“I am sick,” she’ll tell them tonight. Yolanda shuts the refrigerator and steadies herself against it. She cups her head, squeezes as hard as she can, but gets no relief.
She catches herself in the mirror by the door. Yesterday, she loved her hair: its interesting purple-red hue, the way the stylist had gelled it spiky and mussed. But now it looks garish and artificial, and Yolanda herself, beneath it, is drawn and pale-lipped. She runs a finger along the crepey skin beneath her eyes, and the skin holds there, gathered where her fingertip had been, before slowly sliding back.
On the couch, Angel frowns down at her notebook. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, her legs spread, belly sagging between them.
Having children is terrifying, the way they become adults and go out into the world with cars and functioning reproductive systems and credit cards, the way, before they’ve developed any sense or fear, they are equipped to make adult-sized mistakes with adult-sized consequences.
She’s filled with sad affection for the girl, and also remorse. She should have brought presents. Oh, god. Angel’s birthday was on Friday.
“Hijita,” Yolanda calls. “Do me a favor and bring my purse.”
Angel gets up and makes her way over. “I like your haircut,” she says as she sets the purse on the counter. “I meant to say before. It’s very punk. Sorry I made you mad, Gramma. I forget you had such a long drive.”
Yolanda touches her hand to her new short spikes and smiles at her granddaughter. “Oh, hijita, I’m not mad. Just tired.” Yolanda pats Angel’s hand, flooded with love for her. “Listen, about your dad, don’t take it personal.”
Angel nods as if to shake the tears back into her head. “Tell me about your boyfriend,” she manages. “Is he nice?”
“Oh,” Yolanda says lightly, grateful to her granddaughter for letting her off the hook. “He’s just a friend.”
Angel’s eyebrows tip in real concern. “Did you guys break up?”
“No, it was just time to come home. You know men.” Yolanda grins and bats away Angel’s pity. “Sometimes you need a break.”
Right now, Cal is probably outside his trailer in the shade of his blue-striped awning, lawn chair anchored in the dirt. He’s probably trying to read the paper, calling friendly greetings to neighbors on their way to the park’s pool. He’d tell them Yolanda had been summoned home early by a family emergency, and he’d agree to pass on their good wishes.
“I’m sorry, Gramma. That really sucks.”
“We’re fine. But I missed my kids. I missed you. So I hit the road.” She laughs, and it sounds convincing to her ears. “Listen, about your dad. He hasn’t been like this for a while, but when he was a kid he used to be very religious. He’d pray all the time, before breakfast, after breakfast, on and on. I had to get rid of his children’s Bible because he’d get all worked up. They’re just stories, I told him, and he’d get even more upset. What if God decides to flood us out again? he says. He won’t, I say. He promised the people. But does a promise from God comfort your dad? No way. Yeah, but what if he changes his mind?”
Angel laughs and then says soberly, “Maybe he was worried because his dad died.”
Yolanda nods. It hurts her how obvious Angel’s need to forgive Amadeo is, hurts her that she, Yolanda, is pushing for this forgiveness, when the girl has every reason to be upset. “Probably he was. Probably he’s always felt something missing.” She fishes in her bag for her wallet, withdraws three hundred-dollar bills, which she slides over. “A little something, hijita. Happy birthday.”
“Whoa. Gramma, this is too much! Thank you!”
Yolanda is cheered by Angel’s smile.
“It’s really nice. Thank you.” But then she says worriedly, “I think this is too much.”