50
Yolie
“
W
hat do you mean,
I’m
the troublemaker of the family?” I sputter, as I try to apply my lip liner in the cramped bathroom that, even when almost empty, seems too small. I can rattle off a list of all my accomplishments: I went to college and paid for it myself. I live in my own place, pay my own bills, have my own life. So I married a white guy. So I got divorced. Big freaking deal. (They don’t know about my married boyfriend, George, so they can’t hold it against me that he’s white, too.)
“You’ve always been different, Jacqs. Look at that thing with Nate,” says Yolie, the eldest and therefore most messed up of all my sisters and brothers.
Dr. N would say she never had a chance to be a kid, and was born to be the family nag. Whatever, get some therapy and get over it. Of course I could never tell her this because then she’d realize I was in therapy and all hell would break loose.
She’s cornered me in the bathroom as I’m getting ready for dinner—which
Tía
Carmen, thanks to her machinations, has turned into a backyard family affair that my mother is currently cooking her ass off for in the kitchen. I guess
Tía
Carmen figures a buffer of about twenty people between me and Lina’s Prince Charming will be enough to keep me from seducing him.
“That
thing
with Nate. What thing? The getting-married thing or the getting-divorced thing?” Or the almost-having-sex-with-him thing the week before he gets remarried? Or the sending-his-bride-to-be-a-gift thing?
I can’t stand Yolie’s superior, judgmental attitude on everything from the length of one’s skirt to one’s marital status. She’s been an old lady her whole life. As stupid as it seems sometimes, I like my life. It’s my life and I don’t have to answer to anyone but me and sometimes Mrs. Mayor. Why can’t Yolie just understand that?
“Both.” Yolie says. Her husband is a lush who can’t hold down a job. They’ve been married for years but don’t have any kids, thank God. “You don’t see me getting divorced even though I could.”
“I’m sure God is overjoyed that you are so strong. I’m sure that’ll earn you a gold star in heaven, Yolie.”
“No one in our family is divorced,” Yolie states proudly.
What about me? Have I been excommunicated from the family by Yolie because I’m divorced?
“I know of plenty who
should
be.” I don’t want to point out that our own mother is drowning in her marriage and that Yolie’s husband would be better off if she showed him the door. He would probably stop drinking and become a CEO. Saying this would just cause a fight and Yolie likes to fight way more than I do.
“I’m just saying that you shouldn’t put ideas into people’s heads,” Yolie says.
“What ideas? What people?” I love Yolie, I do, but I can’t stand her.
“
Mamá
. You’re always telling her how much happier you are after the divorce. It’s all she talks about after she gets off the phone with you.” Yolie sniffs at me.
“I am happy! I can’t help it.” Which is true and not true. I’m sad I got divorced but I’m glad I’m not married. This distinction would be lost on Yolie, who is a black-and-white person who dresses in primary colors.
“I’m just saying that
Mamá
doesn’t need to hear things like that.”
“Maybe she does.
Mamá
is a grown-up.” I hate that Yolie thinks she can talk to me like this. I’m not a kid anymore.
“Have you ever considered what would happen to her if she did divorce
Papá?”
Yolie’s eyes rest on my makeup case, probably tallying what its contents have set me back. I won’t enlighten her as to the fact that they’re freebies from Natasha and my little trip through LaLa land with Myles.
“She’s not going to divorce him!” Usually I think Yolie is talking out of her ass, but this time she might have a point. My mom does seem more subdued than usual and then there was the whole Ivana–Donald talk at lunch.
“You’re so wrapped up in your own little world, Jacquelyn. With your house in San Francisco and your fancy job and clothes. Just remember, the rest of us have to deal with real life.”
“Listen, Yolie, I’m sorry you’re so fucking miserable that you have to come pick a fight with me while I’m putting on my mascara, but if our mother is talking about divorce, maybe you should listen to her instead of judging.”
“You’re a selfish bitch, Jacquelyn.” Yolie slams the bathroom door closed.
“Coming from you, Yolie, I take that as a compliment,” I call after her.
51
Mamá
A
fter making sure Yolie isn’t around, I head into the kitchen to help my mom and Noel. My father is outside firing up the barbeque. I’ve been here for hours but I’ve yet to say one word to him other than hello. I wonder if I can keep this up for the rest of my visit. It’s not as if he’s asking me to sit down and have a long-overdue father-daughter chat.
“Was Yolie here?” my mother asks as she chops tomatoes.
“She’s damned me to hell, but she’ll be back with the flan.” Flan, of course, is my sister Yolie’s signature dish.
“Jacquelyn, be nice. Yolie speaks her mind but she doesn’t mean half of what she says. Too much stress
en el trabajo
.”
My mother can never see the bad in her children, especially when they’re at they’re worst. And despite all his faults, my father also prefers to think of his children as works in progress. We can always do better, be better, but he’d never let us know when we got there.
It takes a lot and yet very little to disappoint them, though. They’re as quick to defend us as they are quick to let us know how disappointed they are in us for having to defend us. They don’t let us know this by directly confronting us; it’s just insinuated and burned directly onto our souls for eternity.
My major transgressions started when I announced I was moving away to attend college. Since then I’ve done nothing but give them cause for worry and grief, though they would never tell me this to my face. I know they’re disappointed in me and the way I’m living my life. My whole family has an issue with putting happiness first. Not that they’ve asked me if I’m happy; they just assume I am.
Not happy at home? Move away for college. Hate your job? Find another one. Fallen out of lust, er, love with your husband? Divorce him.
I, so far, am the anomaly—or flake—in the family because I’m vocal about how unnecessary it is to be unhappy and, if you are, about doing something to change your circumstances (thank you, Zoloft!). If I had it my way, my whole family would be comparing dosages at the dinner table the way some families talk about sports or politics.
Everyone has their role. My mother the martyr. My father the distant, unapproachable figure. Noel, with a few brief stints in jail, is considered misunderstood, not a handsome loser. Yolie is just outspoken, not a miserable, bitter shrew, which would be her clinical diagnosis in the “real” world. And the rest of my brothers and sisters have problems that my parents consider normal—like bad marriages, unruly children and too many bills.
So is it any surprise that I’m the troublemaker of the family?
52
Lina
I
keep myself busy in the kitchen so I don’t have to wander outside and not know who to talk to. Plus, Yolie is holding court at the picnic table, and I want to stay away from her as much as possible.
“Jacqs?” A nervous Lina hovers in the doorway.
“Lina? Where’s your boyfriend? I’m dying to meet him.” I wipe my hands on a dish towel and set the tortillas in the clay warmer.
“He’s outside. Can I talk to you for a second?”
“Sure. Let’s go to my room. I need to change my shoes.” Maybe one of the reasons my family can’t relate to me is because I’m standing over the stove heating corn tortillas in a pair of four-inch sling backs. “What’s your boyfriend’s name? I didn’t get a chance to ask.”
“Roberto.” Lina looks behind her as if he’ll materialize at the sound of his name.
I walk into my room and pull off my shoes and debate whether to change my whole outfit for something more casual. Lina clicks the door shut behind her.
“Jacqs?”
Something in her voice makes me turn around. “Are you OK, Lina?” My first thought is that this Roberto is a total asshole, beats her and she needs my help to escape. With a mother like Carmen I wouldn’t expect her to end up with anything more.
“I’m so happy. That’s the problem.” Lina begins to cry.
This makes sense to me, and Lina knows I understand. Sometimes the worst thing you can do in this family is not be miserable. It makes for all sorts of complications.
“Sit down. Tell me.” I hand her the box of tissue in its glittery crocheted cover. My mother knits them by the gross, and gross is the appropriate word for them.
“I’m pregnant.” She looks up with an ashamed smile.
“Holy crap! Congratulations, Lina! I knew you and your one ovary could do it.” I throw my arms around her and hug. She hugs me back, hard. She smells like Love’s Baby Soft. I didn’t even know they still made the stuff.
“Roberto wants to get married,” she says miserably.
“That jerk?”
“He wants to elope,” she says, still miserably, but with a tinge of excitement in her voice.
“Oh.” I’m the elopement expert in the family and the divorce expert, too, according to my mother and Yolie, Carmen, my father. . . “What do you want to do?”
“My mother will kill me. Either way.”
“Yeah, she will. But what do
you
want to do? That’s what counts.”
“I don’t know.” Lina twists the hem of her skirt in her hands. She used to do the same thing to her hair when we were kids. She would twirl it around her finger so tightly, her finger would turn white.
The first question I’d ask my friends would be, “Are you going to have the baby?” But Lina is my cousin and different rules apply for family. I put my hand on hers to stop her from mangling her skirt.
“Yes. I’m ready. Roberto is ready.” She nods her head firmly.
“So?” I’ve been away from home long enough to get exasperated when my family doesn’t see the obvious.
“I don’t know if my
Mamá
is ready,” Lina sighs and bunches up her shoulders.
“Fuck your mom, Lina.” I love being blunt. It’s my specialty.
“Jacquelyn!” Lina gasps. She looks around her as if her mom’s going to spring out of thin air.
“Lina, you’re an adult. You have the right to your own life. We all do. Your mom is just going to have to get over it.” Easier said than done, but Lina doesn’t need to be weighed down with small details right now.
Lina falls quiet, and I take the chance to change into my stalking Nate outfit. Dressed, I sit back down next to her and rub her back.
“I guess I have to do what’s right for me. Right?” She smoothes the wrinkles in her skirt.
“There’s nothing wrong with that, Lina.”
For a minute we sit together enjoying our status of family outcasts.
“Are you happy, Jacqs?” Lina asks and stands up.
As I consider my answer, I watch her walk over to the door and open it, waiting beside it for us to walk back to our family.
“I’m not unhappy and isn’t that almost the same thing?”
53
Mr. Mayor
I
balance my plate of food—roasted corn on the cob, beans and chicken—and take the tiny phone from my nephew, who’s fished it out of my bag. It’s my dedicated Mrs. Mayor line. She calls only for emergencies, such as when she needs a new pair of tasteful fishnets or she’s locked herself out of her car. Stuff like that.
“It’s been ringing and ringing.” He looks guilty. Going into someone’s purse or pockets is a sure sign of much worse things to come in our family.
“Thanks!” As if on cue, my phone rings in my hand.
“See?” he says desperately.
“Thanks. Really, it’s OK. Hold this for me, will you?” I hand him my plate and flip open the phone.
“Hello, this is Jacquelyn.” I stiffen and wait for a Mrs. Mayor type of emergency.
“Jacquelyn?” It’s
Mr.
Mayor! Well, hello!
“Mr. Mayor, is everything OK?” I stand up and fluff my hair. Mr. Mayor has
never
called me. Mrs. Mayor must be dead or something. I have to find a new job! I have to break up with George!
“Yes and no. It’s Vivian.”
“Oh, no! Is she dead?” I half-register my nephew setting my plate of food on the grass at my feet and darting back into the house to watch TV with the rest of the kids.
“No, no! She’s fine, but ... can you talk?” Mr. Mayor asks. “You sound as if you’re at a party or something.”
“No, it’s fine. Go ahead,” I say, trying not to squeak. Mrs. Mayor would never ask if it was a good time for me. She just talks into my ear and expects me to drop everything. Thing is, if I had an assistant, I’d sort of expect the same thing.
“Vivian and Curtis have, uh, broken up,” Mr. Mayor says uncomfortably. I can imagine him running his hand through his thick hair.
“That’s horrible.” But not a surprise. “Where is she? At home? I should call her.”
“That’s the thing, Jacqs. Curtis has had her evicted from their place.”
“Oh, no!” Vivian never liked living in Curtis’s minimalist loft, but I’m sure she didn’t want to get kicked out of it either.
“And he’s talking about getting a restraining order against her,” Mr. Mayor continues in a concerned tone.
“My God. What did she do?”
“She needs a place to stay. I would have her stay with us, but, you know ... I was hoping ... since you have that extra bedroom at your place ...”
“Not to worry. She can stay with me. In my second bedroom. Not a problem.”
How the hell does Mr. Mayor know how many bedrooms I have in my place? It’s not as if we’ve talked square footage over morning coffee.
“Thank you, Jacqs. Really.”
“Should I fly home? I can get a flight out tomorrow morning, tonight even.” This offer goes both ways. I do suddenly feel the undeniable urge to get the hell out of here. I smile sheepishly at my cousin-in-law.
“No, no! Stay. Enjoy yourself. Lei mentioned she has a set of your keys. I’ll make sure she’s settled. Thanks, Jacqs. Thanks a million. You’re saving my life. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She runs my life.”
“I’m sure she and Curtis will straighten this whole thing out. Mr. Mayor? Where is Vivian? Why didn’t she call me herself?”
“She’s sort of being detained by the police.” Mr. Mayor sounds distracted. In the background, I hear Mrs. Mayor call out to him in a not-so-loving tone of voice. “I have to get off the phone. Thanks again, Jacqs. Don’t worry about Vivian. I’ll get it all straightened out. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Yeah, thanks. Bye-bye, Mr. Mayor.” I can feel the eyes of my family on me, wanting to ask but not wanting to be the first. I pick my plate off the grass, take a huge bite of my corn, chew, smile, and pretend that I hadn’t just taken a phone call from the mayor of San Francisco.
“So,” I say, trying to get back into the groove of the conversation I was having before the mayor of San Francisco called and personally asked me for a lifesaving favor, “you were saying about getting a contractor out to install tile in your bathroom? I bet that was a total nightmare.”
I can feel corn in my teeth. I immediately shut my mouth and try to work the corn out without making any obvious smacking sounds. As I’m performing this feat, I make an extra effort to show I’m attentive, but eventually she wanders off. Probably to talk about me and how stuck up I am.