Chapter Text
Abuelita made supper for the Montez family every night except Fridays. The arrangement was intended to be temporary, but her pregnancy with Alex was more gruelling than Yolanda’s; a detached placenta landed her on bed rest for nearly three months. By the time she had her seven-pound-six-ounce boy safely swaddled in her arms, the exhaustion wore her like a second skin. What she had done for God to punish her with postpartum depression, a colicky son, or her father’s stroke before Alex’s baptism, Maria would never know.
She dropped her keys into the glass dish in the foyer and tipped her head back against the door, closing her eyes with a sigh, bitterly contemplating the godly punishment brought upon them. What woman in Blue Valley couldn’t complete their errands in peace? Sister Agatha at the grocery store, cutting abruptly at the produce aisle. Tia Therese, with her sour pursed lips the second she glanced up from her sewing machine at the dry cleaners. To be a Montez was to be a pariah.
The house was empty, every other wooden plank creaked beneath her steps. After packing the groceries in the pantry, she turned on the stove to get the oil sizzling for homemade picadillo. It was her one meal, her one party trick that would not make Abuelita wrinkle her nose after a forkful with those quiet eyes that told Maria what terrible a cook she’d been all her life.
What a terrible cook and a terrible deaconess to show up empty-handed at church potlucks. What a terrible deaconess and a terrible wife to her precious mojito who worked so tirelessly every day to provide for their family, showing it by sitting in the recliner to watch match after match, day after day instead of lending a hand to vacuum the crumbs he left behind in his seat. What a terrible wife and a terrible mother, too, while she’s at it. Letting her only granddaughter soil her chastity, raising her to believe her place on God’s earth was to impress boys with her body. Because, apparently, Maria was at fault for Yolanda being so difficult. It was her fault that their once sweet daughter with promise was now spiteful and ungrateful of the sacrifices her mother gave her (college, travel, a career, a life) just to see her fail. This was her fault that Alex too snapped at them now with an attitude learned from his sister. It was Maria’s fault that Abuelita couldn’t sleep, so stressed about Yolanda’s future she swore to hear spirits in the night.
So it had to be picadillo. Picadillo had to be the Friday meal or else she’d be resigned to ordering in from Blue Valley Pizza and Maria did not think she could handle any more judgement tonight.
“Where is your daughter?”
Hot water sloshed out of the greasy pan in the sink. Maria tensed, scrubbing harder with the sponge, sick to death of the lingering scent of ground beef. “Where else, Juan? In her room.”
“No, she is not.”
“Then she is in the bathroom,” she replied through gritted teeth.
“She is not in the house. Just like yesterday.”
Maria dropped the soapy sponge, shaking out her wrinkly hands. Everyone had ditched the dinner table to watch the match halfway through supper, Yolanda included. It meant starting the dishwasher far too late and now cleaning the dishes that would not fit on the bottom rack at…Maria glanced at the clock on the wall. Nearly midnight. “What are you talking about?”
Her husband gestured up the stairs with a raised eyebrow. “See for yourself.”
“Fine.” Maria pushed a dishrag into his helpless arms, ignoring his frown.
She rapt gently on her door. Alex slept in the room across the hall, she did not want to wake him or Abuelita the next door over either. “Yolanda?” This was ridiculous. Juan always needed glasses but refused to get his eyes examined. She knocked and didn’t get an answer because Yolanda was likely also sleeping. Almost midnight, and on a day before school. Despite everything, Yolanda had maintained her academic success and those straight As did not come without working hard on homework in the evenings. Maria opened the door and walked into her daughter’s room, immediately taken aback by the unusual draft.
Bundled beneath her blankets lay Yolanda fast asleep in the dark. Maria rolled her eyes at her paranoid husband and crept over to the open window, shutting it firmly. She turned, hands splayed against the broken radiator and watched her daughter’s sleeping form, her chest rising and falling with every even breath and her father’s long eyelashes flickering through her dreams. Before she knew it, Maria was sitting on her bed, a hand hovering over the loose tendrils, that beautiful raven hair cascading in waves, freed from their strict braids. It had been months since she’d seen Yolanda like this.
This was her Mija. Her firstborn, her smart and talented daughter. Their honour roll student, youth champion, Ted Grant fangirl and class president. When was the last time she’d tucked her to bed? Sung her to sleep? What had happened to the little girl with the pink bows tied to her hair and the dimples in her cheeks? Where had she gone? She missed her. She missed her so much. How could she miss her daughter so much when she was right here?
Yolanda’s skin was warm to her featherlight touch, relaxed with sleep.
A year was too long to be grounded. They could start with that. There still had to be rules, but not as strict as they’d been for so long. They could talk in the morning before school. They could talk, and Maria would listen for once. She’d listen to hear what Yolanda had to say.
Juan snored loudly in bed when Maria prayed on her knees. Teach me, father. Teach me how to love Yolanda again. I don’t want to hate her anymore.
Her prayers were over but the dishes still sat uncleaned as the sink dripped. Juan left the dishrag over the rack and Maria finished quickly. In the hall, the draft came again. Maria frowned, first glancing at the crucifix mounted on the wall, then turning around the quiet house to find the source of the cold. Yolanda’s door groaned, ajar. She meant to close it before she left for downstairs.
She had closed it, she was sure. Her hand darted out to pull the door with a click, but a dread plunged to her stomach. Juan's paranoia whispered in her ears. She pushed, her breath stolen from her lungs and her heart stopped. All her assignments blew listlessly on the floor, window wide open to the veiled moon.
Yolanda was gone.