If Cassie’s book didn’t ruin everything.
After months of focusing on the double marriage, like she’d promised, now she kept chingue y chingue about the night Andres had died. Pinche Oscar. He was always kind of metiche. When he’d called me after his conversation with Cassie, he said he hadn’t told her anything. He’d obviously let something slip, though, because Cassie was asking what else was in the envelope, what else the note had said. She wouldn’t let it go. It felt like the past was literally loosening inside me, bolts and screws falling off hinges.
True to our deal, I had been answering one question, sometimes more, about the night of Andres’s murder per phone call—though, obviously, not always entirely honestly. I’d told her the doctor’s appointment that day was for my annual and that I’d gone back to the bank afterward. She’d asked why; it was nearly the end of the day, wasn’t it? I made something up: a woman in a man’s world during a recession needed to be seen putting in the hours. The truth was I’d had nowhere else to go.
Gabriel was still pestering me to stop talking to her. And I could. But that didn’t mean she’d stop working on the book, especially now that she knew about the gap in my alibi, which the police either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t cared about after Fabian was ID’d. I kept insisting I’d gone straight home from the bank to pick up the cuates. It wasn’t my fault no one could corroborate that.
No. If I stopped talking to her, I would forever be looking over my shoulder.
Besides, I liked our conversations. Our calls had filled my quiet evenings. I had been alone for so long that at some point the loneliness had simply settled inside me, like ten or twenty extra pounds over the years, something you only notice when looking at old photos. Now, I liked knowing the phone would ring at six o’clock, sitting down with dinner or sometimes a glass of wine. I liked not knowing exactly where our conversations would lead. And I liked making her talk about the things that made her uncomfortable. There’s no sense hiding from yourself, mija. There you’ll be anyway. That’s what I wanted to tell her.
Anyway, because of her, now I knew things I’d only wondered about for so long: of course Rosana would intercept my letters to Penelope and Carlitos. I could imagine her elegant hands ripping up the envelopes I’d lovingly addressed, burying them in the kitchen trash can beneath shriveled limes and wet paper towels.
Or had she read them first? Qué vergüenza, thinking of her reading my words. How I’d tried to explain—falling in love with their father, with them, wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t planned. But it was real. Maybe one day they might forgive me. Later I asked them questions, as if I were picking them up from school. I reminisced. I told them I missed them. How desesperada I must have sounded to Rosana. But I was desesperada, suddenly and catastrophically cut off from Andres, y los ni?os were all I had left of him, other than the things I’d stuffed beneath the floorboard at Mami and Papi’s house.
Except now I had this. The story I was telling. The pleasure of reliving that time with their father. The best time of my life, honestly. And the truth is, I had always been a hedonist. A slave to the pleasures of the moment. Wasn’t that how everything had started? Because, in a time of deprivation, Andres had given me his hand? How could I have said no? To the dance, to the wine, to that caged elevator, rising?
But Andres was not the only pleasure. Novelty is only one aspect to a relationship. There is also the velvet wrap of history, the bond of time.
There is loyalty. There is family.
Cassie, 2017
In early November, I emailed Penelope, apologizing for upsetting her and asking—on an extreme long shot—whether she had any written memorabilia of Andres’s from 1983 to ’86, especially toward the end of his life. Calendar, journal, letters to or from Lore that might help explain his sudden trip to Laredo and his frame of mind when he arrived. I didn’t expect her to respond, but it was worth a try.
Duke’s mother called me right as I hit send on the email. She wanted to know how I felt about wildflowers—they were all over the farm in May, and they’d make lovely wedding decorations, unless I had something else in mind? I heard the question behind the question: We were six months away. Had we planned anything at all?
“I love wildflowers,” I said. I didn’t, really, but they were free.
“Great.” I could hear the smile in Caroline’s voice. “Listen, honey, I don’t want to be that future mother-in-law, but if you need help with planning, I’m here.”
I thanked her, going to the fridge to rummage through all the Tupperware dishes. I pulled out a container of potato salad and shoved a fork in it at the counter. What we needed was money, and we would never ask for that.
“One more thing.” Caroline hesitated. A horse neighed in the background. “I know you’re not close with your dad, and I’m not sure if you plan on inviting him . . .”
The potato salad became jammy and sour in my mouth, and I forced it down. “No.”
“That’s what I figured.” Caroline didn’t judge, didn’t pry. “And of course, your mom . . . Well, I was thinking—if you want—honey, I would be honored to walk you down the aisle.”
A knot of tears rose to my throat so quickly and violently it was as if it had always been there, waiting. “That is—” I swiped at my eyes. “Thank you. I would love that, Caroline.”
Caroline’s voice wobbled a little. “You’re a part of our family. Remember that. You don’t have to do things alone.”
It was after eight on Wednesday, Duke’s night off, and he would be home soon. We’d returned to seeing each other in short, uninspired stretches—groggy early-morning breakfasts before he left to start the brisket, reruns of The Office while I sat beside him with my laptop burning holes through my leggings. Since he’d been cooking all day, I thought I’d surprise him with dinner. There was chicken and broccoli in the oven, and the house smelled warm and nutty, edged with damp earth. I’d left the back door open earlier because it had been overcast and I’d wanted to collect the smell of rain, let it fill all the corners of this house.
I checked the timer on my phone, then called Andrew for our checkin, which had gone from nightly to weekly after it seemed like our father had gotten his shit together.
“Hey.” His voice was dull and flat.
“Hey, buddy,” I said, instantly on alert. “How’s it going?”
Andrew said, “They shut off the power.”
My heart skipped, a clumsy transition between beats. “When? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Something crackled, hot, between us. “Three days ago, and I tried calling you. You didn’t answer.” He paused a beat, then muttered, “You never answer.”
Shit. I remembered. I’d been talking to Lore and planned to call Andrew back right after. Then I’d gotten distracted transcribing and had completely forgotten. I thought of the calls I’d missed from Andrew this summer, the way his texts had gotten shorter and shorter in the last year. At some point, he’d stopped thinking he could count on me. And I hadn’t even noticed.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Three days? Does this mean . . .”
“Yup.” Andrew’s casualness did little to conceal his pain. “Off the wagon. Didn’t last long this time.”
Resolve slid into my veins, clean and smooth. “Let me talk to him. Is he home?”
“Yeah. But—”
“Now, Andrew.”