounce,” she likes to say. But she is still just as striking as she was in the old photos I’ve seen of her.
“How are you really? Honestly?” She keeps talking in Spanish. She pulls away but keeps hold of my arms and looks me in my eye. I sigh, and I close my eyes before they start filling with tears.
