Throughout dinner we talked about everything but the book—though, of course, everything was the book. The way Mateo and Gabriel seemed irritated by their own closeness, a subtle friction, rolling their eyes when they said the same thing at the same time, and how Lore watched them with unabashed pleasure, content to let them dominate the conversation for long stretches of time though she was the clear matriarch, deferred to and respected. When our plates were clear and Michael and Joseph began chanting, “?Nieve! ?Nieve!” Lore brushed off Brenda’s objections, winking at me as she went to the freezer and spooned them small bowls of chocolate Blue Bell. “?Quién más?” she asked, grabbing more bowls from the cabinet. “Cassie?”
I wasn’t hungry, but I didn’t want to leave the table. I’d come here to learn the truth, and if the truth was what I suspected, it would upend their lives. Lore and I would never talk again over leftovers someone else had cooked. A different machine would crank to life, the arc of the moral universe bending at last toward justice. I would write the book, and Deborah would sell it, and this family would be splintered, and I would move on to the next story, whatever that might be.
“Ice cream sounds great,” I said to Lore, forcing a smile. “Thanks.”
Mateo scooted his chair back. “Here, I’ll help.”
A few times throughout dinner I’d caught Mateo looking at me. There was a warmth in his eyes that reminded me of Lore, but his mouth was firm, reserved. I couldn’t read his expression, but even now—maybe especially now—I felt a pull toward him.
“Does Santa deliver presents in jail?” three-year-old Joseph suddenly asked from Brenda’s lap, licking his spoon.
The adult Riveras looked from one to the other, a frantic silent exchange before Lore answered, “Sí, mijito. But he has to be quick-quick, because you know he needs to reach all the children in the world, most importantly.”
Joseph nodded, returning to his ice cream, and everyone sighed with the universal relief of skirting a child’s tough question. Michael was sitting on the floor watching something on Lore’s phone, his tired, lulled face lit up by the screen.
Quietly, I asked Gabriel, “How often do y’all get to see your dad?”
All throughout dinner, Gabriel had tried to shut down any personal conversation quickly, as if he alone were aware of how closely I was watching and listening. Now he caught a drip of chocolate about to fall from Joseph’s chin. He licked it off his finger, then tapped Joseph’s nose, making him giggle. I softened toward him.
“Any chance we get.” Gabriel lost every trace of warmth when he looked at me. “It’s the least we can do.”
I nodded, flooded with pity for Fabian, who’d been robbed of seeing his sons grow up, his grandsons being born. He’d missed out on so much. “I’m sure that means a lot to him.”
Gabriel scoffed, a rough noise like coughing something up. “I’m so glad you approve.”
“Gabriel,” Lore warned. “No empieces.”
On the surface, her face was impassive, but her copper eyes burned. What I didn’t see at the mention of Fabian was guilt.
“No—if no one’s going to talk about the elephant in the room, I will.” Gabriel shifted his bulk forward, clearly meant to intimidate me. He lowered his voice for the kids’ sake. “Mom’s invited you here like you’re part of the family, but you’re just a leech, trying to cash in on us.”
My skin prickled at the sudden attack. I looked at Lore as though she might defend me. She told Michael, “Go take the phone to the couch, mijito. Joseph, take your ice cream to the little table. You can put the TV on again.”
I said, “I haven’t made a penny off your family.”
“But if this ‘book’”—Gabriel made quotation marks around the word—“sells, you will, right? And does any part of that go to my mother?”
“I—” The truth was, I didn’t know. The thought had never occurred to me.
“What I want to know is,” Gabriel said, “why us? Of every fucked-up family in the world, why’d you choose ours?”
There was hurt beneath the anger, a glance I couldn’t decipher between Gabriel and Lore. Mateo was rigid, a figure pinned in glass. I felt caught, stripped bare, the transactional nature of my relationship with Lore exposed, though perhaps it was only I who was sometimes in danger of forgetting. I had allowed her into my life nearly as much as she’d allowed me into hers, the boundaries in our relationship blurring with each confession shared.
“I thought your mother deserved a say in how her story was told,” I said finally. “If she hadn’t agreed, I would have moved on.”
This, at least, I could cling to—Lore’s permission. But I remembered my first night in the Hotel Botanica, the feverish, voyeuristic way I’d fallen into the case file, the crime scene photos, and the autopsy report the next day. How long would I have been able to resist the lure of a dead body? The story it had to tell?
Not very long, as it turned out.
“Moved on.” Gabriel snorted. “Do you even hear yourself?”
I was sweating in earnest now, the house too warm for sweaters and accusations. Gabriel started to say something else. Brenda put a hand on his forearm, knuckles sharpening as she squeezed.
“Boys, bath time!” she announced. “Gabriel, help me, will you.”
It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t wait for a response. She herded the boys out of the room, taking for granted that Gabriel would follow. His dark gaze didn’t leave mine. He might be the only one here who saw me clearly for the threat I was to their family.
Finally, he scraped his chair back. “You don’t fool me.”
The intensity in his voice made me shiver.
Once he was gone, Lore and Mateo exchanged a weighted glance, a silent conversation I couldn’t understand.
“Mateo, help us bring the dishes to the sink,” Lore said. “Cassie, ven. You can help me wash.”
At the kitchen sink, Lore carefully slid her rings over a small glass ring holder shaped like a swan. Her hands were shiny with soap. Her hair’s natural curl was fighting her blowout, and a breeze from the cracked window kept blowing lightly frizzed ends into her mouth. She was barefoot, her toenails painted green and red, clumsily, as if Michael and Joseph had done it. I was suddenly overcome by the sweetness of the boys taking a bath here, when their own house was two minutes away. Did Lore have pajamas for them? No-tear shampoo and little hooded towels?
For a wild moment, I imagined abandoning the whole thing. I imagined telling Lore about the break—or breakup—with Duke and talking about where to go from here with Andrew and my father. I imagined being invited next Christmas, embraced by this family, becoming a part of it, the way I’d been a part of Duke’s for the last five years.
But if I walked away, I’d be right back where I started, broke and blogging. Worse, I’d be without Duke, living in some shitty apartment with some shitty roommate, and worst of all, I’d lose the idea of myself that I’d clung to for years—that I was someone who would refuse to leave in the dark something that should be seen, should be rectified.
Who would I be then?
Brenda was putting the boys to bed. Gabriel and Mateo were talking in the living room over glasses of Scotch.
“Do they know?” I asked in a low voice. Whatever came next, I needed to know the truth. I needed to see it spread out before me, every pockmark and scar. I needed to understand what had happened and why. I deserved that, didn’t I?
Lore handed me a plate, still dripping suds. Her smile was quizzical. “Does who know what?”
I tilted my head toward the living room. “That you were pregnant.”
Slowly, Lore reached for the faucet. I dried the plate with a soggy dish towel embroidered with flowers.
“Let’s go outside,” Lore said.
Lore, 2017
I told the cuates we were going outside for some “girl talk” with our vinito, as if girl talk ever meant anything other than this: things that would shatter men’s illusions. Gabriel had given me a hard, meaningful stare. Keep your mouth shut. I was never good at being told what to do.