Big Chicas Don't Cry(90)

“Mari, I was in rehab. I couldn’t get a job for those three months. So during that time, Abuela sent money to your mom. And when I got out and started working again, I took over.”

That made me jump to my feet. “You’re lying. If you sent money, then why did we never have any? Why did our electricity always get turned off? Why did I go nights without any dinner?”

His face crumpled. “I had no idea that was happening, until it was too late. And I do blame myself for that.”

“I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

This time Espy answered. “Think about it, Mari. Do you really believe that your grandparents would let their granddaughter go without clothes or food or electricity? And if they were sending the money, then what happened to it?”

I shook my head. “I don’t . . . this doesn’t make sense.”

I squeezed my eyes, and memories began to rush into my head. Like the time my mother had left me with a friend for the weekend because she was going on a business trip (even back then I thought it was strange that the grocery store where she worked as a cashier would send her to a training conference in Palm Springs). When she came back she was tanner and wearing clothes I had never seen on her before. I also remembered the time our electricity was turned off for the third or fourth time, and I pleaded with my mom to just go to my dad and demand that he give her some money. She became hysterical and said that I was accusing her of being a bad mom and that maybe I should just go live with my dad. The next day our electricity was back on, and when I asked her where she’d gotten the money from, she said she had borrowed it from a friend.

“As soon as we figured it out, we tried to help,” my dad said. “Abuela brought groceries when you were at school, and I agreed to pay half of every utility bill.”

It was all too incredible to believe. Yet, deep down I knew he was telling the truth. They were right. Things got better my senior year in high school. I had just thought it was because my mom had found a new job.

I dropped back onto the chair. “Why didn’t you ever tell me this? And why are you telling me now?” I asked them.

My dad couldn’t speak. Espy reached over and grabbed his hand.

“Because how you felt about him all these years—that he was a failure, a bad father, a bad husband—is how he felt about himself,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “He knew—he knows—that you hate him and that you would never believe him. He also knew Vangie would deny everything, and then he would be the bad guy all over again. So he let you hate him. Because he felt that he deserved it.”

Her voice broke, and she quickly wiped the tears from her eyes. “And I’m telling you now because of your welita.”

My head shot up, and my gut felt like someone had punched it. “What are you talking about?” I said, my face probably all scrunched up in confusion.

“The day before she died, me and your dad went to visit her. When he left the room to go get her some water, she asked me if we had talked to you recently. When I said that we hadn’t, she told me that made her sad. She said that she knew there were problems between your dad and you. I lied and said things were getting better. She made me promise that I would help make things right. And this is me, keeping my promise.”

I held my head in my hands because the weight of the revelation was too much for me to carry. The guilt of knowing that this was what Welita was worried about in her final days wrenched my gut into knots, coating my tongue in bitterness as bile built in my throat. “I can’t deal with this right now.” I jumped to my feet. “I’m sorry.”

Then I ran out of the house. I’d driven maybe just a block or two when I pulled my car over and let the tears escape. Had I been wrong about everything this entire time? Had I broken Welita’s heart all because I’d been too stubborn to demand answers—even though deep down I knew some things just didn’t make sense? I didn’t want to think about all the mean things I had ever said about my dad or all the times I’d canceled my weekend visits because I preferred to hang out with my friends or a boyfriend. I thought about my wedding day and how I hadn’t even considered asking him to be there.

I gulped for air as I thought about all the lost moments between us. My heart knew they had told me the truth.

Now it was up to me to decide what to do with it.





Chapter Fifty-Seven


GRACIE


You wouldn’t think it, but you can learn a lot of important life lessons from teaching seven-year-olds.

Lesson one: Never let your guard down. The second you think you’re in control—bam! Chaos ensues.

Lesson two: Logic doesn’t always win arguments. Sometimes you just have to accept that no matter what you say, you can’t change minds.

Lesson three: It never hurts to ask for help. Especially from the Big Guy.

So just before I was to face a nun, a priest, and an ultraconservative school board president, I decided to prepare myself with a last-minute prayer.

Dear God, I don’t know what is about to happen, but I put it in your hands. I trust that whatever happens will be part of your plan, and I just ask that you give me the strength and patience to get through this meeting without crying or calling someone a poopy head. Amen.

I had been summoned to the after-school meeting by Sister Catherine. She told me that we needed to discuss my “condition” and that Father Dominic, the school’s head deacon, and the school board president, Agatha Warner, would be joining us.