She was shorter than I remembered. Closer to my size, whereas the rest of my sisters were a bit taller, pulling from our dad’s side of the family. Her nose was wider than mine, but looked a lot like Marie’s, and her hair, which had always been lighter than ours, was almost blond now, pulled back into a practical ponytail at the base of her neck.
Her eyes, though, were what we all shared—every single person at the table had the same bright green emeralds that twinkled when we were happy and seared when we were mad. Hers were just as expressive, if somewhat dulled with time. And maybe substance abuse.
These were all the things I studied and thought about while she explained to us where exactly she had been since we’d seen her last at a party thrown on her family’s side, where she’d fallen off the wagon for what had to be the last time.
That was two years ago. Apparently, she’d gone back to rehab, made it through some kind of transitional living program, and had gotten herself a job at a convenience store in Hunt’s Point. She was living with two other women she’d met in rehab in the same area—a less than ideal part of the Bronx, but one that she could afford.
“So that’s that,” she finished. “I’m sober two full years now. I’m ready to be in my girls’ lives again. Can you ever forgive me?”
She held up her hands and lay them flat on the table. Two fingers were adorned with immense turquoise rings. The others were bare, but all her nails were perfectly done, long, with broad white tips. Vaguely, I wondered how she could afford such a beautiful manicure on a clerk’s wages.
“Oh, Mami,” Joni said as she got up and warmly embraced our mother. “Of course we forgive you. Everyone deserves second chances, don’t they, girls?”
Or third, I thought. Fourth, fifth, six…
“Absolutely,” Lea said warmly, but she would, considering she was the one who had reconnected with Mom in the first place last year. When she had gotten pregnant with Lupe, she’d started taking the boys to the odd Ortiz family gathering. The rest of us hadn’t had much interest in knowing that side of the family, but I knew things had gone well. Really well, considering she had named Guadalupe after the woman standing here.
“Yeah, they do,” Marie said, for once agreeing with Joni as her eyes shone through her smudged lenses.
Kate, though, remained quiet. I didn’t know what to say either.
Maybe the difference was that we were both old enough to remember what happened, whereas Joni and Marie didn’t. I remembered the look on Nonna’s face when she found out her son was dead, and the blurry-eyed expression on Mom’s mug shot when she was arrested for a DWI and two counts of vehicular manslaughter—one for the other driver, and one for her husband.
I was only Sofia’s age, but I also remembered clearly what it felt like to be told my mother wouldn’t be coming home because she had to serve a five-year sentence at Riker’s. That was when this house became my home. When Nonna and my older sisters became my mother, Matthew and Nonno, my father. When I learned exactly whom in my life I could trust.
And that did not include Guadalupe Ortiz.
“I need to get going,” I told Kate more than anyone. “I’m sorry. I wish I could stay, but I really have to leave. Sofia! Mama’s got to go, babe! Come down and give me a hug.”
I left the dining room to meet Sofia as she tramped down the stairs, her cousins following closely behind.
“Bye, munchkin. Remember, Nonna’s putting you to bed tonight, and Aunt Joni is bringing you to school in the morning, okay?”
“Okay, bye, Mama. Oh, who’s that?”
Sofia pointed a chubby finger over my shoulder. I turned to find my mother following me into the foyer, looking up at where Sofia stood on the fourth stair from the bottom.
“Oh. Oh my,” she whispered. “Is this my baby Sofia?”
Great. She might have asked.
I picked Sofia up and settled her on my hip. At four, she was almost too big for this, but since she was so small, I was able to get away with it for a scant few more months, maybe.
“Sof, this is your grandmother. My mother. Her name is Guadalupe. Mom, this is my daughter, Sofia. You actually met her at that party a few years back. But, um, maybe you don’t remember.” Because you were drunk as a skunk.
Sofia’s blue eyes grew wide. “Guadalupe like Baby Lupe?”
Guadalupe nodded and offered a bright smile, though several of her teeth were stained from years of neglect. “That’s right, baby girl. I’m your abuela. What do you think of that?”
Sofia cocked her head. “What does abuela mean?”
“It means grandma, linda. That’s Spanish too, for ‘pretty.’ My mother was from Puerto Rico, so she taught me Spanish. That means you’re part boricua too, you know? So maybe I can teach you.”
Guadalupe reached out to touch Sofia’s cheek, but my daughter shied into my shoulder.
“Come on,” she said. “Give your abuela a hug, mamita.”
She looked as if she expected me to hand over my child. But I kept her to my side and shook my head. “I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t force her to hug people if she doesn’t want to.”