That's one of the things my father said to me. He'd never spoken to me that way before. I could see the anger contorting his face when he spat out those words and I knew, on some level, that he didn't mean it. That his anger wasn't really meant for me. But I was there, the only one he could scold.
What he said slashed at me and made me bleed the way only words can. That slow, internal hemorrhaging that floods you with resentment so bitter, it tastes almost exactly like hatred. I hated my father for making me feel so small, when I'd already been leveled to the ground.
He's never been a sensitive man. My father's parenting style has always been stern and harsh and, I realize now, all the things fathers tend to be when they are terrified for their daughters. All his worst fears were probably realized when everyone we knew had access to his daughter in her most vulnerable state.
That's what I try to remind myself of as I muster the will to leave my car. I try to remember that my father loves me, that he was furious in a way he's never been before, and said things that, maybe, he didn't mean to say. Things he likely regrets.
He's too proud to take the first step in making things right. I understand that. Pride is what kept me from facing him or the rest of my family after my ego had been so badly wounded. We're a proud bunch, my family. We're always so concerned with appearing strong that we fail to realize pride is just an imitation of strength.
Today, I'll press on my bleeding wound and make the leap, anyway. With no guarantees on the outcome, with no guarantees I'll survive.
Today, I'll be the leopard.
Chapter Thirty-One
Julia
WALKING THROUGH THE DOORS OF my parents' house is like walking out of a time machine and into the past. I'm not sure why I expected a few months would change anything. Spanish music plays from somewhere in the house. Scents of food cooking, some strongly seasoned meat, waft toward where I stand in the entryway, reminding me how hungry I am.
"Hello?" I call out. "Ma?"
I know I should just make my way in, drop my bag by the stairs and head to the kitchen where my mother is undoubtedly cooking and too distracted by the music to hear my calls. But, for several long seconds, I'm hesitant to move farther into the house. It's no surprise I'm here. My family is expecting me. Though I'm about an hour earlier than I thought I'd be, since I took off almost as soon as I woke up this morning.
Ridiculous thoughts flash through my head. That I'm just opening myself up to more slut shaming and humiliation from my father. That my mother is still hurt by how little we've communicated over the last few months. That I've somehow managed to sever the bond I had with my sisters. That coming here was a huge mistake.
I stare at the tile flooring of the entryway, and then down the hall to the doors leading to the kitchen. The distance feels like a crater.
Leap.
I leave my bag tucked against the bottom of the stair railing and force myself forward, down the hall. Music grows clearer and the smell of food more potent, both wash me in a sense of nostalgia so sudden and pure that my eyes begin to burn.
Deep breath.
I push into the kitchen and, at the sound of the doors swinging shut behind me, my mom spins around from the stove, sauce-stained spoon in hand.
Her short, wavy hair is pushed back from her face with a plastic headband. She's wearing her favorite blouse, a peach colored one my aunt sent her from Venezuela, the shade of which my mother insists she could never find in American stores. I'm not sure if that's true, but it really is lovely. Somehow gentle and vibrant all at once, bringing out pink hues in her cheeks that make her look fifteen years younger.
We lock eyes, surprise registering on her face that I've arrived early. She sets down the spoon and extends her arms to me, a huge smile splitting her face. "Mija, come here."
I don't think twice about indulging in my mother's embrace. She hugs me tight and urges me to lean down so she can kiss my forehead, since she's a head shorter than I am. Then, she eyes me from head to toe, shakes her head and tells me, in Spanish, that I've lost weight. This is never meant as a compliment when it comes from my mother.
"They don't have food in San Diego?" she asks, in her thick accent. "Don't you eat?"
I haven't lost weight that I know of, but it's my mother's irrational fear her children are forced to suffer through hunger whenever they are away from her. Like no one else's food could possibly nourish us the way hers can.
Her critical but concerned tone brings a smile to my lips. I'm grateful to her for making food the first topic of conversation. She rushes to fix me a plate. Not the fragrant food cooking on the stove, that's for the party later this afternoon. My breakfast is something she made just for me. I'm starving, so when she signals for me to sit down at the table, I do so gladly.
She sets down a fresh arepa in front of me. It's her version of a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich. Except it's on a fried cornmeal cake and that is somehow so much more delicious.
Eating my mother's food feels like coming home in a different way than walking through these front doors did. This is how my mother shows her affection, through her food. And it tastes just the way you'd expect something that someone puts her heart into--divine.
"Loca!"
My sister's screech makes me wince in surprise. I barely have time to turn in my seat before Lola's arms constrict me in an impatient bear hug.
"I didn't know you were here already--oh, you smell good, you got a new shampoo?" She presses her face in my hair and inhales, burying her nose in obnoxiously. I push her away, laughing, but get to my feet and hug her properly.
We hug tighter and longer than we ever have. There are words in our hug that we don't say aloud. Words that let me know we're okay, that nothing's changed, and that no one argument will ever tear us apart.
I breathe her in.
She's the one that smells good. My sister's one of those girls that takes the extra time to prep and prime every inch of her skin, lathering on scents that complement each other, creating their own unique fragrance. She pulls out all the bells and whistles in the looks department on a daily basis and it shows. Her dark hair is always blow-dried to perfection, eyebrows plucked to the precise degree to highlight her gorgeous brown eyes.
When I was younger, I had a doll named Lola that I treasured above anything else in the world. When my baby sister was born, I insisted on calling her by that name instead of Darla, the name my parents had chosen. I was three, so not exactly someone to be reasoned with.
My sister Cassandra, who was six at the time, joined in on my name strike just to be a brat. The family grew so frustrated that they started calling Darla by my nickname just to be able to relay information between us three. And it stuck. Even my mom calls her Lola. My sister hates this nickname. Not passionately enough to get upset at us for using it--since she's had it her whole life--but enough to try and introduce herself as Darla to anyone she meets. Inevitably, everyone ends up calling her Lola after they hear the rest of us using it.
I regret nothing.
"Where's Cassandra?" I ask.