Chapter Thirty-One

Julia

WALKING THROUGH THE DOORS OF my parents' house is like walking out of a time machine and into the past. I'm not sure why I expected a few months would change anything. Spanish music plays from somewhere in the house. Scents of food cooking, some strongly seasoned meat, waft toward where I stand in the entryway, reminding me how hungry I am.

"Hello?" I call out. "Ma?" 

I know I should just make my way in, drop my bag by the stairs and head to the kitchen where my mother is undoubtedly cooking and too distracted by the music to hear my calls. But, for several long seconds, I'm hesitant to move farther into the house. It's no surprise I'm here. My family is expecting me. Though I'm about an hour earlier than I thought I'd be, since I took off almost as soon as I woke up this morning.

Ridiculous thoughts flash through my head. That I'm just opening myself up to more slut shaming and humiliation from my father. That my mother is still hurt by how little we've communicated over the last few months. That I've somehow managed to sever the bond I had with my sisters. That coming here was a huge mistake.

I stare at the tile flooring of the entryway, and then down the hall to the doors leading to the kitchen. The distance feels like a crater.

Leap.

I leave my bag tucked against the bottom of the stair railing and force myself forward, down the hall. Music grows clearer and the smell of food more potent, both wash me in a sense of nostalgia so sudden and pure that my eyes begin to burn.

Deep breath.

I push into the kitchen and, at the sound of the doors swinging shut behind me, my mom spins around from the stove, sauce-stained spoon in hand.

Her short, wavy hair is pushed back from her face with a plastic headband. She's wearing her favorite blouse, a peach colored one my aunt sent her from Venezuela, the shade of which my mother insists she could never find in American stores. I'm not sure if that's true, but it really is lovely. Somehow gentle and vibrant all at once, bringing out pink hues in her cheeks that make her look fifteen years younger.

We lock eyes, surprise registering on her face that I've arrived early. She sets down the spoon and extends her arms to me, a huge smile splitting her face. "Mija, come here."

I don't think twice about indulging in my mother's embrace. She hugs me tight and urges me to lean down so she can kiss my forehead, since she's a head shorter than I am. Then, she eyes me from head to toe, shakes her head and tells me, in Spanish, that I've lost weight. This is never meant as a compliment when it comes from my mother.

 "They don't have food in San Diego?" she asks, in her thick accent. "Don't you eat?"

I haven't lost weight that I know of, but it's my mother's irrational fear her children are forced to suffer through hunger whenever they are away from her. Like no one else's food could possibly nourish us the way hers can. 

Her critical but concerned tone brings a smile to my lips. I'm grateful to her for making food the first topic of conversation. She rushes to fix me a plate. Not the fragrant food cooking on the stove, that's for the party later this afternoon. My breakfast is something she made just for me. I'm starving, so when she signals for me to sit down at the table, I do so gladly. 

She sets down a fresh arepa in front of me. It's her version of a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich. Except it's on a fried cornmeal cake and that is somehow so much more delicious. 

Eating my mother's food feels like coming home in a different way than walking through these front doors did. This is how my mother shows her affection, through her food. And it tastes just the way you'd expect something that someone puts her heart into--divine. 

"Loca!" 

My sister's screech makes me wince in surprise. I barely have time to turn in my seat before Lola's arms constrict me in an impatient bear hug. 

"I didn't know you were here already--oh, you smell good, you got a new shampoo?" She presses her face in my hair and inhales, burying her nose in obnoxiously. I push her away, laughing, but get to my feet and hug her properly. 

We hug tighter and longer than we ever have. There are words in our hug that we don't say aloud. Words that let me know we're okay, that nothing's changed, and that no one argument will ever tear us apart.

I breathe her in. 

She's the one that smells good. My sister's one of those girls that takes the extra time to prep and prime every inch of her skin, lathering on scents that complement each other, creating their own unique fragrance. She pulls out all the bells and whistles in the looks department on a daily basis and it shows. Her dark hair is always blow-dried to perfection, eyebrows plucked to the precise degree to highlight her gorgeous brown eyes.

When I was younger, I had a doll named Lola that I treasured above anything else in the world. When my baby sister was born, I insisted on calling her by that name instead of Darla, the name my parents had chosen. I was three, so not exactly someone to be reasoned with. 

My sister Cassandra, who was six at the time, joined in on my name strike just to be a brat. The family grew so frustrated that they started calling Darla by my nickname just to be able to relay information between us three. And it stuck. Even my mom calls her Lola. My sister hates this nickname. Not passionately enough to get upset at us for using it--since she's had it her whole life--but enough to try and introduce herself as Darla to anyone she meets. Inevitably, everyone ends up calling her Lola after they hear the rest of us using it. 

I regret nothing.

"Where's Cassandra?" I ask.

"She's in New York for two weeks."

I nod, looking toward the kitchen doors like my older sister might still step through them at any moment. I'm disappointed I won't get to see her this visit. The dynamic in my family is different when she's around. While my parents tend to criticize their children's every move, Cassandra has a way of dealing with them that keeps them from messing with her too much. They don't question her the way they do Lola and me. When Cassandra decides something, everyone better get on board or jump ship.

The kitchen doors do swing open, but my father is the one who walks in. All of our eyes snap in his direction and my stomach sinks just slightly, worried about our first interaction since our big fight.

Our gazes intersect and I'm instantly reminded of how intimidating my father is. It's not only because he's the highest-ranking cop in the entire city, or because he's a war veteran and recipient of a purple heart after nearly losing his life to save twelve others in an ambush over twenty-five years ago. I'm convinced it goes further back than all those things. I'm convinced it wasn't the military or police service that hardened my father, but something much earlier in life. 

A lifetime of being his daughter will never prepare me for just how crushing a simple look of disappointment from him can be. And that's the last expression I saw on his face. 

But his expression is quite different as he comes my way now. He holds a cup of coffee in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. There's an almost timid energy about him that I've never before witnessed. 

"This is for you," he says, giving me the cup. 

It's not coffee. I can smell the cinnamon and somehow know it's hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon on top. My favorite. 

It's just so unexpected, and my voice is smaller than I mean for it to be when I say, "Gracias, Papi."

"And this," he says, handing me the paper bag.

 I recognize the logo on it at a glance. It's the Rolling Pin, a bakery that my father and I would pass whenever he drove me home from softball practice. Some of my favorite memories with him involve stopping there to get treats. It was one of the only things we did together, just him and me. And it was those bakery dates that taught me my father communicates in a different way than other people do. He doesn't know how to string words together when it comes to feelings, so he speaks through his actions. 

To some people this would not be enough. Some people would demand for his explicit apology, spelled out, word for word. People that don't know my father, that wouldn't understand the complicated gears of his inner workings. A man who's endured his share of scars and erected walls rooted deep in the ground, many decades before I was even born. And even though there have been many times throughout my life that I wished for a different father--a more nurturing one, a sweeter one--this is the one life dealt me. He loves my sisters and me more than anything in the world. He never meant to hurt me in his anger. I know that, deep in my bones. 

I'm old enough now to realize that to ask for him to be someone he isn't would just be a demand of my ego. And the ego doesn't care about anything but itself. As for me? I just want my father back. I'm willing to lay pride aside, if that's what it takes. 

This simple, almost childlike gesture of bringing me treats is his apology. It's his way of telling me he knows he was wrong. Might sound ridiculous to anyone else, but to me...

There's little time to bask in the moment because Lola pipes in, "Okay, but where's my coffee, though?" 

"You have to be gone for me to miss you, Lola," my father says, lips twitching a bit at their corners. He's looking at me when he says it because that...that's his way of telling me he's missed me. 

I hug him, hot chocolate in one hand, bag of pastries in the other. He hugs me back and I swear I feel his shoulders sag under an outward breath. 

Lola takes the opportunity to snatch the bag of pastries. And something about this silly, mundane moment manages to break any ice that encased my family, or me, or our relationship, or whatever it was. In our own, weird, dysfunctional way, we've made amends.

We all sit around the table to eat the pastries. When the doorbell rings, Lola mumbles something about it probably being one of our aunts who said she'd come early to help set up. She goes to answer it, while the rest of us continue eating, and my mother resumes her long-winded story about the nightmare, drama queen of a neighbor next door. 

Lola's approaching voice sounds out from beyond the door.

"Julia, you have a visitor." 

The words jar me, but there's something about the singsong way she says it that confuses me. The kitchen door opens and in walks Lola.

Followed closely by Giles.