Chapter 19

19

Abuela Erika kind of reminds me of Amá Sonya, only if Sonya decided she wasn't too good for clothes from JCPenney and she was a hell of a lot meaner. I mean, yeah, my grandmother is a bitch. We all know and accept it. But she was worse when we were teens. I think us being the same age as my mom—her daughter—when she moved out did something to Sonya emotionally. But now we get along better. Sure, Sonya mocks my clothing, and she hates my musical taste, and she acts like she'd rather be doing anything else than talk to me when we're together. But she also once offered to buy me a Birkin the same color as my name. I'm pretty sure Erika would rather propel herself through a third-floor glass window than offer to buy me a one-dollar pizza slice from the corner store if I were starving to death.

That said, I wonder how things would have been different if Sonya or Mama had had a son. Based on how my second cousins are treated, the boys versus the girls? The dynamic is very similar to the Velasquez family. Ever since Sky got back from the "dead," she's been trying to research our own lineage and she keeps talking about things like intergenerational trauma and colonial inheritance . I wonder if that is where so much of Latine sexism comes from. On second thought, maybe Erika and Sonya are more alike than I know. Sage, Sky, and I were just lucky enough to be all sisters.

Erika walks past the entryway, her nose in the air, adding half an inch to her five-foot-two frame. She's a small woman, but she seems real sturdy somehow. Some elders, their demeanors give away a type of frailty—the way they slow to go up the steps or brace themselves before they get up from sitting. Not Erika. She reminds me of a bull, shoving one of Carter's little cousins out of the way so she can make her entrance properly.

Erika's hair is short and white, styled to have kind of a poofy volume. Her makeup is understated except for a coral lip. She's got on a peach dress, A-line with a long skirt, the neck conservative and square. Pearls adorn her neck and ears. Her shoes are white slippers, like the kind you see on retail workers, or other people who are on their feet all day. She's carrying a Michael Kors handbag, which is basically a rip-off of a gray Saffiano Prada tote. I don't particularly care about brand knockoffs. Like I said before, I'll wear a no-name bag one day and a Louis the next. But the fact that Erika carries something that Sonya would consider not just disrespectful, but distasteful , which is worse to her, makes me feel a little bloom of petty happiness.

Stop being selfish , I remind myself. I don't even know if she's the same old asshole as she was back in the day. I mean, sure, her whole family is terrified of her. One cousin has run into the bathroom to hide, and another is trying to stay unseen behind her mother. But I'm Carter's wife now. That's gotta mean something to her, right?

"Hola, Abuela Erika," I say, taking a step toward her. "It's so nice—"

She holds a hand up, her palm open, stopping me in my tracks. "No, no. I'm not interested in greeting you like you didn't ruin my grandson and then trap him into holy matrimony." She looks around and points at Gloria. "I told you, didn't I? I told you when Carter was ten years old that that girl would be the end of him. She would steal him right out from under you. Didn't I say that?"

Everyone's holding their breath. Carter's frozen and I feel a small—okay, a large twinge of disappointment when he doesn't correct her. Which means, like usual, I have to fend for myself.

I inhale deeply. I need to stop being selfish, which means this family get-together can't just be about my feelings, right? Carter wants to fulfill Abuelo Gene's wish, which is peace. So I'm going to try my freaking hardest to be damn peaceful, even if I have no idea how.

"Actually, Erika, you told me that yourself when we first met. Remember? I was eleven, it was Gloria's birthday party. So I can confirm it with my own vivid memory." I smile very sweetly. "And look at us now. You've spoken it all into existence. So powerful." Okay, yes, I am getting sarcastic now, but I swear my tone and face are as sweet as can be. I can tell that no one aside from Carter understands that what I am doing is intentional. Yes, you called an eleven-year-old child a whore to her face. That's the kind of person you are. So powerful .

Amá Sonya is going to be so proud when she hears about this. I'm channeling her, after all.

I clap my hands together before she can open her mouth with something stupid and nasty in response. "The food's getting cold. Let's eat."

Luckily the family begins talking at once, racing toward the bowls and containers of food lined up on the counter, and just a smidge of that tension eases. People joke and laugh, and eventually I join Carter at the table. He smiles up at me, and I can't bring myself to genuinely smile in response. I mean, I make an attempt. Erika's watching me so closely, I'd ask her to take a picture (it would last longer! Haha!) if I didn't think it would mess up his chance to get his money.

So yeah, my smile doesn't reach my eyes because damn, I thought Carter would be different. When I told him the crap Erika used to tell me back in the day, he'd play it down. Oh, she didn't really mean it , or, she's extra stressed today. Come on, let's play. But right now, we're not little kids. We're adults and I'm his wife .

And the fact that he doesn't notice how pissed off I am just makes me angrier.

"I can't eat this," Erika finally says over the noise. "This food is so unhealthy and fattening, and it has no flavor." She glares at me. "Do wives nowadays no longer cook?"

"I asked her to get this food, Wela," Carter pipes up.

"And she didn't realize that what you really wanted was something homecooked? To make a good impression on your family?"

"It's not what I wanted." Carter's tone is sharp enough to make Erika purse her lips and glare at me. I know exactly what she's thinking, that I somehow coached him into this "disrespect." If I were to crack open her mind and see her thoughts, my guess is that there is a very vivid image of me wearing a witch's hat, stirring a potion that turns well-behaved men into insolent ones.

I give him a smile of gratitude and he puts a hand on my knee. I almost lean into him but I don't want to provoke Erika any more than I already have.

"You know, when I was first married, I didn't know how to make toast. But I learned quick." Gloria grabs another biscuit. "Maybe I can come around and teach you some of Carter's favorite dishes, huh?" She smiles at me so genuinely, it lessens my anger just a touch. Even though she's joining the misogyny chorus, her heart is in the right place.

"I'd love that," I say.

Erika snorts. "You can't teach an old dog new tricks ." She says tricks as though it's well known that I'm a prostitute who specializes in truly outrageous behavior, like sex with goats, or maybe skyscrapers.

When I glance at Carter for support, he's got his head down and is going to town on his food. When our gazes meet again, he gives me a look of pride. Not, like, pride in me or this situation. He's still riding the high of sticking up for me once—just once—so far.

This is what happens when a boy child is praised for doing the bare minimum his entire life. I'm not even sure if he heard his grandmother call me a dog, because he's too busy waiting for me to coo and pat his head for two sentences.

The only person who sees me the whole time is his sister Gabi. She winces with every passive and overly aggressive insult and suggestion. If I weren't here, she'd be bearing the brunt of this garbage. I bet no one has ever stood up for her. Not in a real way.

Which means if I want Erika to respect me, I have to keep getting all Amá Sonya on her.

I only vaguely notice how the dark the sky has gotten when I return my attention to the crap she's spewing now.

"There's no reason any woman needs to have muscles," she scoffs, looking pointedly at my arms but pretending she's just offering a random opinion for no reason. "That's what her man is for."

I try my hardest to think of What Would Amá Sonya Do…hmm. Let's try the I don't know what you mean route. "Our muscular structure is integral to human health. Without it we would literally die. There's no reason all women need to die." I paste a saccharin-sweet smile on my face as I flex my biceps while grabbing my water.

Erika glares at me. "I mean working out all the time, looking like a man. No woman should look like a man."

I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. What would Sonya do, what would Sonya do…how about a nice, passive-aggressive compliment. "Erika, I meant to comment on your lovely hairstyle. It reminds me of a great big cone of delicious cotton candy!"

It's weak, as far as insults go. But I had a feeling she would hate the comparison, and her following snarl confirms my suspicions. "Hey!" one of the children says with a giggle. "Abuela Erika's hair does look like cotton candy!" A big laugh goes around the table.

Before Erika can respond with something scathing, I laugh and throw my head back. "Beautiful cotton candy!" Sonya loves to smother insults under words like beautiful , sweet , and bless your heart .

"Every woman needs a hairstyle. It's how one stays respectable ." She narrows her eyes at me and adds, "There's nothing wrong with a boy sowing his oats. But after that, he needs to settle down with a nice and respectable girl," she exclaims loudly. "Not someone who comes from a gutter family." This last bit, she mumbles under her breath. I swear she just holds back from spitting on me.

"Aww, that is such a sweet sentiment." I put my hand on my heart. "And I totally agree. Nice and respectable girls turn into nice and respectable women. The kind of women who are loving and sweet. Not the kind of women who tell children that they would end up as loose as their mother. Right?"

Erika's jaw is slightly dropped. And so are the men's. The women, though. Their eyes gleam with something like glee. I glance at them all and say, "Some vieja actually told me that when I was little. Can you believe it?" I shake my head and sigh. "If it's not something Jesus would do, then it's not something a nice lady would do, am I right?" I raise my glass, because no one is going to argue with me once I bring Jesus into it. "And on that note, I'd like to make a toast." I raise my glass. "To nice women. Who are always kind, whether to Chihuahuas"—because yes, I've seen Erika kick one of her granddaughter's old Chihuahuas before—"to all children"—because although Erika was brutal to me, she didn't like any kids, as far as I could tell—"and most of all, to their daughters and daughters-in-law." I smile as everyone cheers and toasts, led by cousin Gordon, and then I add a little extra something in a low voice especially for her. "Because nice women want relationships with their future great-grandchildren. Right?"

Erika's slams her gaping mouth shut, and then someone gets up to toast me and Carter and all the future Velasquez babies.

If she thought she was going to make me bawl like when I was a child, well. She can see now that she was wrong.

Carter walks everyone outside and I stay in, beginning cleanup. "Hey," Gabi says as she joins me, helping to stack dishes and carry them to the sink. "That was something you did there." She lowers her voice with a grin. "I've never seen her so speechless in my life."

I smile but it doesn't feel as victorious as I'd like. I'm realizing now that I got carried away. That I let the old, selfish Teal through too much. Not that I'll admit that to anyone. I just don't know what to do when I'm cornered like that, when someone is telling me to my face that I'm the one who's ruined their grandson. How does someone get through that gracefully? I don't know. Sage is the least selfish person I know, and I think even she would have conjured some thick vines to smother the vieja.

"We should go out sometime," I tell Gabi as I walk her to the door.

"Yes, you have to show me where you get your purses. Mine is—" She lifts up a bag that, if I had to guess, is a knockoff from a knockoff dollar store. It's so wrinkled, it looks like an old collection of sediment taken from an archaeological site. The deep brown pleather is peeling all over the strap and its bottom, revealing the yellowed lining within.

"Give me your address," I demand, because not only are we going shopping, I'm also sending Gabi something nice as soon as Carter gives me my cut. If he can't get it to me in time, all I'll have to do is describe this purse to Amá and she'll give me the money. The idea that this zombie of a handbag exists in Cranberry will be insulting enough for her to cover a Fendi Sunshine Medium Shopper in a tan color, which, looking at Gabi's style, would suit her really well.

After Gabi and I kiss goodbye, I keep the door open as I peek out, looking for Carter. Seems like they're doing the thing that all Latines do, which is hover around their cars for an hour-long farewell that probably will continue once folks starting actually getting in their cars, too.

I'm in the middle of a relieved sigh when a tiny, veiny, pearl-ring-covered hand reaches around me to slam the door shut. It startles me for only a second, but then I put on my game face when I turn around.

Because of course, it's Abuela Erika.