Handbook for an Unpredictable Life: How I Survived Sister Renata and My Crazy Mother, and Still Came Out Smiling (with Great Hair)

by Perez, Rosie

  “I know who you are!” I rudely interrupted.

  Awkward pause.

  “Oh. I’m glad you remember. (pause) Did you know that I was the first one to call you Rosie? Yes. It is true. (laughs) You know, I used to have a girlfriend named Rosie and a girlfriend named Marie. And you have both names!”

  He chuckled up even harder. I looked at him and rolled my eyes. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

  “There’s a restaurant down the hill,” he continued. “Sorrento’s. I thought we could have some lunch there.”

  I looked down at the cement staircase, swinging my leg back and forth, praying to God that this would be over soon.

  “You know, I wanted to come see you sooner, but I was away on the ship.… Plus, your mother wouldn’t allow me to. You see, you have her last name, Perez, not mine, Serrano. But if you change your last name to mine, Serrano, I can come see you anytime you like.… Or take you to Puerto Rico to visit me and my family—”

  Family? Like I’m not your family?

  “You see, I was not on the birth certificate and—”

  “I don’t want to change my name. I’m fine with Perez.”

  His face dropped. He leaned back on the bench and made a deep sigh. I rolled my eyes at him and looked away.

  Sorrento’s was this tiny Italian restaurant at the bottom of the hill, directly across the street from the train station. The lighting inside was dark, and each table had a small lighted lamp on top. Ismael ordered eggplant parmigiana for both of us, with a salad to start. I thought that was so weird, not only that he ordered for me, like they do in the old movies and I always wanted someone to do that for me, but also, eggplant parmigiana happened to be my favorite Italian dish.

  “You know, if you change your last name to mine, then me and Minguita—”

  “I’m not changing my name. I’m Perez. I wouldn’t do that to my mother.”

  Say what? My father just nodded his head yes. I watched his eyes flood with tears and then watched them roll down his face.

  We ate in silence. The waiter came by our table and gestured to our half-eaten plates.

  “Are you finished, sir?”

  “No, sir. I’m Puerto Rican.”

  As bad as that joke was, I chuckled. My father looked up at me and smiled.

  Dad, banking on my change of mood, decided to just spill the truth. He told me that word had gotten back to my mother about our “dates” back in Brooklyn. And she had heard rumors of him claiming me as his, saying that he was going to have my last name changed. Lydia was pissed and told Tia that if my father pursued any legal actions, she would make sure that he and Tia would never be able to see me again. He got scared and stayed away, but finally got the nerve to stand up to her and told the Home that he was in fact my real father.

  Bullshit. Yeah, it was great that he finally stood up to my mother, kind of, but all the other stuff was immature, selfish drama on the part of both my mother and my father! They were acting out their own bullshit over a failed romance, and I was the one getting hit the hardest by being left in the Home as their saga continued. And Tia was hurt too. If they both put their nonsense aside, I would have been back at Tia’s, and she and I would have been happy like we had been.

  “May I be excused, please? I need to use the ladies’ room.”

  My father stood up and pulled out my chair for me, like the men would always do for Bette Davis and Barbara Stanwyck in the old movies. I liked that, but couldn’t let on.

  Inside the bathroom stall, my heart was pounding. Why didn’t I say yes and agree to change my last name? I didn’t understand at the time that that would have been my ticket out of the Home. I could only feel anger toward him for not seeing me for such a long time. I saw this as something that would further separate me from my mother. It was too much for me to comprehend. I splashed water on my face, quietly snuck out of the restaurant, and ran back up the hill to the Home, leaving my father sitting there like a clueless idiot.

  After hiding out for a while in the dormitory, I started to think about what the head nun had told me about being on the list for the Group Home. Man, I hoped I hadn’t blown it by pulling this shit with my father. I decided to go back to the main office and face the music. If I was going to get punished, I wanted to get it over with, take it like a champ, and hopefully still be considered for the program.

  My father was there waiting and immediately ran up to me and hugged the shit out of me, thanking God that I was all right. Sister Renata started screaming, pointing her finger in my face. My father turned to her and firmly told her not to yell at his daughter. And he never wanted to hear her speak to me that way again. Ooh! Pops got heart! I was shocked. Sister Renata was fuming. Too bad he didn’t understand that I was going to pay for his actions on top of mine.

  My father told them that he was going to have me walk him down to the train station. He took my hand as we started down the hill. I pulled it back. He stopped, turned to me, and just smiled this sweet smile. We continued down to the station, not saying a single word.

  The train pulled in. My father turned to me and smiled. “I’ll see you very soon. I love you very much, Rosie. I am your daddy, and you are my life, and I’ll never forget you, ever. And I want you to meet your sister Carmen and your little brother Tito. You call me if you need anything.” He got on the train and turned around to me, pumping his fist up and down in the air as he cheerfully cried out, “Choo-choo!” I had the instinct to laugh but shook my head with a smile in disbelief instead.

  Ismael changed after that visit. He replaced a lot of his limited idle time wasted on philandering—not all of it, mind you—with time spent with me. He began to visit on Sundays at the Home or come to Tia’s whenever I would go down for a home visit. The visits to Saint Joseph’s always included a meal at Sorrento’s Italian restaurant. I loved those “dates,” loved how he continued to pull out my chair for me and order my meals too. I began to melt for him again—my guard was still a bit up, but I certainly wasn’t as icy as I was before. I couldn’t be, not with his charm and corny jokes. He was still a merchant marine, and when he was out at sea, he would write me many letters from all around the world, always ending with, “Your loving father, Ismael.” I cherished those letters and kept them in my locker all the way in the back so that no one would steal them.

  • • •

  My father’s apartment was inside of a nice limestone building, on Linden Boulevard in East New York, ten minutes away from Tia’s. There were a bunch of kids playing stickball in the street. It was my little brother’s birthday party, and the smell of roasted pork and pasteles reeked through the open first-floor window. On the way there, Tia told me that Tina, who they’d told me was my cousin, was really my sister and her real name was Carmen. (Tia had wanted to call Carmen Tina since she was born on Valentine’s Day and … anyway, just some Puerto Rican weird shit.) She also told me that Carmen was not my father’s wife’s kid, but that my little brother Tito was. My father had been married to her during the conception of his two love children, Carmen and me—again, more dramatic Puerto Rican weird shit. Tia made me promise never to let on that I knew about Carmen’s real mother.

  The apartment was huge, decorated in gold and brown tones, and the plush, tacky, faux traditional Americana gold-and-maroon-colored sofa was covered in plastic. Birthday decorations covered every inch of the living room. I took in all of the presents that were stacked up on the mahogany living room coffee table; it seemed unreal. We would only get one present, possibly two, at the Home. I looked down into the small dining room. The table was cluttered with half-eaten plates and half-empty large platters of Puerto Rican delights. I started to put two and two together.

  Here was my father, with a family all his own, who had a house in Puerto Rico and an apartment in Brooklyn, his son had all these gifts and shit, and he kept Carmen, another love child, and me stuck in a “home” with sadistic nuns. The iciness that I had felt for him before began to come back. I took a deep bre
ath and tried to talk myself out of the dark mood that was creeping up inside of me.

  A short, well-dressed, well-groomed, red-haired, fairly attractive woman walked in with a plate of hamburgers and French fries.

  “Jello, Rosie. I’m Halo, jor father’s wife. And I so ’appy to meet jew. I made jew de ’amburgas and de Fren-fry.” I looked at the plate of American food. I was so insulted. Why did she assume that I would want a damn hamburger and fries? Because I was in a damn home run by American nuns and priests who tried as hard as possible to wash away every ounce of ethnicity in me?

  “No thank you, I’m not hungry,” I said as I rolled my eyes.

  Halo looked like I had punctured a pin in her happy balloon. My father came in smiling from ear to ear and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Hello, baby! I’m so happy you are here. You look beautiful! Welcome. This is your home. And this is my wife, Halo. And this is your sister, Carmen, and your brother, Tito—Hey! Tito! Carmen! Vien’ aqui!”

  Tito was bucktoothed, sandy blond, and cute as hell. I couldn’t stop staring—he looked so much like me! No one on my mother’s side looked like me. He smiled at me and then ran off. Carmen, who used to be Tina, was bubbling over with excitement.

  “Hello! I’m your sister Carmen! You used to be my cousin, but now you’re my sister! Papi says you don’t know Spanish, so we’re not supposed to speak to you in Spanish. But I know Spanish!”

  Uh, thanks for the clueless insult—annoying idiot. I rolled my eyes. Carmen looked up at our father.

  “She doesn’t like me, Papi.” Carmen pouted as she stomped her foot.

  “Sure she likes you! You’re her sister! Why don’t you take her outside to meet her cousins and all of your friends?”

  “Okay! Come on, Rosie!”

  “No thank you.”

  Carmen ran to the back of the apartment, crying her bratty head off. Halo ran after her. I leaned in closer to Tia. I wanted to kick myself in the ass for being such an ass, but I couldn’t help it. Dad looked up at his sister with a reassuring smile. Man, this guy is so damn positive, it makes me sick. “Don’t worry, Minguita, everything’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow? Tia’s leaving me here? Oh, hell no! I looked up at her. “I’ll stay for one minute to eat, then I go,” she said. Tia stacked my plate with rice and beans and the crispy skin of the roasted pork. I ate, not uttering a single word. Tia seemed to be a little embarrassed by my behavior, but smiled it off.

  It was time for bed. My father pointed me to a full-sized bed, and Carmen got into the twin pushed against the wall. Dad came over, smiled, and patted me on the head. He went over to Carmen, tucked her in, and kissed her good night, then left. My heart sank. I wanted a kiss too. I pulled the covers over my head to hide my thumb-sucking. The sheets smelled musty and old, even though they were clearly clean. It grossed me out. I poked my head out to suck in some fresh air.

  “Rosie. You awake?”

  I didn’t answer her. I wished she would just shut up and let me sleep.

  “I always told my father that I always wanted a sister, and now I have one.”

  Your father? He’s my father too, you spoiled brat.

  “I can’t wait until you come to Puerto Rico. They speak Spanish there.”

  Okay. I’m two seconds away from punching this girl in the face.

  “Rosie? Rosie. You know that was my abuela’s bed you’re in. Abuela means ‘grandmother’ in Spanish.”

  “I know what abuela means! I’m not an idiot!”

  There was a silent pause after that. I hoped she’d shut up now.

  “Rosie?”

  “Jeez Louise! What?”

  “I just wanted to tell you that my abuela died last week in that bed. She was dead there for a day before they took her to the cemetery. She had a big forehead like you too.”

  Oh my goodness! I was so freaked out that I didn’t even have time to absorb the forehead insult!

  “Why the hell did you tell me that for? Now I won’t be able to sleep!”

  “I’m sorry. I was just telling you that she died there and—”

  “For the love of Pete! Would you please shut up and leave me alone! My goodness, you’re so irritating!”

  I knew I was a jerk, but come on, people! And she went for the forehead!!

  The next morning I woke up to Carmen’s voice crying out from the kitchen, ratting me out to Halo and my father. Now I really couldn’t stand her. I slowly walked in. I felt embarrassed and awkward. Everyone went quiet. My father finally broke the silence. “Good morning, baby! Come sit next to me.” I sat next to him and didn’t utter a word.

  Tia came by shortly afterwards, with my cousin Titi. I could hardly look anyone in the eye when I said good-bye. On the train ride back, I just kept thinking that I blew it and that I’d probably never see my father and his family again.

  • • •

  Later that summer, still at Tia’s, she told me that we were going on a plane to Puerto Rico, just the two of us, to see my father! Wow. Maybe I didn’t blow it after all! I burst out crying happy tears. She told me I had to swear not to tell anyone, especially the Home or my mother, that we were going. She would get in trouble, and I would never be able to go again.

  Getting packed and ready to go was pure chaos. Tia was a mess. “Where’s my shoes?! Where’s de American Express?! Where’s my dress?! Where’s dis?! Where’s dat?!” We bolted out of the house and climbed into a gypsy cab. Tia was in a panic the entire ride to JFK (or was it La Guardia? I don’t remember which one we flew out of), screaming at the driver, “Ay, my goodness! We’re gonna miss de flight!”

  The plane was packed with Puerto Ricans. I think I saw maybe four Americans (white Americans). Two were in first-class. Tia let me take the window seat. As we began to take off, Tia closed her eyes in prayer and crossed herself twice. “You have to pray for God to let us land safely without crashing and dying.”

  “What? We’re gonna die?”

  “Ay, please. Don’t be so dramatical, Rosie. Pray.” I bowed my head with her, crossed myself twice, and prayed my heart out.

  When the plane landed, all of the Puerto Ricans, including Tia, began clapping in unison. I started to clap too. A white man sitting directly across from us was snide, rolling his eyes at our provincial gesture of gratitude for landing safely. His judgment felt just like the “outside” kids at “outside” school. Well, he wasn’t going to dis Tia like that and get away with it, with his corny pink knitted pullover and white shorts. I leaned over Tia and gave him a nasty look.

  “Excuse me, sir!”

  Tia pushed me back.

  “No, Rosie. Don’t be like that. It’s not right. Pay him no mind.”

  Puerto Rico was so damn hot and humid. As soon as we got off the plane, my hair went poof. I looked like one big powder puff. We shared a broken-down cab with three adults and one other young girl, all Puerto Rican, and we were all squished up, sweating all over each other. The nonstop storytelling, jokes, and sing-alongs lasted the six hours it took us to get to my father’s town, Aguadilla. It was great fun that helped distract us from the scary-ass ride. It was before the freeways were built, and we had to cut up and through mountains and drive along the narrow streets along the sides of the cliffs in the dark of night. It was terrifying as hell, especially since the driver drove like a maniac.

  The cabby left us off at the end of a driveway to a peach-colored single-story house. I heard this strange sound, like a million crickets singing out into the night air. “Those are crickets, Tia?”

  “No, those are Coquís. They’re little frogs that sing in the night. ‘Co-key, co-key,’ you hear them saying that?”

  My father came out in his boxer shorts, a white V-neck T-shirt, and house slippers. “Hello, baby!”

  My heart was jumping so fast inside. How should I greet him now that it’d been made official, with that whole scenario back at the Home, that he was my father, and especially after how badly I had acted at his ho
use? “Bendición,” I mumbled.

  He grabbed me and gave me the biggest smothering, annoying hug ever. Okay, I loved it, but I didn’t express it. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.

  Inside, everyone else was asleep. Dad made us coffee. (I know, weird to make us coffee at such a late hour, but that’s how they roll down in P.R.) I don’t remember much of how the single-level house looked, except that it was small and there was a patio and a mango tree in the front. Dad brought my suitcase into Carmen’s room and told me that I was to stay there with Tia. Carmen was bunking up with Tito in his room. They each have their own room? Wow. They’re so lucky. Carmen’s room was filled with Barbie dolls, like about fifty of them! I’m not kidding. And she had a queen-sized bed. Wow! She had so much stuff in there. I felt jealous, but I told myself to knock it off.

  “What’s wrong, Rosie?” asked Tia.

  “Nothing … Look at all these Barbies. It’s ridiculous,” I said as a lump reached my throat.

  “Don’t be like that, Rosie. I know it’s hard, but you should never be mad at someone for having things. They are just things. It means nothing.”

  I got in bed first. Tia was still in the bathroom. My father poked his head in, saying, “Good night, baby. I’ll see you in the morning.” “Good night, Daddy.” Whoa. That just slipped out. Simple. Natural. I looked over to him, standing at the door. “That makes me so happy to hear you call me Daddy, my baby.” I quickly rolled over on my side, giving him my back, and stuck my thumb in my mouth.

  • • •

  In the morning, I woke up to the sounds of La Playa Sextet playing on a hi-fi stereo record player. It was one of my father’s many favorite bands. My father, still in his boxers and T-shirt, was sitting at the head of the dining table eating a large slice of Italian bread and butter that he constantly dipped in his café con leche.

  “Morning, baby. I saw this group in 1962. Oh, they were fantastic. Let me show you the album cover. You hungry? Halo, bring some breakfast for Rosie, please.”

  As he went to get the album cover, Halo brought me a plate of fried eggs and French fries. No pancakes. I looked up at her and smiled and felt very appreciative. She hugged me. The eggs were made perfectly: crispy, bubbly edges, with the yolk just slightly cooked underneath. I only ate the egg whites and fries. I always hated the yolk.