“This isn’t about you!” Rosina shouts. “All I’m saying is I don’t want to go to work on my day off. I have plans. That’s my right.”
Mami takes another step forward until they are only inches apart. She has to lift her head to meet her daughter’s eyes. “Your right?” she says. “You want to talk about your rights?” She stabs her pointer finger into Rosina’s chest. “Your family and the restaurant are what keeps a roof over your head and gives you food to eat. If you don’t appreciate it, maybe you don’t need it. Maybe you don’t deserve to live in the house I work so hard for. Maybe you need to be out on your own, see what the real world is like with all your rights you care so much about.”
“Mami, that’s not what I—”
“All you care about is yourself,” Mami says. “You don’t care about me. You don’t care about your family.”
Something inside Rosina breaks. How dare she say that? All Rosina has ever done is take care of her goddamned family and try to make Mami happy.
“Maybe you should try it sometime,” Rosina says, staring daggers into her mother’s eyes. “Maybe you need to think about yourself more and less about this family. That’s why you’re so mad. Because you’re jealous of me. Because I’m at least trying to have my own life, when all you do is what other people tell you.”
“You’d have nothing without your family,” Mami says. Low. Snarling. “You wouldn’t even be here. You’d be nothing.”
I’m already nothing, Rosina thinks.
“But what if this isn’t what I even want?” Rosina says.
And then the something inside Mami breaks too. “Fine!” she shouts, pushing Rosina in the chest so hard she falls back on her bed. “If this isn’t what you want, get out! Get out of my face! Get out of my house! You ungrateful puta.”
Rosina jumps up and storms past her mother, knocking her as hard as she can with her shoulder. This is it, she thinks. This is the time she doesn’t come back. This is the time Mami throws all of Rosina’s shit on the front lawn and changes the locks and she never sees her family again.
She storms downstairs in nothing but a ratty pair of leggings and an old T-shirt. She is burning, on fire. Her blood is made of lava. But even in her rage, she does not forget Abuelita. Good, sweet Abuelita. How did such a kind and gentle woman create such a monster? Rosina must at least kiss her good-bye. Even if Abuelita won’t remember. Even if she doesn’t even know who Rosina is.
But where is she? She’s not on the couch watching TV. She’s not in her bedroom taking a nap. She’s not in the bathroom. Not in the kitchen.
“Abuelita!” Rosina calls. “?Dónde estás?” Nothing. “Abuelita!” she screams.
“What happened?” Mom yells as she runs down the stairs.
“She’s not here,” Rosina cries. “I looked everywhere.”
For a moment they forget to be mad at each other. At the same time, their heads turn toward the front door. The weak early evening light shines through the open crack.
They burst out the door. They call for Abuelita. Nothing. The day is overcast, a thick blanket of gray clouds hanging low in the sky, so misleading in their softness. Rosina’s eyes scan the neighborhood for any sign of a shuffling old lady, but everything is still. There are usually kids playing in front yards, people washing cars or pruning bushes, but it is eerily quiet today, as if everyone’s hiding.
“Get in the car,” Mami commands.
“But wouldn’t it make more sense if—”
“Get. In. The. Car.”
Rosina hops in the passenger seat while Mami starts the car. She starts driving before Rosina has a chance to fasten her seat belt.
They roll down the street, calling for Abuelita out the window. There are more signs of life as they get closer to the highway—other cars, people walking.
“Shouldn’t we talk to someone?” Rosina says. “Shouldn’t we ask people if they’ve seen her?”
But Mami’s eyes stay glued to the road, her hands fists on the steering wheel, her thin lips so tight they’re nonexistent. This family does not ask outsiders for help. This family takes care of itself.
They turn onto the busy street that leads to the highway on-ramp, all six lanes and a median, the fast cars and stoplights, the turn lanes and crosswalks, the big-box stores and fast-food restaurants, the bright lights and blinking signs. Abuelita must be so scared, Rosina thinks. Does she remember that things like this exist? Or does she think she still lives in the little Oaxacan mountain village she left years ago? Is she wandering around here, lost, thinking she stumbled onto another planet?
“There!” Mami shouts, pointing at an intersection a block away. The car speeds up and they swerve just in time to avoid rear-ending a car turning right.
Abuelita is standing calmly at the corner, pressing the button for the crosswalk. The car screeches to a halt in front of her, and Mami jumps out. Rosina pushes the hazard lights on and pulls up the emergency brake lever. For a brief moment she wishes Mami could have witnessed her quick thinking, could have seen her taking care of things.
“Mami,” Mami says gently to Abuelita. She puts her arm around her and says, “Vámonos.”
Abuelita blinks, confused but trusting. Mami speaks to her cheerfully in Spanish, all of her previous rage suddenly gone. Rosina has to turn her head. Something about witnessing her mother’s softness hurts. Because Rosina never feels it. Because it is never directed at her.
Rosina gets out and opens the door to the backseat as Mami guides Abuelita back to the car. She looks across the lanes of traffic, at the Quick Stop gas station and mini-mart. She wonders if Spencer is working right now. She wonders who he’s hurt lately.
Then thwack! Rosina stands, stunned, as she realizes the side of her face is burning. She turns her head to see Abuelita right next to her, her open hand raised in the aftermath of a slap, eyes wild with a combination of anger and terror.
“?Qué has hecho con mi hija?” Abuelita demands. What have you done with my daughter? “?Qué has hecho con Alicia?”
“Soy yo,” Rosina says. “Soy Rosina.”
“Tienes su cara, pero no eres ella.” You have her face, but you are not her. Abuelita thwacks Rosina again. “?Demonio!” she screams. Demon!
“Mami!” Rosina’s mother calls, reaching for Abuelita’s arm, but the old woman wrestles herself free. Rosina covers her face with her hands while her grandmother hits her with everything she’s got. Rosina doesn’t fight back. She doesn’t try to stop her. Each impact seems somehow earned. She deserves this.
“?Basta!” Mami shouts. Enough! “Rosina es su nieta. Ella te ama.” Rosina is your granddaughter. She loves you. “Ella es buena.” She is good.
No, Rosina thinks. Mami’s lying. She doesn’t believe that.