CHAPTER 5

The night has changed since you left
It used to sing with joy
Now the stars have become too calm
Watching silent above me

~Nathaniel's Lyric Journal

I COULDN'T BREATHE.

I kicked off the damp sheets clumsily, attempting to regain control of my mind.

diez...nueve...ocho

I counted backwards in my head, trying to reclaim my body from its anxiety.

Usually counting backwards in Spanish help me relax, but that did not work this time. Feeling the familiar horrid rush in my chest, I jumped off my bed fast enough to reach the bathroom before puking my guts out in the toilet.

I covered my hands with my face, ignoring the dull burning sensation in the back of my throat.

I dreamt about her again. When I close my eyes, I could vividly see her on the floor, dead. How I walked in on her unmoved body and my useless cries for help that followed after. Her closed eyes only served as a reminder of what happened.

I failed her.

I still remember standing at her funeral, standing under my umbrella as the rain was beating against it with anger. My black shoes were sinking into the mud as my breathing became more heavy throughout the funeral.

I shook my head.

Don't do this to yourself again.

Attempt to push my thoughts aside, I flushed the toilet, and stared at myself in the mirror. I saw my mother in my facial features. My dark hair was mussed everywhere except for the side that was matted from my pillow. The dark bags appeared swollen under my eyes, indicating the lack of sleep. I was not sure how long I slept, but from the heavy feeling in my eyelid, it was not for a very long time.

I splashed over water on my face, holding back a tiresome yawn.

Attempting to look more awake, I showered, enjoying the water beating on my back. When I finished, I mindlessly grabbed the nearest white towel around my hips and got another one for my hair. The exhaustion made everything feel slow and distorted.

I walked into my room, and checked the time.

11:32 AM

I rubbed my sleepy eyes, and walked towards the open window. I closed my eyes, letting the sun ray hit my eyes. Flinching at the sudden warmth, my eyes adjusted to the brightness before looking around outside. The backyard was empty besides the chirping noises and rusting from animals.

I scratched my head, still not entirely use to the sounds of the country. I remembered seeing cars and buildings as my view in New York. It seemed like eons ago rather than a few weeks.

Unsure how to feel, I went back inside the house and tiredly put on shorts and a polo shirt. Going down the hallway, my nose smelled something enticing from the kitchen. I slowed down, processing the scent with a sense of déjà vu.

It was a smell that I have not experienced since Mom.

Entering the kitchen, I was not surprised that Dad was not there. Instead, an elderly lady was using the stove. Her peppered hair was tied back into a bun as she was humming a familiar Spanish song I use to hear when I was a child.

Fresh tortillas were on the counter. Chicken was grilling on the skillet and I saw a bowl with salsa verde nearby. It looked weird to see so much food on the counter because it looked like a home with life.

I beamed when I realized it was my grandma in the kitchen.

"Hola, Abuela," I greeted her, reaching in for a hug and rubbing any evidence of exhaustion from my eyes. Her stout figure hobbled quickly to me to throw her arms around me for a hug. "What are you doing here?"

"Hola mi nieto," she gushed, crushing me with her arms. She pulled back, and rubbed my face. "¡Que guapo! You have grown so tall and handsome. Te pareces a tu abuelo. You look like just like your grandfather. Your father let me in, but he's at work. I saw no food in the kitchen so I let you sleep and we have been here since," she chattered with a heavy Spanish accent. I nodded, looking outside and noticed my aunt outside while my cousins were playing soccer.

I turned to look at the saucepan, smelling the familiar spices I have not seen for so long. My stomach growled at the thought of proper food.

We?

I turned to my backyard and I saw my cousins all walking towards me, hugging and talking out loud at me.

My mom was the oldest of five children. This led  to many cousins ranging close to my age and younger. While a few came earlier this week to unpack, most of them were here this time, all eager to to hug and kiss my cheeks until I couldn't hold them.

Abuela came up to brush a my youngest cousin that was clutching my let . "Isabella, let him eat."

Three-year-old  Victoria looked up from me to look at her with bright brown eyes. "Pero Abuela," she began before Abuela gestured the cousins to go outside.

"Let him eat, and he will come outside. All of you. ¡Vayan!" Abuela commanded, using her frail hands to gesture all my cousins outside. Suddenly turning around she pushed me away, and hit my arm a bit too hard for my liking.

"¡Coma! You must be starving," she complained, ushering me to the table. She went back to the counter and took a plate, piling food onto the plate. She pushed the plate in front of me, eyeing me to eat.

At the sight of the food, my stomach growled again.

"How long have I been sleeping?" I asked in English, shoving the tasty food in my mouth.

Abuela took a seat next to me, watching me eat with satisfaction. "Only an hour. We just wanted to help and let you sleep. Your dad did not say anything to you?"

I did not want to explain how my father has changed since Mom's death so I just shook my head. Abuela luckily did not ask any more pressing questions, instead reaching out to push my hair out.

"Te ves como un mapache," she commented, eyeing me critically.

You look like a raccoon.

I grimaced at her comparison. I was sure I did not look that tired, but clearly I was wrong.

"Gracias, Abuela," I thanked her dryly.

She laughed weakly.

"Está bien mi nieto. It's okay. I know you are going through a hard time." I stopped eating, and felt that talk coming.

That same one I kept fucking hearing in New York.

She was going to bring up the thing. It was going to happen. At the funeral, she collapsed on my mother's casket and broke down. She said watching her daughter leave the Earth before she did shattered her heart. Prior to that, I never have seen my Abuela cry.

She was always a happy in the home, so there was no reason to see her sad.

But watching her sob was gut wrenching.

I wasn't sure if I was emotionally capable of hearing this again, especially when Abuela does not know the entire truth. Only her saying it reaffirmed the fact that I looked miserable.

I reached for her frail hand. Her hand tightly gripped mine.

She sniffled. "Your mamá misses you very much."

Her voice cracked, and she turned away. Her hands were shaking undermine, so I held them tighter. She was no longer looking at me.

"¿Está bien, abuela?" I asked in a worried tone.

She shook her hand, pulling her hands away from my own. She wiped her face and slowly got up from the chair.

"I am okay. I'm sorry," she sniffled. "I thought I could do it."

I froze at her words. "Do what?" I asked curiously.

"I thought I could look at you, but you look too much like her," she cried out. I wanted to get up and comfort her, but her just looking at my face makes my Abuela broke down. In a way, I felt cursed. My internal struggles reflected on my face and infected everyone around her.

I was half-tempted to jump up and shout out her daughter did not die from cancer, but I wisely kept my mouth shut.

Telling Abuela the true story, however, would kill her; I could almost guarantee it. Her frail body was trembling hard at the idea of cancer killing her daughter, and thinking of seeing my mother dead like that did not want me to reveal the truth.

It felt like an ugly secret hidden in my throat.

But was something I had to keep to myself.

"I'm sorry," she continued to cry.

I heard some more footsteps come in, but I ignored them, focusing on my grandmother.

"Mamá, you must be exhausted," another female voice declared, and I wanted my Aunt Maya comfort her mother. She watched over my Abuela, and was also devastated by my mother's death.

"Sorry. She's just upset," she whispered, eyeing my Abuela from a distance.

"Welcome to the club," I muttered.

She patted my shoulder sympathetically and gave me a weak smile.

"You know what would make Abuela happy? If you maybe sing a song for her later today. She loved it when you sang when you were a child."

I dropped my food, frozen by her question. I haven't sung in so long that it was slowly becoming foreign to me. It was strange to consider it a hobby of mine for years.

Mom made me join a Spanish church choir when I was young. I guess I was good because other people began to notice, much to Mom's pride.

I didn't care. I just liked to sing with my guitar. Something about singing was liberating. I never felt more free when in front of the microphone.

Maybe the fact my mind was caged was the reason I stopped singing.

"Good," I lied through my teeth. Her brown eyes soften at my lie. "I don't really sing anymore."

She nodded because she knew a while roughly translated too I don't really sing anymore since Mom was diagnosed with cancer.

"Your mother wouldn't be happy if you stopped singing. If you need anyone to talk to..." she trailed off, but I cut her off when I realized that once again, someone was going to lecture me about this.

Again.

"It's okay. I got it," I said with a smile.

I didn't share about my constant loneliness even when I was surrounded by people who I love and cherish. I couldn't explain the feeling, but reaching out felt like a burden. Not to them, but more to me. I am stuck in a constant loop for so long that it was impossible to get out.

I'm just sick of repeating conversations that has no purpose or positive outcome.

She cleared her throat. "Alright. Well your father is at work. Antonio and Mario are playing outside. You should go outside and say hi." I smiled at that.

Abuela looked down at my wrist, and she gasped. She gripped my wrist tightly, her fingers were digging deeply into my wrist, causing me to wince.

"¿De dónde sacaste eso?" she asked urgently, shaking my wrist down at me. Looking down, I looked at what my grandma was talking about.

It was the bracelet around my wrist that Mom taped to the notebook.

"Mom gave this to me for my birthday," I explained, thinking back to the old notebook that was given a long time ago. "¿Porque estas molesto?"

Abuela shook her head vigorously. "No. I haven't seen that since..."

She clamped her mouth shut, and looked away to wipe her eyes.

"From what?" I asked, not realizing I was on the edge of my seat.

"Since she decided she was not returning to Alabama." Aunt Maya whispered. Abuela was silent, nodding silently with her frail hands shaking. "Do you remember anything the last time you were here?"

Frowning, I rubbed my chin in thought. "The last time we all came here was when I was four. I didn't realize it was such a big deal."

We stopped going one day without an explanation. There was no particularly no reason to why we stopped, so I didn't give it much thought. Most of my family in Alabama came to visit New York- I just assumed it was because there's more to do in New York than Alabama.

I didn't expect anything more.

My aunt gave me a strange look before saying, "That's not the entire story."

I froze midway from my food, looking between my relatives in suspicion.

There was more to this?

"What happened?" 

Asking my aunt what happened caused her to touch her dark hair nervously. "I don't know what happened entirely myself. It was a long time ago. It was when she said she did not want to come back to Alabama ever again."

I pushed my food away in light of this information. My hands were running through my hair in confusion. "She did not want to return to Alabama? But her whole family is here. That does not make sense."

Abuela looked me warily while my aunt grabbed her hands in comfort. "Your mom was out the entire day before you left for Alabama. She wouldn't tell us where she was going, typical Anita. But when she returned in the night she was a different person. She was crying so much and for so long, but she wouldn't tell us what happened. Something happened obviously, but she wouldn't talk about it. She kept saying la tracioné."

I betrayed her.

I frowned. "Who did she betray though?"

Abuela shrugged. "I don't know. She just kept saying she didn't not want to come back here anymore, no matter how much we tried to convince her otherwise. She would not talk. She doesn't want to come back. And she didn't up till the day she died."

Throughout her explanation, she made limited eye contact. Her brown eyes were tearing up and her voice cracked occasionally throughout the story as if she was running that moment through her mind again.

Aunt Maya shook her head. "Anita was always stubborn, and we could not convince her. She was holding it though, and crying at it. She wouldn't stop looking at it."

I looked at the woven bracelet in my hand. It was a simple red, white, and green colored bracelet. There was no words or symbols anywhere to be seen on it. If I saw this in a store, I probably would not have given it much thought.

"How is this related to my mom not wanting to return here though?" I asked, gesturing to the bracelet.

Abuela shrugged her shoulders sadly.

"I don't know."