by Force, Marie
“Maria said you asked about him working at the free clinic.”
I sigh to myself, because God forbid she should hear me sigh at something she says.
“Allow me to explain,” Jason says.
I want to throw myself in front of that, but before I can stop him, he’s telling her the full story of what happened in New York as well as how I’m helping him restore his reputation and get approved by the board at Miami-Dade.
My mother hangs on his every word, her mouth hanging open in shock when he gets to the part about how Ginger betrayed him. About halfway through the retelling, my father returns and is equally interested. I’m not sure if I’m watching a slow-moving disaster or a smart move on his part.
“What kind of woman does that to someone?” Mami is filled with outrage on his behalf.
Her outrage is a relief to me. I don’t want her to dislike him because of what happened. And besides, it’s probably best that he told them himself since they’d be googling him two seconds after we leave. The four of them are in love with their iPhones and their emojis.
“This is a very important assignment you’ve been given, Dulcita.”
Jason glances at me, eyebrow raised. “Dulcita?”
“Sweetie,” my mother tells him. “It’s what I’ve always called her.”
“She is very sweet.”
I’m mortified, and he knows it, but he laughs anyway. And here I thought I liked him. When I look up, my mother is giving me a curious look, as if she just put together a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle in the span of a second. That’s my mother for you. Nothing gets by her.
“Where are you from originally, Jason?” Mami asks.
“Outside of Milwaukee.”
“Where do your people come from?”
Jason glances at me.
“Nationality.” My family is always interested in where other people are from.
“Oh, um, English, Irish and Dutch, or so I was told.”
“Do you have siblings?”
“I have a younger brother.”
“And what do your parents do?”
“Mami! This is lunch, not an inquisition.” I feel like I should put a stop to this, even though she’s posing questions I’d like to ask.
“It’s fine, Dulcita.” Jason winks at me as I scowl at him. He’s not allowed to call me that, but he doesn’t seem to care. “My mom is a doctor and my dad is an attorney.”
“Oh my.” My mother has always been impressed by people with fancy educations, although as my dad frequently tells her, fancy educations don’t necessarily equal fancy people. He likes to give her examples of people we know who have all the education in the world but don’t know enough to come in out of the rain, as he puts it. “They must be very proud of you.”
“They were until things blew up in New York.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
He shrugs, seeming a little defeated. “People don’t believe I didn’t know who she was. She didn’t change her name when she got married, so how was I supposed to connect her to the board chair? And it never occurred to me that I should google this fabulous new woman I met who seemed so genuine. That’s on me.”
“It’s not your fault.” Mami reaches across the bar to place her hand over his. “It’s her fault. She set out to use you without a care in the world about the damage it would do to you, probably figuring you were a typical self-involved rock star surgeon who wouldn’t care if she used you to break up her family. I’m very sorry that happened to you.”
“Thank you.”
He’s wallowing in the maternal vibes my mother is putting out. She mothers everyone, like a woman who was meant to have ten children, not just one. And like so many others before him, Jason is powerless to resist her. Tony adored her and told her all his problems to the point that I had to plead with him not to share everything that went on between us with my mother!
Let me tell you—it wasn’t easy being a rebellious teen when all my friends were telling me how amazing my mother was and that I ought to be nicer to her. Talk about frustrating.
The pager on my dad’s belt vibrates to let him know food is ready in the kitchen. He goes to get it and returns with two platters that he puts down in front of us. “Cuban on the left. Italian on the right.”
“It’s never the opposite here,” I tell Jason. “Ever.”
“Good to know. I wouldn’t want to mess that up.”
“Don’t worry,” Mami says, “we won’t let you make that mistake.”
“Give me a tour of what we’ve got here.”
I point to the basket of confections that Dad brought along with our food. “Croquetas, pastelitos and bocaditos. On the platter, there’s arroz con pollo, which is rice and chicken, and arroz con frijoles negros, or rice and black beans. That’s ropa vieja, shredded beef in tomato sauce. Ropa vieja actually translates to ‘old clothes,’ but don’t let that stop you from trying it. It’s one of my favorites. We’ve also got tostones, which are plantains, and yuca hervida con mojo, or boiled yuca. On the Italian side, there’s manicotti, which is what we’re known for, as well as eggplant parm, fritto misto and a sausage and broccoli rabe frittata.”
“I hope you provide to-go containers, because this is enough for three meals.”
“We’ll pack it up for you, mijo,” Mami says. “Don’t you worry.”
I’m stricken by her use of the word mijo. That’s what she called Tony, the slang term for mi hijo, or “my child.”
She immediately realizes what she did and sends me an imploring look, as if she’s asking me to forgive her. I do. Of course I do, but hearing that term for the first time in five years hits me like a shot to the heart.
Jason doesn’t notice, which is just as well. He’s too busy trying bites of everything. His moans of pleasure zing through me like live wires attached to all my most important parts as I try to get a few bites down.
Needing something to do, I get out my phone, go around the bar and take photos of him sampling—and obviously enjoying—traditional Cuban and Italian food.
“This is the best meal I’ve ever had in my entire life,” he declares when he’s put a sizable dent in both platters.
My parents beam with happiness. He couldn’t pay them a higher compliment. They love nothing more than feeding people to the point of explosion.
“How about dessert?” Dad asks.
Before we can reply, the front door swings open with a crash as my grandmothers come in, fighting like angry cats, per usual.
Abuela is fussing with her hair, which looks lovely as always. “It’s too short. I told her not to cut it so short, but she didn’t listen. Leave it to you, coño, to take me to a hairdresser who doesn’t speak English or Español.”
“She speaks perfect English and Spanish, and unlike your blind-as-a-bat lady, she can actually see what she’s doing!”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you told her—”
Everything stops when Abuela notices me sitting at the bar.
With a man.
Nona glances our way to see what Abuela is looking at, and that quickly, their argument is forgotten.
They have much better things to do than fight about hair when I’m sitting at the bar. With a man.
“Incoming,” I mutter to Jason.
CHAPTER 11
CARMEN
Descending upon us like locusts, they hug and kiss me like they haven’t seen me in weeks, bringing clouds of Chanel and Dior perfume with them. They’re the scents of home to me. Abuela is petite and delicate, her snow-white hair perfectly coifed after her trip to the salon, during which the blue hues were thankfully washed out. Though she’s nearly seventy-five, her face is unlined and her makeup is flawless. I’ve never once seen her looking anything other than stunning, even first thing in the morning.
Nona towers over her and is twice as wide, and much to Abuela’s dismay, Nona’s hair has remained stubbornly dark with only a few gray hairs to indicate she will soon be sev
enty-six. Nona doesn’t give a rat’s ass about makeup or what she’s wearing or any of the things Abuela obsesses over. They couldn’t be more opposite if they tried to be, and they put a hell of an effort into being as different from each other as they can possibly be.
They have one huge, all-consuming thing in common, however . . .
Me.
I jump in before they can start asking questions. “Nona, Abuela, this is Dr. Jason Northrup, one of my new colleagues at Miami-Dade. Jason, these lovely ladies are my grandmothers, Marlene and Livia, but almost everyone calls them Abuela and Nona.”
He stands and shakes both their hands, looking them in the eye when he tells them it’s so nice to meet them both.
I’m unreasonably proud of him.
“A doctor,” Nona says. “How lovely. What kind of doctor are you?”
“A pediatric neurosurgeon.”
Abuela gasps. “A neurosurgeon! Like Patrick—”
“—Dempsey.” Nona completes Abuela’s sentence as usual. Abuela can never remember names. Faces, yes, but she’s awful with names. That’s why she calls our customers Mami and Papi. It’s easier than remembering their names.
“Yes, just like him,” I reply, “only Jason is an actual brain surgeon.”
Abuela directs a shrewd glance my way. “Jason is, is he?”
I realized my mistake the second I made it, but it’s too late to take it back.
“I’m so happy you’re already making such amiguitos at work, Carmen.” What she lacks in memory, she doesn’t make up for in tact. Amiguitos means good friends in a sort of flirtatious sense, and she put the extra oomph behind it to make her point. Like I wouldn’t have gotten her meaning otherwise.
Abuela is bowled over by his handsome face as much as his curriculum vitae, not to mention he’s here with me. She’s going to dine out on this for weeks. Her granddaughter brought a neurosurgeon into the restaurant, a real live neurosurgeon.
“My boss asked me to show Dr. Northrup around since he’s new to the area and needed help getting acclimated.”
“You’ve come to the right place, Dr. Northrup,” Nona says. “We can teach you everything you need to know about the Miami area.”
“That’s very kind of you, ma’am. Carmen is doing an excellent job of showing me around.”
“Is she now?” Abuela’s laser-beam gaze delves inside me to root around for the real story.
I put up my mental block and give her nothing. “We should get going.” I hope I’ll be able to extricate him from their clutches.
Before we can make a move, my cousin Maria comes in, wearing pink scrubs with cartoon babies all over them. She has my build, height and coloring, but her hair is longer and curlier than mine. People often mistake us for sisters. She smoothly navigates the grandmothers to kiss my cheek. “Heard you were here.”
“How is that possible?” Jason asks under his breath.
“It’s better not to ask. Dr. Jason Northrup, my cousin Maria Giordino. Maria, Dr. Northrup.”
“Jason,” he says.
My grandmothers begrudgingly step aside so Jason and Maria can shake hands.
“Good to meet you.” Maria gives me a side-eyed glance that conveys an entire conversation that would go something like this if we were alone: Her: Are you for real right now? This guy is freaking hot. Me: Is he? I hadn’t noticed. Her: Whatever. My ass you didn’t notice. “I hear you might be looking for a volunteer gig.”
“You heard correctly, and it’s nice to meet you, too.”
“I come bearing good news. The clinic would love to have your services tomorrow if you’re available.”
He glances at me.
“He’s available on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“We can take photographs of him at work.”
“No patient faces online without signed releases.”
“Done.”
Maria smiles at Jason. “You’re hired.”
“That’s great. Thank you so much.”
“We’re very happy to have you.”
“I thought you said you’re a neurosurgeon,” Abuela says. “What’re you doing working in Maria’s free clinic?”
“Community outreach,” I quickly reply for him. “The hospital requires it.”
“That’s a wonderful gesture,” Nona says.
He’s won her over forever by giving his time to the needy. My dad gripes about how much food she donates to the numerous causes she’s involved with, but even he respects how much of themselves she and Abuela give to others.
“You want lunch, sweetheart?” Dad asks Maria.
“A house salad with chicken to go would be great, Uncle V.”
“Coming right up.”
“What time and where tomorrow?” Jason asks Maria.
“Is nine okay?”
“Works for me.”
“I’ll bring you so I can take photos,” I tell him.
“Sounds good. Thanks to both of you.”
“Thank you. My boss couldn’t say yes fast enough when I told her about your offer. I would’ve had an answer for you sooner, but she was in meetings all morning with the finance people, which usually puts her in a foul mood.”
“Does the clinic need money again, honey?” Nona asks.
“I’m not sure what’s going on, but I’ll let you know.”
“We can do another spaghetti dinner,” Nona says. “Just say the word.”
“Thank you.” Maria kisses Nona’s cheek and then Abuela’s. She’s like a third grandmother to Maria. That’s one thing to adore about my grandmothers’ unique relationship. They love each other’s grandchildren like their own.
My dad has packed up all the leftovers for Jason, and judging by the size of the bag he presents, I assume he’s added enough for a few additional meals, too.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
“Anything for you, love.”
Jason reaches for his wallet.
“You’ll insult us if you try to pay.” Dad affects a comically stern tone. “It’s our pleasure to welcome our daughter’s colleague to Miami and our humble establishment.”
Jason leans across the bar to shake my father’s hand. “Thank you so much for your hospitality, Vincent. It’s been such a pleasure to meet you all.”
“Likewise,” Abuela says. “I hope we’ll see you back here very soon. In fact, you should come for Sunday brunch.” The calculating look she gives me lets me know she’s trying to help me, whether I want her help or not.
“I’d love to.”
“Wonderful. Carmen will give you the details, and we’ll see you Sunday.” She crooks her finger to get him to come down to her so she can kiss his cheek.
Then Nona hugs and kisses him while my mother waits for her turn.
I nudge him to get him moving for the door before they think of something else they need to tell him or ask him.
“Call me later, Carmen,” Mami calls to me as the door closes behind us.
“So. That’s my family.”
“I have so many questions.”
As we walk toward his car, I laugh as hard as I’ve laughed in years.
JASON
She has no idea how incredibly lovely she is, which only makes her more so. Seeing her with her family has added an intriguing layer to my impression of her and filled me with curiosity about the family dynamics.
“Abuela is your mother’s mother, right?” I ask when we’re back in the car.
“Yes, she left Cuba when she was about ten. Nona’s family came from Italy to New York, originally, when she was two, so too young to remember much about it. Abuela, on the other hand, remembers everything about leaving Cuba. It was very traumatic for her and her entire family, especially after they lost her father.”
“What happened to him?”
“My great-grandfather infiltrated Batista’s administration as part of the revolutionary effort to overthrow his corrupt government. Batista was the president in the chaotic time before C
astro came to power. When my great-grandfather was found out, he was executed.”
“Oh my God.”
“Sadly, this happened a month before Batista was forced to flee the country. One of my great-grandfather’s friends came to the house and told Abuela’s mother they had to get out immediately. He got them on a flight leaving for Miami that afternoon. Her mother escaped with five children and nothing more than the clothes on their backs. They went from being wealthy, prominent citizens of Havana to living in a new country where they didn’t speak the language, with few resources available to them.”
“What a shock that must’ve been.”
“From what I’ve heard, my great-grandmother never truly recovered from losing her husband, home and country all in the same day. Abuela and her older sister helped to raise their younger siblings while their mother worked long hours at a dry cleaner to put food on the table in the cramped apartment where they all lived. The saving grace, if you can call it that, was the community of exiled Cubans who ended up here.”
“It must’ve helped to have others from Cuba close by.”
“It was a mixed bag for them. There were so many competing interests at the time. Some people revered them for what their husband and father had done, and others were less appreciative. Fun fact—I was named after my great-grandmother Carmen.”
“What an amazing story.”
“When the travel restrictions were eased a few years back, my parents took Abuela and her older sister to Havana. My parents said Havana is like the place time forgot. They’re still driving cars from the fifties and have hardly any of the modern conveniences we take for granted here. They were supposed to be there for a week but came back after only two days. Abuela and her sister couldn’t bear to be there. The memories were too painful.”
“That’s so sad.”
“She said the trip provided closure for them. That’s all she’s ever said about it. Since then, she’s asked us to speak to her in English more than Spanish so she can continue to improve her English. It’s like she’s finally accepted she’s never going home.”
“You’d never know she’s experienced such heartache.”
“She hides it well. Despite all she’s endured, she’s still one of the most optimistic, joyful people I’ve ever known.”
