Page 37 of A Bookish Story

The main house is quiet, Eddie already gone because he leaves early for his commute into San Francisco. All is per the usual, except for finding the sleeping form of my mother on the couch. Her suitcases surround her, and there’s no less than five of them taking up a whole lot of square footage in Abuelita’s modest home.

She stirs and removes the eye mask, sitting up. “Querida. Buenos dias.”

“Why are you still here?” Hard to believe she couldn’t find a single hotel room in Seven Trees, Mountain View, or Menlo Park.

“Eddie insisted I stay the night. It was late when we were done talking.” She smooths a stray hair back into place. “It’s been years but we will never stop being family.”

That’s convenient after she’s left Seb and apparently has no one else. Now suddenly we’re her family again.

I hear pots and pans clanging in the kitchen, which means Abuelita is up and cooking. She’s close to eighty and not fond of my mother, but she’s been raised never to turn anyone in need away. Once, she served lunch to an unhoused man who showed up at her doorstep. When Eddie arrived, he escorted the man to the front door. Then he’d had a stern talk with his mother about the fact not all strangers are created equal.

I leave my mother and join Abuelita in the kitchen.

“What are you doing? You don’t have to cook for her.”

“I’m cooking dinner early. It will be hot today so better to do it now.”

I’m not convinced this is true, or that she won’t offer to cook my mother huevos rancheros or anything else she wants.

My mother appears in the doorway of the kitchen. “Buenos dias. Is there café?”

I shouldn’t be surprised but she appears to be wearing some fancy negligee. At least she has the decency to cover up with an equally slinky robe. Her slippers, of course, are pink furry little bunny ones with heels. I refrain from telling her that the eighties called and want their outfit back.

“Aqui.” Abuelita gestures to the coffeepot she’s already brewed with fresh coffee for her guest.

“I’m going to work so I can’t eat with you,” I explain.

“That’s alright,” Mami says. “I’ll have breakfast with Abuelita.”

“Really? You’re going to eat?”

Coffee in hand, my mother nods on her way out of the kitchen. “I would love to.”

I glance between the two women, who are different as salt and sugar, two ingredients that should never be substituted for one another. Abuelita barely glances up from the pan where she’s heating one of her homemade tortillas, but we exchange a significant look. She’s not going to skimp on the butter or salt.

“Your mami is going to stay a while,” Abuelita says.

“What? Why?”

“Because she’s your madre.”

“But she lives in LA.”

She shrugs. “As long as she’s here, my door is open. This is the way my Antonio would want it. It’s done.”

Nothing I say will change her mind. The lines of hospitality run deep in my grandmother. Besides, I know my mother will be gone as soon as she hears of an audition for a woman of a certain age. Maybe I should ask about her plans, but I don’t want to know.

When I leave, I overhear Abuelita and Mami eating at the table, and neither one of them appears to be ready to sock the other one. I think it’s safe to go, and I do, heading over to the coffee shop on University Avenue where they serve the best dark roast beans. The line is out the door, and I take the time to scroll through my phone for any updates. There is one from Pepper, advising she’s added photos from the shoot and links to the morning show to Elizabeth’s social media profiles but would like me to add personal photos as I see fit. I’m told I should fixate on a funny object that will serve as brand-adjacent, such as being a coffee aficionado (though that’s been done) to a dog lover (done) and a bacon enthusiast (also done.) Pepper thinks branding me as a boat lover would fit nicely given that Soulmates features so many sailboats.

I’ve never even been on a boat.

Next, there’s a disconcerting email from Holly.

To: theghostwriter@hotmail

From: inthequerytrenches@yahoo

Subject: WTAF