Olga Dies Dreaming(96)

“So, sit your butt down,” Karen commanded. How did she feel so comfortable bossing Olga around in her own house? Karen pulled a flip phone out of her tote bag. “Your mama’s gonna call us”—she checked her watch—“soon.”

Olga’s heart began racing, at a pace that scared her. Karen pulled her down to the sofa and patted her hand.

“I know,” she said, “it’s been a while, but it’s still just your mama. Time means nothing when it comes to our mothers.”

But Olga couldn’t breathe. The tears welled but wouldn’t come. She couldn’t remember her mother’s voice. She couldn’t even imagine it. And then, she didn’t need to. The phone rang and Karen answered.



* * *



“WE ARE HERE,” Karen said. “Both of us.” She put it on speaker.

“?Querida? ?Querida, mi Olga? Are you there?” her mother said.

“?Mami?” Olga asked, the word quivering in her mouth. She was thirteen, or younger, again, her mother’s voice rewinding time, and pain, and hurt, and bitterness. “?Mami! It’s you!”

“Sí, Olga. It’s me! Mija, someone showed me the clip of you on the news! I was so proud. Finally, you’ve found your voice.”

The tears had come now, but Olga smiled through them. Pride was a feeling her mother had always reserved for Prieto; she bathed in it now.

“Something just came over me, Mami,” she said.

“What came over you was the truth. There comes for each of us a moment when we can’t turn our backs to abuses of power, and this was your moment. It’s still your moment, Olga. Here in Puerto Rico we are on the cusp of the liberation that has evaded our people for over a hundred years, and I believe that you, mija, can help deliver us the key to unlock this door.”

“Me?” Olga said with disbelief.

“Claro, mija. Olga, you see the news; how the government has had us on our knees—before Maria, even—begging for power, like citizens of a third-world country? We have long known our need to get out from under the thumb of this corrupt government and PREPA. Slowly, we have been accumulating solar and wind energy sources, but we can no longer afford to move slowly.”

“Mami, this makes sense, but why not talk to Prieto—”

“Ay, Olga,” her mother said, not even attempting to conceal her disgust. “If I wanted the help of a bureaucratic lombriz, I’d sit around waiting for Ricky to do something.”

Olga was taken aback. Wounded on her brother’s behalf. Prieto had said their mother was angry, had told her about the box of worms, yet the vitriol with which their mother spoke of her son still shocked her.

“Mami, I know you’re upset about the PROMESA stuff, but—”

“Olguita, we can’t waste time on Prieto,” her mother said, impatience in her voice. “If it was just his PROMESA vote, I’d think him weak willed, but no, it’s much, much worse. He’s been lining his pockets voting against his own people! The worst kind of traitor—”

“Mami,” Olga pleaded, “there’s got to have been a mis—”

“Nena, please,” she offered firmly. “Enough. We don’t need Prieto. We really just need you.”

Olga was quiet for a moment, straining to absorb this deluge of emotions and information. Her mother continued.

“Olguita,” she said, the coo back in her voice, “what I need now is the kind of intervention that can only come from the private sector. Where they can move outside the confines of government. What I need now is someone to commit to selling us—the people of Puerto Rico—large numbers of solar panels, and to commit to getting them to us quickly. I’m not looking for a handout now, mind you. We have money—we have some very generous patrons to our cause—but, for the volume of panels that we are looking for, we need someone willing to … bargain. And, of course, not ask too many questions.”

“And you think I know someone like this?” Olga asked, dumbfounded.

“Por supuesto. I think you know them well. I saw a picture of you two together in the Style Section, mija, at one of those fancy Hamptons parties you are always going to.”

A chill ran down Olga’s spine before she intellectually understood why.

“Did you know your novio, Richard, is one of the largest producers and distributors of solar panels in the United States?”

Anxiety flooded Olga; she was unsure how to disrupt her mother’s plans with the inconvenient realities of her love life.

“I, um, didn’t know that, Mami. I didn’t ask too much about his work. Pero, Mami, I cut things off with Dick—”

“?Y? So?” her mother interjected. “People reconcile, no?”

“I … I…” Olga felt, instinctively, that she should not mention Matteo; that to do so would only expose him—their relationship—to her mother’s verbal assault. She knew that, in service of the revolution, her personal happiness—anyone’s, really—was of little concern. She didn’t need her mother to confirm that. Her mother, seeming to sense her hesitation, pounced.

“Your whole life, Olga, you’ve been able to charm your way in and out of anything you’ve wanted. Wrap people around your finger! I’ve always admired that about you. I have no doubts you can do it again now with this Richard. It’s a chance to put your talents and connections in the service of something important for a change. Wouldn’t you like the chance to do that? For your Mami? For your gente?”