Say When (6 page)

I wonder if my mom will be as irate when I tell her I’ve called off the engagement. I shudder when I think how far my mom will go to try and get me back together with Jackson. I know she’ll stop at nothing to make sure I marry into one of the richest families in Texas.

“It’s my goddam life, Christina,” Grace says as she pounds her fist on the table. “And I’m tired of doing what everyone else wants me to do. It’s time I live my life the way I want to, and you know what? One day you’re going to have to do the same. If you like this guy, then go for it.” She leans over and stabs her finger in my chest. “This is
your
life. Not Jackson’s, not your mom’s.
Yours
.”

Much to my relief, the waitress shows up with our food. Grace and I don’t talk during the meal. She’s very serious about me living my life the way I want. Message received. Luckily, she’s also serious when it comes to chocolate chip pancakes. She digs in, occasionally stopping to shoot me a pointed look.

Despite the knot of tension which has coiled around my neck and shoulders and the lead ball which has settled in my gut, I devour my food, stopping only to reflect on our conversation.

I think back to the Christina who asserted herself with Jackson and broke off the engagement. The Christina who asked Andrés to take her home. I think maybe I can do this. Maybe I can tell my mom to back off and let me live my life. I remember the piece of paper Andrés slipped into my hand this morning and smile.

Chapter Seven

We’ve lived in this house for nearly ten years, four-thousand square feet of wall-to-wall white. White furniture, white carpets, white tile floors. I should be used to mom’s obvious derision for color, but every time I walk through the door, I feel blinded. Something about my home just doesn’t feel like home. Maybe it’s because I know I can’t touch anything, for fear I might break it. I’m even afraid to leave a butt dent on her white sectional sofa. My bedroom is the only room in the house which I decorated. Up until I turned fifteen, it was my sanctuary, but the room has too many bad memories in there now.

Most days I tiptoe through my house like I live in a museum. I feel the need to tiptoe around my mom’s moods as well. She’s like one of her crystal vases, pretty to look at, but don’t dare touch her or she may break. And once she breaks, picking up all the pieces is a bitch, which is why I cringe when I see her. I wonder if Jackson has called and told her of our breakup.

“There you are!” Mom waves her skinny arms wildly at me when I walk through the front door. She’s wearing a peach rayon skirt and a black rayon top, cut low enough to reveal abnormally large and perky breasts, compliments of her favorite surgeon, the same guy who shrunk her nose and engorged her lips. The same guy who tucked that loose skin beneath her chin all the way behind her ears. “Take a shower and get dressed. Hurry up.” She shoos me with the tips of her manicured fingernails like she’s trying to get rid of a stray dog.

“Mom,” I groan as I slump against the mahogany door. “I’ve got a hangover.”

I guess I should be happy she doesn’t seem to know about the breakup, but I’m in no mood to go anywhere with my mother.

She turns up her chin while sweeping a hand over her auburn coiffure, as if she’s checking to see if a single strand has fallen out of place. Not likely with the heavy duty can of hair sealant she sprays on her head each morning.

“Do you know what day it is?” she asks me pointedly.

I heave a frustrated breath. Of course I know what day it is, but I refuse to acknowledge her question, because then I’ll have to acknowledge
him
when all I want to do is climb into bed and sleep. She’s still glaring at me, so I choose a response that will add a bit of color to her cheeks.

“The day after my birthday?” I bat my lashes, feigning stupidity.

She plants both fists on her hips while rolling her eyes. “Don’t be so selfish.” Her tone drips with guilt, a technique that is second nature to her. “We’re going your father’s grave. “

I push off the door and fold my arms across my chest. This can’t be happening. The man plagued me in life. Is it too much to ask that I not have to put up with his bullshit now that he’s dead?

“Mom, you know I hate cemeteries,” I say, regretting the whine that slips into my voice. Whining never works on my mom. If anything, it makes her more determined to get her way.

“I don’t care. You’re going.” Her eyes bulge but the rest of the tight skin on her face barely moves, making her look more frightened than angry. “All of the sacrifices he made for you, the least you could do is show him this little bit of respect now that he’s dead.” Her lips twist into a scowl, and I wince because I know what’s coming next. “Considering how you treated him when he was alive,” she adds.

Brava, Mother
.
Nothing like a heaping spoonful of cream and a few cherries to go on top of that guilt-trip sundae.

“Fine.” I brush past her and march upstairs to my room.

“Take a shower,” she calls. “You smell like booze.”

I imagine her words are a verbal knife, and she’s having a fun time twisting the blade into my back as I walk away.

* * *

“Andrés, what are you doing here on your day off?”

Andrés sets his toolbox down and smiles at his auntie as she wraps him in a tight hug. He still can’t get over how much she’s changed during the four years he’d spent overseas. After a lifetime raising four boys, cooking, cleaning, and taking care of everyone but herself, she’s finally put some of the family money to good use and hired a housekeeper and a personal trainer. She’s had a bit of surgery, too, though Andrés pretends not to notice. She’s had the lines around her eyes minimized and the loose skin beneath her chin tucked up a bit. Not so much she looks like a piece of warped plastic, like some of the other wealthy older women he’s seen.

Still, whenever she smiles up at him and cups his chin in her hand, he’s reminded she is the same sweet auntie, or Tia, as he likes to call her. This woman has been more than just an aunt to Andrés. She’s been his mother, too, having raised him after his own mother died of a drug overdose when he was only six. Though he’s never known his father, Tio has been more than a father to him. Andrés couldn’t have asked for a better family and a better childhood, which is why he still feels guilt over his rebellious teenage stage. This is why he has to do whatever it takes to make it up to his family , considering all the sacrifices they’ve made for him.

Andrés kisses his auntie on the cheek and then picks up his toolbox. “Tio said your shower isn’t working.”

She wags a finger and clucks her tongue. “You worked twelve-hour shifts all week. You must take a break.”

Andrés represses a groan. Ever since he’s gotten home, his family has been coddling him, thinking if they push him too hard, he’ll need to go back to that military shrink. What they don’t understand is when he stays busy, he doesn’t have time to dwell on the past.

He shrugs, trying his best to plaster on an impassive expression. “I don’t mind. Besides, I’ve got nothing else to do.” For some strange reason, an image of Christina’s pretty green eyes flashes through his mind. He would have had something to do if she’d stayed. Damn. He has the feeling he’ll be thinking about her all day. He struggles to put memories of her out of his mind. He’ll probably never see her again, anyway, so no use dwelling on the past. She’s just another one of life’s casualties.

“Come on,” his aunt says. “Tio was supposed to fix it weeks ago.”

Andrés follows her up the winding staircase with intricately carved cherry oak banisters, a recent addition to their two-story sprawling ranch home. Though his aunt and uncle can afford to build a lavish mansion, his auntie has refused, saying she’d never tear down the home where her children were raised. Instead, they remodeled and expanded, until this once-modest house on six acres became a large manor on four hundred acres. Over the years, Tio built a pool and horse stables where he bred prize racing studs. They’d even added a pond and cattle. Yet, despite all the changes, Andrés never feels more at peace than when he comes home to the same two loving people who raised him.

He follows his auntie into her bedroom. A huge four poster bed sits in the center. Light filters into the room from twin French doors that lead to a spacious patio overlooking the beautiful Texas hill country. Even from the second story, Andrés can see the tops of the shady oak trees that surround the house like a fortress.

Double doors lead to his auntie’s oversized bathroom. He walks across the earthen Spanish tiles and past the centerpiece of the bathroom, a marble Jacuzzi, toward the shower. He suppresses a laugh when he sees the door is off its hinges. He’s heard the story from his cousins; Tio was so angry after stubbing his toe in the shower, he’d taken it out on the door.

“Tio at work again?” Andrés asks as he puts down his tools and examines the shower door. The hinges were ripped off the slate, but he can fix it. He’s almost positive his uncle has extra tiles in the garage.

“Yeah.” She heaves a groan and rolls her eyes. “Always at the paint shop. Another artist quit yesterday. I’ll be glad when he retires and turns all these shops over to you boys.”

“I won’t.” Andrés winces. His family has been bringing up Tio’s retirement more and more lately. For some reason, his uncle has decided he’s going to split up all twenty businesses between Andrés and his three cousins. Andrés can’t help but feel guilty over taking his uncle’s offer. He’s tried to argue with his family, but his aunt and uncle, and even his cousins, insist he receive an equal share of the inheritance. Andrés only hopes when his uncle does finally retire, he’ll be able to live up to his family’s expectations. Five successful businesses, plus a large bank account to support them seems overwhelming to a guy who has just come back from war and is still dealing with the loss of his best friend. Besides, Andrés still doesn’t know if he deserves to be rewarded.

“Don’t worry.” Tia squeezes his arm and looks up at him with soft brown eyes. “You just got home. Give yourself some time. You’ll learn the ropes. After you fix the shower, we’ll have lunch. How does that sound?”

“That depends.” Andrés smiles playfully at his aunt. “Will there be tamales?”

“Of course,” she says with a note of awe in her voice before cupping his cheek in her hand. “Anything for my hero.”

Andrés’s chest tightens as he watches his aunt walk out the door. He hates how they always call him a hero, especially when he doesn’t feel like one. Heroes are supposed to save the day and get the girl. Because of Andrés’s carelessness, his best friend is dead, and Andrés can’t even make a girl breakfast without scaring her away. No, he is definitely not a hero.

* * *

It takes me less than a half hour to shower, do my makeup, and get dressed, which is obviously still too long of a wait for my impatient mother, who is huffing and puffing when I come down the stairs. Ironically, she has no problem making others wait two or more hours while she performs her daily ritual of primping, plucking, and concealing.

I’m aggravated because I think my mom’s whole mourning thing is total bullshit, a way for her to get sympathy as the grieving widow. My mom never cared about my dad when he was alive. Why is she so concerned about him now?

The car ride takes forever. We have to stop off at three different flower shops until mom finds the right bouquet, one that truly captures my dad’s essence.As if his corpse cares what the damn flowers look like. It’s not like he’ll get a chance to smell them in hell.

I drank a few too many beers last night. I rest my head against the passenger window and try to take a power nap while she drives, but my mom keeps going on about some country club friend of hers whose husband was caught sleeping with a twenty-three-year-old intern. I don’t care how the divorce proceedings are going or how much of a settlement this woman is entitled to. All I care about is this throbbing vein above my temple and a growing need for my warm, cozy bed with Egyptian cotton sheets.

The sheets were a gift from Jackson’s step-mother, the only sane person in his family and the only family member of his I’ll miss. One thing I know for certain, I won’t miss Jackson. The more I think about this breakup, the more I realize it was a long time overdue.

We pull into the cemetery, and I shudder when I see a funeral is taking place just beyond the gate we’ll need to pass through to get to Dad’s tombstone.

We make a hasty entrance. I follow Mom’s lead, trying not to look at the crowd of mourners. Just my luck, it’s starting to mist again, and I feel like the gloom from the overcast day settles inside my chest like a thick haze. I really don’t want to be here. Lots of people are crying, and I don’t know why, but it breaks my heart. I don’t even know these people. I shouldn’t have feelings for them.

Mom hangs back and walks beside me, nudging me in the ribs. “Did you see the widower?” she asks. “He’s not bad looking.”

I roll my eyes. “Mom, I’m pretty sure this isn’t the right time to be shopping for your future husband.”

She shrugs and continues walking. Honestly, there are days when I wonder if I wasn’t adopted, or maybe sired by aliens and switched at birth. If so, I hope my alien parents will come get me soon and save me from this hellish life.

We finally come to my dad’s plot, and I glare at his tombstone, wanting so badly to take a hammer and bust it to pieces. Nobody consulted me when they decided to engrave the stone with “Beloved Father,” because if I had been asked, I would have added a few choice modifiers to his name, like asshammer, douchenozzle, pedophile, and rapist.

My mom places the flowers on his grave, bows her head, and whispers a few words. I can’t hear what she’s saying and I don’t care. I just want to get the fuck out of here. The mourners from the funeral are still sobbing. I can tell whomever they are crying over is worthy of their tears. I assume the person who died was nothing like my father.

Damn, I hate visiting my dad’s grave.

My heart swells with regret when I think of him. I’m not so upset he had a massive heart attack the day after my eighteenth Birthday. I’m more upset he never got a chance to apologize to me for what he’d done.