With the Fire on High(52)
“Want me to make lunch and then we can watch Remember the Titans or The Blind Spot?” ’Buela loves a good sports pep talk and I know it’s an offer she can’t refuse.
’Buela doesn’t look at me as she walks to the coat closet and pulls out her long overcoat. The weather is still cold and it might even snow. She wraps a Super Bowl scarf around her neck.
“I can’t, m’ija.” She doesn’t say anything else. I haven’t asked about where she goes when she says she’s going to a doctor’s appointment, even though we both know it’s code for “Gloria Time.” She’s made it clear it isn’t my business.
She gives me a kiss on the cheek, and with a final whiff in the air of her vanilla perfume, she shuts the door behind her.
I think about calling Malachi, or seeing if I can bribe Angelica with food, even if it means I crash a date between her and Laura. But instead, I go into the kitchen and take ingredients out of the fridge. I make ’Buela’s recipe for sofrito that I’ll use to season the ground beef. Softening the garlic and onions, adding tomato paste. This is the first step for most traditional dishes, the flavoring that gives a rich taste for everything from beans to stew. Then I brown meat and make a homemade sauce from fresh tomatoes. I grate fine shreds of mozzarella cheese and boil sheets of pasta. While the oven is preheating, I slowly layer my guilt, my hope, and a hundred dreams. I don’t know if it means anything at all, but ’Buela has always said my hands are magical, and I use them now to put all my feelings into the pan. I put together a salad, making sure it’s not overdressed, and then I sit down. Watching as the oven timer counts down.
When the oven chimes, I pull the lasagna out and wash the dishes in the sink while I let it rest for a couple of minutes. My fingers are itching to grab my phone, to talk to someone, to distract myself on social media, but instead I take out a plate and place a thick square of lasagna on it, decorating it with some basil. I plate my salad, and set the small kitchen table. From the fridge I pour myself a small glass of ’Buela’s holiday wine. I know she’ll raise an eyebrow when she sees I had some, but she won’t reprimand me; growing up, she was allowed to drink from the time she was fourteen and she finds the alcohol rules on the mainland excessive. And even if she did have something to say, I don’t think it would bother me.
Because today I am alone, in my kitchen, with a meal I made myself. I sit at the table and cut a bite of the lasagna. I don’t know what I am going to be, or who I am not; my own desires are thickly layered like the food on my plate, but I know that one day soon I’ll be a grown-ass woman. So, I let myself enjoy the meal, the moment, and my own company.
Spain
“Are you sure you have everything?”
“Sí, ’Buela,” I answer for the fiftieth time. It’s finally the day I leave for Spain, and my suitcase is packed, Babygirl’s daycare pickup schedule has been finalized by ’Buela and Mrs. Palmer, and we’ve agreed repeatedly that I’ll FaceTime them every night.
“Did you pack a skirt for church?” I nod. Even though she and I both know I’m not going to church unless it’s part of a tourist event.
’Buela peers into my suitcase. “And you put all your hair product in Ziploc baggies? The worst thing would be if they spill all over your clothes.”
I can imagine several worse things, but I nod dutifully. “Sí, ’Buela.”
She claps her hands together. “Oh! An umbrella, what if it rains?” I grab her arm before she finds something else for me to pack. And I hug her tight. “It’s only seven days. I’m going to be fine. I love you.”
’Buela pats my back and runs off to call her friend from the doctor’s office, Mr. Jagoda, to make sure he knows the exact time he needs to pick me up for the Philadelphia airport. I’m not sure what I’ll talk to him about, but a free ride was too good to resist. Malachi’s aunt will be taking him, and although some of the other kids were coordinating rides, Pretty Leslie is the only other person who lives near me, and she didn’t ask for a ride and I for damn sure didn’t offer. I pick Babygirl out of her crib—I really need to get on buying her a bed—and she snuggles in next to me.
This time tomorrow I’ll be in Spain. And this is the most excited and scared I’ve been since I birthed this little being. For a whole week I’ll be able to birth a new version of myself. And I can’t wait.
Arrival
The moment the wheels land on the tarmac, I let go of the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. It’s afternoon here, six hours ahead of Philly, and from the airplane windows as we landed I got a view of the city of Madrid: big city blocks and red-roofed houses.
Next to me, Amanda squeezes my hand. Richard squeezes hers. Throughout the flight the whole class kept getting up and talking to one another, walking down the aisles in our socks, and probably being way too Philly for a flight to Europe, but none of us cared. I was able to sit next to Malachi and nap on his shoulder throughout the flight, but the flight attendant had people return to their assigned seats for the landing.
We are giddy as a bunch of little kids in a brand-new playground. Some of us, like me, are on a plane for the first time in our lives. The airplane food wasn’t as bad as people make it out to seem. And the flight attendants were super sweet. They even giggled when Malachi jokingly asked for a white wine with his dinner, although at Chef Ayden’s loud “Young man,” from a couple of rows back, they quickly wiped the smiles off their faces, although their eyes still twinkled.