Forgiveness

by Chiquis Rivera

  “I don’t know, cousin. He said check Twitter.”

  “Okay, got it,” I said, and hung up.

  And that’s when I saw it:

  Plane carrying Jenni Rivera disappears midflight. No traces of the five passengers or two crewmembers. A search for the private jet continues. It is feared that there were no survivors. The plane lost contact with the tower ten minutes after takeoff, at exactly 3:10 a.m.

  My first reaction was, What bullshit! More bad reporting about my mother by the media. I’m sure she’s fine and this is all just pure speculation. God forgive me for not believing it at first, but it was just too incredible and too painful to process. Besides, in this day and age, it’s all too common to hear through social media that so-and-so died, but then it turns out to be a complete fabrication. But all of a sudden, I remembered the fit of sadness that came over me the previous night, right in the middle of the dance floor. It was one o’clock in Vegas, which meant it was three in Monterrey. It was a bad omen.

  I called Tía Rosie.

  “Don’t worry, Chiquis, we’re trying to get some clarification,” she said, quite calmly. “It’s still too early to say anything.”

  Next I called my tío Juan. If anyone was going to tell me the truth, it would be him.

  “I hope the reports aren’t true. I’m sure she’s safe and sound somewhere. Maybe they just got held up.” He was worried, and searching for answers.

  “No one’s been able to get in touch with her?”

  “She’s not answering her phone. Nobody is.”

  “Nobody? Who else was on that plane?” My heart stopped.

  “Jacob and Arturo, that we know of. They’re not answering their phones either. Sounds like they’re turned off.”

  My heart sank. Jacob Yebale, my mother’s official makeup artist, was more than an employee. He was our friend, confidante and a veteran of our battles. Losing him would be like losing a member of the family.

  “The best thing would be to head straight to Grandma’s house,” Tío Juan recommended. “We’re all going over there.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we were loading up my car. Briana was silent. She could see the fear in my eyes. Gerald was trying to be encouraging, but it didn’t work.

  Once again we drove across the Mojave Desert. But this time, it felt endless, frigid, horrible and empty.

  I asked to be the one behind the wheel. I wanted to feel like I was in control of the situation, to keep busy and not let my mind wander. No thoughts, good or bad. I didn’t want to talk about it. I begged my friends not to comment on anything. I didn’t even want to listen to music, until I finally got tired of staring down the straight line of the highway, and I turned on the radio. K-LOVE 107.5 FM was on the dial. They were playing my mother’s songs, and the commentators were reporting on the search in great detail: “They have found clothing and the remains of an aircraft. Still no confirmation on whether the remains are those of Jenni Rivera.”

  That was when it really hit me hard. The fear had become a reality.

  “If it’s on the radio, then it’s true!” I started to shout. “God wouldn’t do something like this to me! I still haven’t spoken to her! We haven’t fixed things yet!”

  I was going crazy and shouting the same things over and over again, but I didn’t want to pull over and hand the wheel over to someone else. Briana and Gerald kept quiet and hid their fears that I’d wreck the car. There was no way I was getting out of the driver’s seat, and there were no words that could have calmed me down.

  “God, You can’t do this to me!” I was screaming like a mental patient. “It’s not true! No, no, no!”

  My poor, dear friends. I ask your forgiveness for putting you in such a dangerous situation there on the highway. My head was spinning to the point where it was about to come unhinged and all I wanted to do was get to Lakewood and learn that it was all just a horrible misunderstanding. Because at the end of the day, we Riveras are experts when it comes to misunderstanding things.

  “We will always remember La Diva de la Banda, with that beautiful smile of hers,” the commentator said. And I stepped on the gas.

  We made it from Las Vegas to Lakewood in three hours flat. God didn’t want anything to happen to us. There, outside the house, a scene of utter chaos was waiting for us. Reporters, photographers, fans and onlookers. Everyone was yelling and trying to talk to me at the same time. I fought my way out of the car and ran to the front door, with Briana and Gerald by my side.

  Inside of my grandma’s house, a horrible silence reigned. The entire family was already there, but nobody said a word. All you could hear was the distant murmur of the crowd outside.

  Should I even be here? I thought, racked with guilt. If everyone really thinks I slept with my mother’s husband, should I be here, crying with them? Gerald and Briana saw the fear on my face and decided to stay with me, taking turns standing beside me and holding my hand. I was so grateful to them! They gave me the strength to be there, at least until someone broke the ice in that room full of fear.

  It was my tía Rosie who took the initiative and said to me, “Chiquis, stay here. We have to stick together. Now more than ever.” Mikey ran up to hug me, and Jacqie—who so far had only been watching me from a corner of the room—put her doubts aside and wrapped her arms around me.

  “Chiquis,” she said tearfully, “the kids need you. We all do.”

  Finally sure that this was where I belonged, and feeling welcome, I sat down with the children, who immediately latched on to me out of desperation. Johnny hugged me with all his might, and gone was all the hatred and resentment and all the things people said about me. He laid his head down on my lap and began to cry softly. My baby couldn’t lose both of his mothers in this world. Jenicka couldn’t either.

  For the next few hours, I listened only to the information that came through my tío Juan and my tía Rosie. The two of them were on the phone, along with my tío Lupe in Mexico, managing the situation and speaking with the authorities.

  “Don’t worry. We’re going to find her,” Juan said. More than anyone, he was refusing to accept the facts we were getting. “I’m contacting some people who know some people there in Mexico. People who might know whether she’s been kidnapped.”

  Thinking about ransom notes instead of plane crashes gave him strength. The same with my grandpa Pedro.

  By midafternoon, we had confirmation that the wreckage found in the foothills outside Iturbide, Nuevo León, was in fact from my mother’s plane. There were no survivors.

  Nobody left the house there in Lakewood. We spent the night there in vigil, collapsed in the living room or pacing around the kitchen.

  At some point, late in the night, my dear Jenicka said to me, “Sister, I don’t know what happened between you and Mom, but it doesn’t matter to me anymore. We need you.”

  “And I need you all even more,” I replied with the biggest hug in the world. “Don’t worry, I won’t leave you guys alone for a moment.”

  Eventually, I fell asleep on the couch with Johnny in my arms. My baby was crying even in his sleep, and he asked me, “Why did this happen to my mom? Why?” I didn’t let go of him for three straight days.

  Around noon on Monday, my tío Lupe arrived straight from Monterrey, where the authorities had confirmed more details about the accident.

  He and his manager came inside the Lakewood house and collapsed on the couch insensitively.

  “No way anybody survived that. Nadie. Believe me,” he informed us all.

  “But what are we doing, all standing around here? Why aren’t there any family members there?” I shouted at my tío Juan. “I heard that Arturo and Jacob’s families are already on their way.” Until that moment, I’d remained silent, but now was the time for me to resume my position as Jenni’s oldest daughter.

  “Chiquis, there’s nothing we can do there. Why go?” Tío Lupe insisted.

  “We have to go! Don’t you hear me? Someone needs to go bring me back my mother
! I want her here, one way or another! Bring her home! Just bring her to me!” I said.

  My sadness was turning into anger. But I felt so powerless. I couldn’t just hop on a plane and leave the children there alone, but on the other hand I was desperate to go climb up that damn mountain, find my mom and carry her home in my own arms, if needed.

  In the end, Lupe agreed to go back, and a coin flip would decide who went with him. Between Gustavo and Juan, it fell to Gus.

  “Forget the coin toss. All three of you are going,” I said, looking them all straight in the eye. “Tío Juan, you too.”

  Having Tío Juan there meant we would be informed about even the smallest detail. He would be my eyes on the ground there in Monterrey.

  That Monday afternoon, my mind was telling me, That accident is real. Nobody could walk out of those hills alive. But my heart kept repeating, Maybe she was kidnapped before she got on that plane, and she’s being held somewhere alive. My mind feverish with pain, I even came to believe that she could have bailed out before the crash, and that now she was lying there, hurt, somewhere in those mountains. Any story would be better than the one we were seeing unfold on television. It’s so much easier to accept the truth when it doesn’t hurt so much! So much easier for others to resign themselves to having lost her, when for me it meant never having a chance to reconcile!

  “Stay calm, Chiquis,” my tía Rosie said. “When your mom comes home, you’re gonna be the first one she hugs when she walks through that door. Maybe all this is a sign that our family needs to come together. Maybe it’s a divine lesson.”

  But when Tuesday came, I knew there would be no embrace, no reconciliation. That morning, while following the news online, I stumbled upon a few photos, which many people have since wondered if I saw. Yes. Unfortunately I did. They showed the remains of a woman’s foot there in the accident site, and the remains of long, blond hair.

  The hair could have belonged to anyone, but I know my mother’s feet. I even put her shoes on for her, whenever she was tired or getting ready for a big event.

  “Jenicka,” I asked, “What color nail polish was Mom wearing?”

  “Red. Why?” she asked, innocently.

  “No reason, baby. Just wondering.”

  I ran into the bathroom so the children wouldn’t hear me, and I collapsed, bawling, on the ground, surrounded by the flowery towels and the thousands of powerfully scented soaps that my grandma Rosa always likes to buy. Suddenly, my tears subsided, and I felt my mother speaking to me: “Get ready, Chiquis.” I could hear her voice in my head just as clearly as if she were standing in front of me. “I’m not coming home, and you’re going to have to take care of my babies from now on. Make sure they’re ready to hear the news. They’re in good hands with you. Be brave, Chiquis.” Right there, I closed my eyes and I prayed. I prayed for her soul and I swore that I would always take care of my siblings. I had a long conversation with her, but only about the children. I was certain that she heard me. Finally, my mom was giving me the chance to speak with her, even if it was soul to soul instead of face-to-face. I told her one more time how much I loved her. “I love you, my princess,” she said, and that was good-bye.

  I opened my eyes and went back out into the living room. Johnny was looking at me from the couch.

  “Listen, you have to be strong, papas. There’s a ninety-five percent chance that Mom isn’t going to come home alive.”

  He didn’t answer. There just weren’t any words. I sat down next to him and we embraced in tears. We cried inconsolably for nearly an hour. God, dear God, why did you take his dad away from him, and now do the same with his mom? My poor baby. I swear, at that moment I was crying more for his loss than for my own. To this day, I feel that the ones who lost the most were my Jenicka and my Johnny.

  That night, I locked myself in the bathroom clutching a picture of my mother, and I told her, “Help me. I need help. Tell me how to console the kids. Tell me what I have to do. I’m scared!”

  Nothing. I didn’t hear her voice this time. Just total silence.

  When dawn came, I would have to summon up all my courage and get the ship afloat. Those were two long agonizing weeks before my mother’s body would be returned to us, when we could bid farewell to her the way she deserved. Dayanna stayed with me for those two weeks. At nights, after the kids fell asleep, I would turn to Dayanna and say to her, crying, “Sister, I don’t know what I’m going to do.” I felt confused and scared.

  When it came to those grisly photos of the accident that were circulating all over the Internet, I tried my best to keep the kids from seeing them, but that proved to be impossible. Johnny came across them on his iPad, and showed them to my grandma. And now I’d like to address the people who published them: What if it were your mother? How would you feel if one day the entire world could see your mother the way we had to see ours?

  There are those mindless individuals out there who—it can only be said—have no mothers, and never will.

  Another petty act that hurt the soul during those nights of waiting and mourning was the news that the crash site was looted, either before or during the arrival of rescuers and investigators. I wasn’t worried about the jewelry, even though my mother would have been wearing some of her most valuable pieces on this flight. I wasn’t concerned with her expensive bags or shoes that were so unscrupulously removed from the location. I didn’t even care about the hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash that were supposedly paid to my mother hours before for the concert in Monterrey. If she was carrying that money with her and it was stolen from the crash site, so be it!

  What hurt the most was her BlackBerry. The person who took that has no idea how much pain that caused me. People carry their lives and their thoughts with them on their phones. My mother noted of all her ideas, plans and words on that BlackBerry. And some of those words were, more than likely, for me. That phone may very well have contained the key to alleviating my pain, the answers to so many questions. That little gadget contained her final message and her final joke. Who was it for?

  Half an hour before the flight was to take off, my mother changed her profile picture on her BlackBerry messenger, and put one up of her brothers and sister. Could it be true that she really was hoping to make peace and bring everyone back together soon?

  Farewell to that phone, if it managed to survive the impact intact.

  We spent days dialing her number in the wild hopes that someone would answer and tell us that it had all been a horrible nightmare. But all we ever heard was her greeting: “Hi, this is Jenni, please leave a message” until her voice mail box was full, and our hearts were left empty.

  20.

  GRADUATING WITH HONORS

  Chiquis, look at this picture of your mom at the concert in Monterrey. The stage was in the shape of a cross. It was a premonition!” a friend said to me once.

  “Look at this interview your mom gave before the concert. She says she already achieved everything she wanted, and that she was grateful and satisfied with her life. Your mom knew it was her final night. She was saying good-bye,” repeated a journalist on the phone.

  While we were waiting for more news out of Mexico, there was a constant barrage of gossip and rumors. Once again, here came the toxic voices looking to poison us in the hopes of earning our attention.

  Honestly, for me, it was all just coincidence. People who were actually with her that night have told me that she—when she saw the cross-shaped stage—was simply happy, and saw nothing ominous in it: “I love it! It’s beautiful!” she said excitedly.

  In my heart, more than a premonition, that stage and those final words were a message of peace that she is in heaven. A message of reassurance.

  Any other speculation or stories about the great beyond are, to me, pure bullshit.

  As for the song she chose to perform that night—“Paloma Negra” (“Black Dove”)—that did have a hidden message. For once, the speculation was right, although the message wasn’t anything supernatu
ral.

  It was the same song she had dedicated to Jacqie two years earlier, when she left home after a stupid fight, and my mother was asking her to come back.

  That same song, now dedicated to me, on that beautiful stage, was without a doubt her way of saying to me, “It’s time for you to come home as well, princess.”

  Through “Paloma Negra,” my mother was very clearly saying to me, “I miss you. I don’t know how to fix all this. I don’t know how to work my way back.”

  Black dove, black dove, where oh where will you go . . .

  My mother wasn’t saying good-bye to me or to anyone else with those lyrics. She was searching for the path to forgiveness. And that’s not just in my imagination. For days, my tía Rosie had been insinuating that everything would change come Christmastime, and nobody knew my mother’s plans better than her beloved sister.

  God grant me the strength, for I’m dying to go and find her.

  To this day, I can’t listen to the recording of that concert in Monterrey. It still hurts too much.

  “Okay, what are we going to say when they ask us what’s going on with Chiquis?” Tío Juan was the one who dared to ask the obvious question, while everyone else was rushing to prepare for the big ceremony in my mother’s honor.

  Nobody knew what to say. My tía Rosie had told everyone that my mother had read my letter on Thanksgiving Day and that she had been planning to reconcile. And everyone agreed that it would be unfair for the world to continue to condemn me for the rest of my life for something that was left unclear and only half understood at best.

  I think it was a combination of instinct and love that whenever the media would ask about me, the family would say, “Chiquis is fine; she’s with the rest of the family. Yes, yes, she was able to speak with her mother before the accident. They patched everything up.”

  It was a beautiful attempt to protect me and shield me from the public eye. This was no time to be dealing with outrage from the fans. But for me, it just wasn’t enough. I kept insisting that to say my mother forgave me is to accept that I committed the crime, and I didn’t do anything wrong! I was looking for complete and total absolution, not just forgiveness. My grandma Rosa, as always, made me see reason: “Chiquis, now is not the time to argue. Look at what we’re dealing with here,” she begged.