Olga Dies Dreaming(8)
Me and your Papi took great pains to ensure that you and your brother were raised with all the knowledge we’d had to seek for ourselves. To know that we came from kings and queens who lived off the land, from people who were raped and enslaved but stayed strong, kept their spirit. Things we were told to be ashamed of—my curly hair, your father’s dark skin—you grew up knowing that these things were beautiful. So, when I think of you at thirteen, I know how prepared you are for the challenges of the world. You are no ordinary little girl, but a beautiful young Boricua.
And so, Olga, you must see yourself and my absence not as one little girl missing her mother, but as a brave young woman who knows that in a world of oppression, achieving liberation will require sacrifice. You can’t stay in your room and cry. You can’t keep Abuelita up at night with your tears. You have to keep your head held high, you have to be strong. Like the revolutionary we raised you to be.
Life, you will unfortunately learn, is full of hard choices. For everyone, but especially for you, a Latina girl in America. Your options will be fewer and choices harder. The cost and value of your life decisions must be carefully weighed.
Nothing, Olga, is more valuable than people being free. Which is why, despite this being one of my own harder choices, I must leave you and your brother. I don’t know when I will return.
I need you to be strong. To behave. Not to fuss like a child. You are made of powerful stuff. And I don’t leave you alone, mijita. Your brother loves you and he has had three extra years with his parents to learn what’s right. You have Abuelita, my sister, my brothers. Your father has his troubles, but his heart is still full of love and his mind still has wisdom that will benefit you. Above all, just because I’m not there doesn’t mean I’m not watching. Just as the government watches our comings and goings, my Brothers and Sisters in this struggle will have their eyes on you. Your family is bigger and vaster than you can even imagine.
Querida, one day my work will make you proud. You will see our people take off the shackles of oppression and say, “Mami helped to do that.” And you can take pride, knowing your sacrifice was a part of it. This is my word.
Pa’lante,
Mami
JULY 2017
MORNING ROUTINE
In the morning Olga opened her eyes and wondered how expediently she could get him out of the apartment. The coitus had been remarkably satisfying, the proper amount of fast and slow, rough and gentle, biting and caressing. He was a confident man. This complicated things. Olga frequently had male companions, but rarely allowed them to spend the night. On the odd occasions that she did, she usually triggered a swift morning exit by delivering an ego-bruising remark in an offhand manner. Usually, she was comfortably alone again before the coffee percolated. This tactic was doubly effective as it not only drove the offended party from her abode, it usually saved her the trouble of then having to ignore their texts seeking further mediocre conversation as preamble to even more mediocre intercourse. This morning felt a bit different. She had enjoyed Matteo—both before and during—and wanted to keep her options open. That did not mean she didn’t want him gone now. She cleared her throat, loudly, in an effort to wake him up. She slid out of bed and into her robe, climbing over her black funeral/wedding dress, his rumpled button-down shirt, and, inexplicably, his Teva sandals. She looked back for visual confirmation that she had, indeed, just fucked a guy who wore socks and sandals. In the summer.
Yes. There they were. Peeking out from under the comforter, attached to his muscular, hairy calves.
“Morning!” he said. “This is some mattress. I slept like a baby.”
“Um, thanks?” she said, hearing the awkwardness of her own voice. She quickly scuttled into the kitchen, cut on the news, and started her coffee. She did this as loudly as possible, hoping the noise would send the message she seemed unable to verbally communicate. As the coffee filled the pot, her angst began to mount, his presence threatening to cross the invisible line into her morning routine. She opened the cabinet, contemplated pulling out two mugs, but instead took out just one. Her go-to, with the mascot of her own fancy New England college. Its presence at the start of her every morning both a comforting aide-mémoire of her own ambition and intelligence, and a disquieting reminder that she was likely squandering the two.
Even with his socked feet and the hum of the central A/C, she could hear him making his way to the bathroom, down the short corridor towards her. In her adult life Olga had only been in one real relationship, and that had ended nearly fifteen years before. This type of intimacy was unfamiliar, leaving her unsure how to act. Would he greet her like a husband? Like a lover? How should she react to that? A grimace? A sweet kiss? Pretend, for a moment, to be like a normal woman, eager for an instant of domestic bliss?
“Shit! This is some view!” Matteo exclaimed. It was. The apartment was located on the seventeenth floor of one of the older of the new high-rises that had come to dominate, and transform, one of the previously neglected enclaves of her hometown. The unit itself, decorated with sparse perfection, featured the best of HGTV and IG: stainless steel appliances, an open concept floor plan, a kitchen island with poured concrete countertops, and the showstopper—floor-to-ceiling windows that offered sweeping views of what Olga considered her little patch of Brooklyn. From her kitchen she could look down one of the bustling avenues and practically see the neighborhood she had grown up in.