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Cassie
Mom made me beans and rice, a fact of which I was made aware by her calling me to say, “I made extra beans and rice.”
“Then why don’t you put it in some Tupperware?” I’d responded.
“Just come over and eat it.”
We hadn’t spoken since the fight in my apartment. The absence of her daily texts about the names of actors she recognized but couldn’t place, her voice mails summarizing the habits of her plants growing outside the duplex, her invitations to help her “wash the rich people toilets,” were like little holes poked in my days. The stillness of my phone was enough at times to make me look up her name, but then I remembered she wouldn’t want to speak to me, either.
She wanted to speak to her daughter the law student, maybe, or her daughter the paralegal, but not me.
When she called, I waited to answer until the last second before it hit voice mail, my heart pounding.
Now we sat in the kitchen on Cord Street over the steaming bowls of red beans and white rice with ham and sofrito and Sazón con Azafran. We made small talk about the dry heat, the novels she’d read recently, the new pots she’d purchased, how Tía MiMi was doing in San Juan. But everything was foreign, too cold.
I was sitting in the same chair where she used to pull a comb through my tangles until I cried. Then she’d cover her hands in coconut oil and massage my scalp until I stopped, clicking her tongue as I’d fall asleep right in the chair.
I’d dressed for the occasion. I wore a black jumper and above-the-knee socks and my law firm flats. She hadn’t mentioned anything, which was her way. One should not get awards for meeting reasonable standards.
When dinner was over, I steeled myself, ready. I knew her logic. No use in ruining a good meal with unpleasant talk.
She poured a mug of tea for each of us. She finally cut the silence. “Does what I was saying the other day make sense?” The only other sound was the tick of her cactus-shaped clock.
I breathed in steam, trying to stay calm. “Yes, but that wasn’t why I got upset with you.”
“Then what was your fuss about?”
My calming breaths stopped.
She sensed this, and clarified. “I know you are always going to do what you want to do, Cassandra. You have always been very independent. So I don’t understand why my opinions and advice make you so upset.”
I kept my voice measured. “If you know they won’t change anything, why do you say them in the first place?”
She considered, staring at the counter behind me. “Because I care.”
I set down my mug. “Exactly. Me, too. That’s why they make me so mad. Especially when you brought Luke into it.”
“But I was just stating facts,” Mom offered. “Luke is your responsibility...,” she continued.
“Mom, I know. I know. But sometimes I’m not looking for facts.” I swallowed, taking her hand across the table. “At that moment, I was looking for you to be proud of me.”
She suddenly looked very sad, her eyebrows knitting together.
“Luke and I, it could work out, it could not, but your support is what really matters.” I pointed at her, then to myself. “You and me, we’re forever.”
“Oh, Cassie.” A smile broke under her furrowed brows, her lips quivering.
Now it was my turn to fight tears. I wiped them away.
“I am very proud. So proud it hurts. I should—listen. Have you guessed yet, mija?” she asked, picking up her empty bowl.
“Guessed what?”
She held out her hand for my dish. “Who your father was?”
I handed it to her. “No,” I said.
“He was a musician,” she said, her back to me as she stood at the sink. I froze. Of course. Duh. Of course. Then she laughed. “He wasn’t even that good. In fact, I can guarantee you are better than him.”
