I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter Read online

  “I guess so.” Lorena looks bored out of her mind. She mixes her drink with her straw and stares off into the water.

  “She’s always helping me with my physics homework. I never know what I’m doing,” I say, and smile at Lorena, trying to ease the tension. “And I help her with English.”

  “So what college are you going to?” Connor takes a sip of his coffee.

  “I haven’t decided yet. Someplace I can afford for nursing. College is expensive, and some of us can’t rely on our parents.”

  I give Lorena my best death stare.

  Connor nods and stands up. “I’ll be back. I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Why are you being so rude?” I ask Lorena once he’s inside.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lorena shrugs.

  “It seems as if you hate him. I don’t get it. What’s wrong with him?”

  “How can I hate him if I don’t even know him? Don’t be ridiculous. All I know is that he’s from Evanston, his parents are rich, and he took your virginity. That’s it.”

  “I really like him, you know?”

  “Okay, I get it, but do you actually believe he doesn’t look down on us? You don’t think he sees us without thinking we’re ghetto? I just don’t want you to get hurt. You can tell right away that he’s rich. You were right. Maybe we shouldn’t have invited him.”

  “He’s not like that, though.” I look down at my coffee. “He’s not like that at all.”

  “Oh, come on, don’t be dumb,” Lorena says, and slurps the last of her drink. “You know they all are.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  After school, I take the same buses Olga rode to work the day she died. I’m not exactly sure what I’ll do when I get to the office. I don’t have a real plan. I just hope to show up and somehow find the man who inseminated my sister.

  I sit in the waiting room reading the list of doctors over and over. There’s no way I’m going to figure out who he is this way. After twenty minutes of watching me pretend to wait, the receptionist asks if she can help me with something. I wonder if she’s the one who replaced my sister. She reminds me of a possum—maybe it’s her teeth—but she’s still pretty somehow.

  “Um, I was hoping to make an appointment with…Dr. Fernández.”

  “Have you seen her before?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have an insurance card?”

  “No.”

  “What kind of insurance do you have? HMO or PPO?”

  “I’m not sure.” That’s a stupid answer, I know.

  “I don’t think I can help you, miss. I’m sorry. Maybe you should come back with your parents?” she says, and smiles.

  As I try to figure out what to do next, a man in a dark suit enters the office. It’s him. It’s the man from Olga’s wake, crying in the back. The one with the gray suit and expensive watch. I guess he wasn’t my uncle after all.

  “Hello, Dr. Castillo,” the receptionist says. “Your son left you a message about five minutes ago.”

  “Thanks, Brenda.”

  I crouch to the ground and pretend to look for something in my backpack until he’s gone.

  “I think I made a mistake,” I say, and run out the door.

  —

  The office closes at 5:30, so I wait outside until he comes out. By 5:45, right when I begin deliberating about going home, I see him walk out the door. He looks powerful in his black suit and leather briefcase. He’s definitely old, but I can see why Olga was attracted to him; there’s something about the way he walks that’s forceful, magnetic.

  What am I going to say? What’s the point of all this?

  I take a few deep breaths and run after him before he gets into his black BMW.

  “Hey! Hey!” I yell before he closes his door.

  “How can I help you, young lady?” he asks, in a slight accent I can’t detect. He has to know who I am. I can see it in his discomfort, the way his eyes shift, as if looking for an escape.

  “I’m Olga’s sister.”

  “Oh my God,” he says. “Yes, of course. I’m so sorry for your loss. Olga was a wonderful employee. We all miss her very much.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you do. Since you got her pregnant and made her think you were going to marry her….And…and then she died.”

  Dr. Castillo sighs and looks down at the ground.

  “Why the fuck did you do that?” I’m startled by my own anger.

  “Please, stop, let me explain. I’ll give you a ride.” He leads me to the passenger side with his hand on my shoulder, and something about that is comforting, even though I think I hate him. He smells like cologne and aftershave, like man, just like Mr. Ingman.

  —

  The diner is almost empty. Neither one of us says anything for a long time. I don’t know where to begin.

  “Listen,” he finally says. “I know you’re upset, but I want you to know that I loved your sister.”

  “But you were married, and Olga was only twenty-two. That’s gross. How old are you anyway? Fifty?”

  “When you get older, you’ll understand that everything is much more complicated than you ever imagined. You plan your whole life, and nothing works out the way you expect.” He sounds as if he’s talking to himself.

  “Tell me how old you are.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” He scratches his neck and looks behind him.

  “It does to me.”

  “Forty-six.”

  “You’re older than our father. That’s so fucking weird. Jesus.” I can’t even look at him.

  “Life is incredibly complex. One day, you will see.”

  “What’s so complicated about you lying and taking advantage of my sister? You were never going to leave your wife, were you?”

  “I wanted to marry Olga. I swear to you. Especially when…” He rubs his face.

  “She got pregnant.”

  He looks wounded, like I just kicked him in the balls. “Yes, that.”

  The waitress finally comes by to take our orders.

  “Just some coffee for me, thanks,” Dr. Castillo says.

  “I’ll have a grilled cheese and some apple juice, please.” Might as well get a meal out of this.

  Dr. Castillo reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He takes a folded piece of paper and smooths it on the table.

  There it is, a hazy little outline: a suggestion, a possibility, a blob, a clump of cells. I can hardly make out the shape, but I can almost feel its tiny heartbeat in my hands. “How many weeks?”

  “Twelve.”

  “What do I do with this?” I say to myself aloud. “How do I bury this, too?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, how am I going to keep this secret? Why do I have to be the one living with this shit?”

  “Please, don’t tell your parents. Olga never wanted to hurt them.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? And why should I listen to you?”

  “Sometimes it’s best not to tell the truth.”

  “Of course you would say that. You lied to my sister and your wife. You were playing both of them like motherfucking fiddles.”

  “I never lied to Olga.” He shakes his head.

  “What did your last text say? I know you were the one she was texting.” I take a bite of my sandwich.

  “She told me that if it was a boy, she was going to name him Rafael, after your father.”

  I don’t even know what to say to that. Something about it makes me feel like all my insides are being vandalized.

  “So you were never going to leave your wife, right?”

  “Yes, I was.” He nods.

  “Yeah, sure. Look, I read all the emails. Every single one. I’m not stupid or naive, no matter how much everyone wants to think I am.”

  Dr. Castillo sighs, says nothing.

  “You just kept stringing her along, and she kept waiting and waiting, doing nothing with her life.”

  “When she told me about the ba
by, that changed everything.” Dr. Castillo looks out the window. His eyes are wet now. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a grown man cry before, not even Apá. “I loved your sister. You have to believe that. Her death ruined me. It destroyed me like you can’t imagine.” He lowers his head into his hands.

  “Actually, I can imagine. It ruined me, too.”

  “I’m divorced now. I couldn’t do it anymore.” He dries his eyes with a silk handkerchief.

  “Yeah, well, it’s too late for my sister, isn’t it?” I crumple my napkin and take a sip of my juice. The waitress picks up my plate and wipes the table. The rag smells awful. There is nothing left to say, so I get up and put on my backpack. I can feel him watch me as I walk out the door.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I still don’t know how to talk to my father. I don’t want him to know what I know. There is so much I want to say, but I can’t. There are times the secrets feel like strangling vines. Is it considered lying when you hold something locked up inside you? What if the information would only cause people pain? Who would benefit from knowing about Olga’s affair and pregnancy? Is it kind or selfish for me to keep this all to myself? Would it be messed up if I said it just so I don’t have to live with it alone? It’s exhausting. There are moments it almost comes out, like a flock of fluttering birds in my throat. But what kind of person would I be if I told my parents? Haven’t they suffered enough? Isn’t that why Amá never told us what happened to her on the border? I know she’d die with that story still inside her, partly out of shame, but mostly to protect us. And why would Olga need to know that about herself? Apá was her father, no matter what.

  —

  Apá is drinking coffee at the kitchen table while Amá is in the shower.

  I pour myself a cup and sit across from him. The sunlight pours in from the blinds.

  “Buenos días,” he says, without looking up.

  “Buenos días.” I squirm in my chair, thinking of how to talk to him. “Apá,” I finally say.

  Apá looks up, but doesn’t respond.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you drew, that you were an artist?” I wonder why I’m so nervous speaking to my own father.

  Apá scratches under his mustache. “Who told you that?”

  “Mamá Jacinta. She showed me your drawing of Amá. It’s really good. Why did you stop?” I twist my napkin in my hand.

  “Because there was no point. What was I going to do? Sell my drawings? It was a waste of time.” Apá stares at the slices of sunlight on the table.

  “It’s not. It’s not at all. How could you say that? It’s art. It’s beautiful and it matters.” My voice gets loud, even though I don’t mean it to.

  “Julia, sometimes in life you don’t get to do what you want to do. Sometimes you have to deal with what’s given to you, shut up, and keep working. That’s it.” Apá gets up and places his cup in the sink.

  —

  I always look forward to seeing Dr. Cooke, even though I often leave her office feeling like someone ripped my chest open.

  I never in my life thought I would like exercise, but Dr. Cooke insisted that it would help me feel better—something about endorphins and releasing stress. I swim nearly every day at the YMCA. I used to hate swimming, but now I find it soothing. Life is funny that way. I stopped worrying about all the bacteria and secretions in the water and learned to enjoy it. There’s something about it that makes me feel free. I haven’t lost any weight, which is fine by me, because my body is tighter and healthier, and I like the way it looks. I have more energy, too. Even on the days I’m kind of lazy and don’t want to go, I make myself do it anyway because I never regret it when I’m finished.

  Today Dr. Cooke wants to talk about my relationship with my mom. That’s probably our number-one topic.

  “How have you and your mom gotten along this week?” She takes a sip of water. She’s wearing bright red linen pants, black sandals, and a white wraparound shirt. Her hair is pulled into a tight ponytail. What I like about Dr. Cooke is that she never seems to judge me. I can be my whole self without being afraid. Even when I admit to something that I think is shameful or embarrassing, she doesn’t scold me or look at me like I’m a leper. I wish everyone could be this way. I don’t understand why people can’t just let others be who they are.

  “Mostly okay. We went shopping and we didn’t fight, which is unheard of for us. I think I can tell that she’s scared and doesn’t want me to go away, but she never says it directly anymore. It’s like she’s trying so hard to be supportive, but it also makes me crazy when she doesn’t say what she means. I feel like I can tell right away what she’s thinking. She’s terrified that I’m going away to college. I know her, and I can just sense it.”

  “And why do you think she’s holding back this time?”

  “Because she doesn’t want to push me away anymore. I think she’s scared, you know? I think she finally is beginning to understand that I’m never going to change, and she’s learning to accept it somehow. I guess I’m glad, in a way, that she’s trying so hard. I’m trying, too.”

  “Sometimes it’s difficult for people to adjust to new ideas, particularly if they come from a very different culture. I can imagine that perhaps your mother doesn’t mean to be so repressive; that to her, it’s a way to protect you.”

  “I guess so. Probably.”

  “Especially after the trauma she experienced crossing the border. Do you ever consider talking to your mother about what happened to her?” Dr. Cooke writes something in her notepad.

  “No, I can’t. I promised my aunt I would never tell her. Besides, what can I possibly say to her to make it any better? I’m not sure what the point would be.”

  “Maybe it’s a way for you to become closer to her, to let her know you understand a very important part of who she is, to show your empathy.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, even though it’s not her fault, I think she feels ashamed. That’s why it’s a secret. Like, who am I to bring it up and hurt her again?” When I think about what happened to Amá, I get so angry I don’t know what to do with myself. How can people do terrible things to each other? What happens in someone’s life to make them think that violating someone’s body is okay?

  “It’s something to think about. Maybe not now, but in the future. The same goes for Olga and her pregnancy. Perhaps one day you’ll be able to talk about it. When you’re ready, of course. It might help you both heal.”

  “I don’t believe in keeping things hidden and buried—because sometimes it feels like poison pumping through me—but at the same time, I wonder if I’ll ever be ready to talk about it. I don’t know.” My lip quivers.

  Dr. Cooke hands me the box of tissues.

  “You have to look inside of yourself and decide what’s best for you. I’m only here to offer options, to give you the tools to make the right choices for yourself. You’re a smart young lady. I think you know you can overcome anything. Although you still struggle sometimes, I’ve seen you change in a short amount of time.” Dr. Cooke smiles. “That’s something to be proud of.”

  I’m not sure what it means to be proud of myself yet, but I’m trying to learn.

  —

  The days feel endless as I wait and wait for my college acceptance (or rejection) letters. College is all I can think about these days, but no letters come in the mail.

  Then, just when I’m starting to think that my applications were so bad the colleges didn’t even bother replying, there’s an envelope from Boston University waiting for me on the kitchen table.

  Dear Ms. Julia Reyes:

  We regret to inform you…

  And then the letters just keep coming and coming.

  From Barnard College:

  Dear Ms. Julia Reyes:

  I write with sincere regret…

  From Columbia University:

  Dear Ms. Julia Reyes:

  It is with very real regret that I must tell you…

  From Boston College:


  Dear Ms. Reyes:

  We are very sorry…

  —

  Lorena and Juanga take me to Lincoln Park Zoo to cheer me up on a warm and bright Sunday afternoon, even though I tell them I’d rather stay home sulking. I can’t believe I thought I’d get into those schools. Why did I have to aim so high? What made me think I was so special?

  “Don’t be sad, Julia. We all know you’re as fierce as those beautiful ladies over there,” Juanga says, looking at the lions.

  The largest one stares at me as if she were in a trance.

  “You can always move in with us, you know?” Lorena says, adjusting her flimsy pink dress. “If things don’t work out.”

  “I know, I know. I just really want to go to New York. I need a change. A new start blah-blah-blah.”

  “Yeah, I get it.” Lorena almost sounds irritated.

  “Ugh, stop getting sad, and let’s go look at the bears,” Juanga says, pushing us toward the building.

  One of the polar bears just had twins, so there is a crowd of people hoping to get a good look. We worm our way through to the front and see one of the cubs nursing from its mother.

  “Aw,” Juanga says, putting his arms around us. “Look at its little face.”

  I put my head against his shoulder. “How’s your new boyfriend?” Juanga has been dating a hot guy from Hyde Park for about a month now. They met on the Red Line and have been in love ever since. He’s been happy lately, despite his parents being complete assholes. It seems like they kick him out every other week. They can’t get over him being gay, and Juanga refuses to pretend he’s not. Even if he tried, it would just ooze out of him. He’s very much who he is.

  Sometimes Juanga stays with his cousin, other times with Lorena. I would offer up our couch, too, but Amá would never go for it. Everything scandalizes her.

  “Amazing. Lord, that man is beautiful,” Juanga says, fanning himself, as if he still can’t believe it. “I just need to move the hell out of my house so we can finally be a real couple. Can you imagine introducing him to my father? Gay and black? Ni Dios lo mande. He’d probably burn us at the stake.” He crosses himself and laughs. He’s kidding but not kidding.