Sal and Gabi Break the Universe

by Carlos Hernandez

  Fact: That was impossible.

  Fact: A part of me that I had no control over kept ripping up the universe to bring Mami Muerta back to me anyway.

  PAPI AND AMERICAN Stepmom stood speechless. Mami Muerta waited with her eyes closed and her cheek out and her lips puckered, expecting a kiss any second. Things were just about to go sideways. If I didn’t act now, my plan would fall apart.

  So I ran up to Mami and hugged her and said, “¡Estoy muriéndome de hambre, Mami! ¡Besos luego, comida ahora!”

  I didn’t have to use Spanish to tell her I was starving. This Mami Muerta understood English pretty well, unlike a lot of the previous Mami Muertas. But this English-speaking Mami still preferred Spanish, even if I was out of practice. I had discovered over the course of our afternoon of cooking together—as we chatted about all the small, stupid stuff of life—that nothing made her happier than to hear me say “sí” instead of “yes” and “te quiero” instead of “I love you.”

  It was so good to have Mami back. No, not back, not exactly. This Mami was different from the Mami I remembered. She spoke English, was thirty pounds heavier, and she wore shoes in the house, when the previous Mami always made everyone go barefoot to keep the carpets clean. But she smiled just how I remembered. She had the same chocolate-brown eyes as always. And she could still make me laugh out of control, like I was in second grade again. We had laughed all afternoon as we cooked.

  Well, okay, some of my giddiness may have been due to low blood sugar. I was having too much fun with my mami—who used to be muerta, but who now was cooking up a storm and cracking jokes and bossing me around and telling me how to live my life and caring so much that I could see her heart overflowing with love every time she looked at me—to worry about something as stupid as my diabetes. I’d be fine. And anyway, I needed to save up for all the carbs tonight. No way was I going to miss out on my mami’s cooking.

  “¡Comida ahora!” I repeated.

  “Okay,” Mami Muerta said in English, laughing and ruffling my hair. “Eat now. But,” she said, looking at Papi the way a telenovela star makes eyes at her One True Love, “I expect besitos later. Lots of them.”

  As Mami Muerta and I walked into the dining room, our arms across each other’s shoulders—she was short and I had grown, so we were exactly the same height—I looked at Papi and American Stepmom.

  They were side by side as well, but not touching. They stood apart at a discreet, non-jealousy-provoking distance.

  I mouthed to them, Everything is under control! Just play along!

  They hesitated.

  I couldn’t blame them. All five of the other Mami Muertas had looked suspiciously at American Stepmom, wondering qué en el nombre de Dios Papi was doing with this…this…americana (I’m not going to repeat the not-so-nice adjectives some Mami Muertas added in front of americana).

  Mami was a whole different person every time she came back. One Mami told me how she had competed on Cuba’s track-and-field Olympic team; she had abs like a brick wall and arms like a Machamp. Another Mami, frantic, crying, had searched all over the house for my brother and sister (I don’t have a brother and sister). So far, three of the Mamis had had diabetes; three, including the one who’d made this dinner, didn’t. Two sold clothes in small Miami boutiques that didn’t require English, one worked at the post office, another was a Catholic deacon, and the last one…

  Man, the last one. The only thing all of them had in common so far was that they had picked a fight with my parents. I’d had to close my eyes and relax my mami away before something bad happened. But right before we moved from Connecticut, the one who appeared had gone from zero to maniac in under ten seconds. I’d wanted to make her go away, too, like I had the others, but it’s really hard to relax when your Mami Muerta starts chucking shoes and silverware and vases at people you love. After she had run out of things to throw at my parents, she had hustled over to the wall and grabbed her and Papi’s wedding picture.

  The only reason the wedding picture was still up was because American Stepmom had wanted it there for my sake, so that I would always know that she wasn’t trying to replace Mami Muerta. But it had been a mistake to keep it. After Mami Muerta held it above her head triumphantly, she’d smashed the wedding picture on her knee.

  Glass volcanoed up from the frame. Mami Muerta cut herself badly. Startled, suddenly afraid, she pressed her cotton dress to the gash in her knee, and it greedily drank her blood, turning from white to a spreading, growing red. I fainted.

  When I woke up, Mami Muerta was gone. But everything she had broken in our family stayed broken.

  The house had too many bad memories after that. So we moved to Florida.

  It’s okay! I mouthed over my shoulder to Papi and American Stepmom. I got this!

  They looked at each other. Then they leaned in until their noses touched and had a two-second whispered debate. Lots of hands flailing and shoulders shrugging. Then a quick kiss for luck, the kind you see in movies before people go off to war.

  I guess my side won, since they followed Mami Muerta and me single file into the dining room.

  I know how upset they felt. But I also knew they’d be fine in a second. Because, let me tell you, there are very few things in life that can’t be fixed by a Cuban feast. And that’s what lay waiting for us in the dining room.

  Our dark-stained table stretched as long as an airstrip (well, if mice flew jet fighters). American Stepmom had inherited it from her parents, which meant it had too much sentimental value for her to get rid of it. But it usually felt too big for our little family of three.

  Now it looked just the right size to hold all the food on it. In the center of the table, the pot of glorious brown-and-red ropa vieja—shredded meat in tomato sauce with peppers and cumin and onion and everything else in the world that smells good—burbled like the most delicious tar pit ever.

  Around the ropa vieja, the side dishes formed a five-point star. There were:

  1. A bowl of white rice the shape of the snowcap on a mountain;

  2. A pot of black beans exhaling puffs of seasoned steam;

  3. A plate with two kinds of plantains: half sweet and thick and syrupy, half salty and coated in olive oil;

  4. A tray of baked yucca—crisp on the outside, soft on the inside—which had been turned blue-green by the loads of garlic heaped on it; and

  5. A wooden pizza paddle serving up avocado halves. Each avocado brimmed over with a ladleful of hot bacalao, a tomatoey codfish soup that smelled like the kind of food you eat when you want to make your soul feel toasty and happy and warm.

  “Phew!” said my breathless American Stepmom. Here, she meant What a spread!

  Papi said nothing. His mouth was watering too much for him to speak.

  “¡Vamo’, vamo’!” said Mami Muerta. “¡Ante, que se enfrie!”

  We obediently took our seats: Papi at the head of the table, with American Stepmom on one side and Mami Muerta on the other. I’d be sitting at the other end eventually, finally eating (I. Was. Starving!), but I decided to play waiter first. All part of my plan. I grabbed the pitcher of water and filled glasses, starting with American Stepmom. “Some va-ter for ze mademoiselle?” I asked her, already pouring.

  She ventriloquized, “Why isn’t she trying to kill me?”

  As I poured her water, I slipped a note onto her plate. Here’s what it said:

  I told Mami that I started an Airbnb for a school project in business class. You’re my first guest. Your name is Mrs. Scott. You’re an architect from New York City. You’re visiting Miami for your job. You’re married, you don’t have children, and on weekends you volunteer at the food kitchen at St. Gabriel’s Catholic Church, which I made up, so I hope this Mami doesn’t know how to google. But she can read English, so hide this note as soon as you understand it completely.

  American Stepmom read the last line and panicked. She balled up the note, popped it in her mouth and chewed it up, and chugged her whole glass of wate
r.

  Well, that was one way to hide it. I refilled her glass.

  Mami Muerta hadn’t noticed. She’d been too busy piling Papi’s plate with food.

  Papi had always loved Mami Muerta’s cooking. I mean, like bye-bye, brain, and hello, dinner! He grew happier and happier as Mami Muerta served him up a mountain of Cuban delights. He barely waited for her to set it down in front of him before he started throwing forkfuls of ropa vieja into his mouth like a farmer pitching hay.

  Mami Muerta watched him eat, beaming. My time in the kitchen with her had taught me that one of this Mami Muerta’s great joys in life was seeing people enjoy her food.

  Remembering her hostly duties with a start, Mami Muerta walked over to American Stepmom and said, “Don’t be shy, Mrs. Escott!” And before American Stepmom could do anything, Mami Muerta took her plate and quickly ladled it full of more food than any human could finish in three days.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Vidón,” American Stepmom said politely. And then, looking at the Mt. Everest of dinner on her plate, she added, “Phew, baby.”

  “Riquísimo,” said Papi. And then, without turning his head, shoveling food into his mouth the whole while, he said to Mami Muerta, “Nadie puede cocinar como tú, Floramaria.”

  I hadn’t heard Papi say a single word in Spanish for over a year. These days, even when he said “amigo” or “mañana” or “hasta la vista,” he said them like an American. But now? It was like eating Cuban food had filled him with Cuban words.

  As she returned to her seat, Mami Muerta put a hand on Papi’s shoulder and, deliriously proud, said, “Cómo me encanta mirarte disfrutando de esta comida, mi amor. But just you wait. There’s flan for dessert.”

  Papi froze, his fork floating in the air. And not because he loved flan. See, as long as he concentrated on the glorious meal in front of him, he could pretend everything else was fine. But as soon as she touched him, he was forced to remember that the woman who had made this most excellent dinner had died five years ago. His mouth and eyes and nostrils opened as wide as they could.

  Uh-oh. Time for damage control.

  “How about some music?” I asked. I scooted over as quickly as I could to Papi’s vinyl collection and flipped on his turntable. The old-fashioned record player’s arm moved itself into position; “Yiri Yiri Bon” started to play. In Spanish it sounds like “Jee-dee Jee-dee Boom!” It’s all about how Cubans smoke cigars, drink coffee and sugarcane juice, dance, and have a good life. Mami Muerta, who’d just sat at her place, finally, immediately popped out of her seat again and started to dance.

  Not all Mami Muertas have loved dancing, but this one sure did. She was getting down.

  American Stepmom side-eyed Mami Muerta. Admiration? Definitely. But maybe jealousy, too. American Stepmom’s idea of dancing amounted to clapping and jumping in place and looking around to make sure no one was laughing at her. As she watched Mami Muerta sway to the music, she said “Phew” snippily. This time it meant How am I supposed to compete with that?

  She looked at Papi. His shock had faded away. He sat mesmerized by Mami Muerta’s dancing, remembering good times.

  When Mami Muerta finally noticed all of us staring at her, she laughed. “Do you know how to dance estilo cubano, Mrs. Escott?”

  It took a second for American Stepmom to remember I had renamed her. “Oh, yes, my name is Mrs. Scott. Hi. Um, yes. No! I don’t dance. Right?” She looked at me. “Nothing’s ever been said about me dancing, right? Right. So, yes, I’m a terrible dancer.”

  “It’s easy!” Mami Muerta shuffled over to American Stepmom and extended her hand. American Stepmom stared hard at it, then looked at me.

  With an unsure smile, American Stepmom cautiously took Mami Muerta’s hand. Mami Muerta, elated, whiplashed her out of her chair.

  They stood about a foot apart and held only one hand. They waited a few beats, Mami Muerta counting with nods of her head. And then they started to dance.

  American Stepmom watched Mami Muerta’s feet and kind of stomp-copied her. Mami Muerta encouraged her with laughter and hooting and clapping. And Papi—how to even describe his face?—he looked thoughtful and wistful and confused and, for all that, strangely serene. It was a beautiful, impossible moment. Papi knew that, whatever else might be going on in his mind—and I am sure he was thinking about the physics that made Mami Muerta’s visit possible—it was his duty to watch this miracle happen.

  It’s working! It’s working! I thought. All my parents, together. I didn’t know how I could keep this up. American Stepmom couldn’t pretend she was renting a room from me forever. But I would figure something out. I had to. This was just what I wanted, this beautiful, happy, white-bright moment.

  Whoa. Too bright, I suddenly realized. My peripheral vision grew painfully brilliant. That’s when I remembered how long it had been since I’d eaten. I needed to get some food in me, now! Or—

  I only finished that thought a few hours later. In the hospital.

  WHEN I WOKE UP, I could tell by the smell—a little chemical, a little too cold, and a little like pee—that I was lying in a hospital bed. Before I opened my eyes, I decided to check in with my body.

  My doctor in Connecticut had taught me a meditation to help me concentrate on my insides. I pretend my brain is a submarine. It unmoors itself from my skull, turns on its searchlights, cruises through my throat, and enters the underwater cave that is my chest cavity. Scientists inside the sub take notes as it stops to examine weird-looking organs. Next, it glides carefully into my right arm, going all the way past the wrist and lighting up each finger before turning around and doing the same to the left arm. It coasts down my legs and studies each toe. Then it’s an easy ride back to the skull, where my brain docks itself again and submits its report about my body.

  Nothing inside me hurt. That was the best news, since I could have cut myself or conked my head when I passed out. I didn’t feel faint anymore, either, just groggy, like when you sleep for too long. My body sank into the bed like a garbage bag full of microwaved peanut butter.

  Even with my eyes closed, I knew I had an IV tube in my right arm. They’d taken my vest off, but I still had on the T-shirt and cargo pants I’d worn all day. Good—I hate hospital gowns. Shoes were off, socks were on. Also good—for diabetics, socked foot is best foot. As a people, those of us who are pancreatically challenged have, well, ugly paws. We get calluses and corns and ulcers more easily than you norms. My pair already looked like overused chew toys, and I was still a kid. But sometimes we type-1 types have to have our toes and arches and heels and ankles amputated, so we’re grateful when we get to keep them at all. You learn to love your beat-up feet, the same way homely dogs are cute.

  They must have stabilized my blood sugar with the IV, but I still hadn’t eaten real food in a long time. My stomach complained like a bubbling bog.

  “Did you hear that?” asked American Stepmom. “Is Sal awake? Sal—”

  “Don’t wake him, mi vida,” Papi whispered.

  I made sleepy noises and shifted a little and then settled, as if I were actually asleep and not faking it so I could eavesdrop on them.

  “Phew,” said American Stepmom. That meant I didn’t wake him, and I would have felt really terrible if I had, and my poor son has it so tough, what a world.

  “No harm done,” whispered Papi.

  “Well,” American Stepmom whispered back. But now her voice was totally different. She had gone from Loving Mother to Assistant Principal of Doom in the space of a second. “Let’s not minimize this. Plenty of harm was done. To us. By Sal.”

  “We told him not to bring her back,” agreed Papi. “We made him promise.”

  “After your dead ex-wife wrecked our house in Connecticut.”

  We all three of us took a sec to remember that time when Mami Muerta stood bleeding in our house, a wet red circle spreading on her dress from the gash on her knee.

  I wanted to tell them that I hadn’t done it this time. Well, not on purpose.
I hadn’t called her. I didn’t mean to almost get run over and have a flashback.

  But I wanted to see where they were going with this. I snored.

  “We’ve been too easy on him,” said American Stepmom.

  I could sense Papi nodding in agreement. “Walks all over us.”

  “Children need structure. I, more than anyone, should know this.”

  “It’s my fault. I never discipline him. Ever since Floramaria died—”

  “No, my darling. Who can blame you? Floramaria’s death shook you both so terribly. You were completely heartbroken when we first met. Do you remember?”

  Papi sounded like he was sad-smiling. “I was such a mess back then. Barely alive. What could you have possibly seen in me, mi amor?”

  “A genius.”

  “Bah.”

  “A genius,” she repeated, “who loves his son very much.”

  “Too much. I couldn’t bring myself to say no to him once his mami died. ‘You want ice cream for dinner? Sure, you’re diabetic, but one time won’t hurt, right?’ Or, ‘You want to stay up all night playing video games? Well, you only live once.’”

  “What about me? I’ve made the classic stepmom mistake. I want Sal to love me so much that I say yes to everything. And now—”

  “Now his dead mama makes us dinner.”

  American Stepmom must have shrugged. “Delicious food.”

  Papi smacked his belly like a conga drum and whisper-laughed. “Yeah. Too bad she disappeared and took all her food with her. Even what we’d already eaten, right out of our stomachs.”

  “It’s probably for the best. Imagine eating like that every day. We’d weigh a thousand pounds apiece.”

  “And be happy.”

  They paused to think about all the good Cuban food Mami Muerta wouldn’t get a chance to make for them now that she was gone.

  “Sal’s going to wake up hungry for sure,” said American Stepmom.

  “Should I find him some dinner?” Papi asked.