Page 22 of Forget Me

7

MATEO

Woo her with food.

Leaning against the bank of mail slots in the tiny lobby of Mimi’s building, I clutched the tote bag my tía had given me to my chest, hoping to keep it warm. It wouldn’t be nearly as woo-worthy after a spin in the microwave, but we were definitely approaching the window where tía’s famous pollo guisado would be cold.

A pair of cute hipsters had let me into the building. I could have used the key Ben had loaned me to let myself in and start the food warming in the oven. Back on the island, we did things like that all the time. But Mimi had built tall walls around herself, and I had to respect her boundaries as much as possible.

Jesus, I wanted a smoke. I stared longingly out the glass door. It’d be so easy to step outside and light one up, calm my trembling fingers. But I’d smell like cigarettes, and Mimi would hate that. Besides, I’d promised myself I’d quit. I was strong enough to do it, too, even after all these years.

Where was she? My cousin was a driven executive at Synergy, and he was usually home by seven. I’d talk with him about how hard his company worked Mimi.

Though I doubted she’d appreciate that.

The street door opened, and she breezed in, her dark curls falling into her face and her coat flopping open. The tip of her nose was red, but her skin glowed. She was a sunbeam spearing through the ever-present clouds.

I peeled myself off the wall and hugged the bag tighter. “Good evening. How was work?”

“Mateo?” Her beautiful brown eyes flicked wide. “What are you doing here? Is Ben okay?” Her eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue. I’d definitely talk to my cousin.

“He’s fine. I came for you. I brought you dinner. My tía made it.”

Her stomach growled, and she put a hand over it. “Wow, that sounds great.” She sniffed. “Smells good, too. What is it?”

“Ah-ah,” I teased. “It’s a surprise. Can I bring it up for you?”

The tiny frown line she got between her eyebrows whenever she looked at me appeared. “I guess. But why didn’t you text first?”

I grimaced. Miguelito said the same thing even though I lived just across the driveway from him and Ben. “Sorry. I never had to text anyone back home. In the small town where I lived, people just showed up on each other’s doorsteps.”

“Well, we don’t do that in San Francisco. Next time, use your phone.”

Those tiny phone keyboards weren’t made for my big fingers. My texts were always full of typos that the autocorrect mangled, and without my glasses, I sometimes missed it. But for Mimi, I’d try. “Anything for you, bella.”

When she scowled, I deflated. Usually, my teasing made people smile. But Mimi saw through my flirtation. Nothing worked on her. Nothing I tried, anyway.

I trudged behind her to the stairs, and we climbed to the second floor. I waited while she inserted her key into the lock and flipped on the lights.

Her apartment looked the same as the last time I’d been there, the morning I’d come to check on her after her night of drinking. But since I’d just come from my tía’s house, with her riot of candles and crèches and Santas, it looked barren. Even I had put up a string of discount-store multicolored lights over the fireplace in my tiny house. But Ben told me their family was Jewish, and I’d watched him light the menorah at his and Miguelito’s place weeks ago.

Her place was neat and bland, not a book or knickknack out of place. The furnishings were much more frugal than the ones in Miguelito’s guesthouse. The only color in the place came from the superhero posters stuck to her walls—Wonder Woman, Doctor Strange, Thor, and others.

I set the food on the kitchen counter. “Mind if I heat it up?”

“No. Here, I’ll show you where things are.”

“Don’t worry about it. I can find my way around a kitchen. Unless you keep kosher? I wouldn’t want to mix up your meat and dairy dishes.”

Her tired eyes flared for a second and then narrowed. “No. I don’t eat pork, but I don’t keep two sets of dishes. Use whatever you like. I’ll go change.”

She left, and I breathed out. Before the holidays, she’d yelled at me. Maybe I’d been granted my Christmas wish.

I wasn’t going to screw up the Christmas miracle. I got out a pot for the stew and set it on the stove, then I found a casserole and put the rice in the oven to reheat. The pudín de pan also went into the oven. We’d start with the green salad I’d made.

I found her plates and cutlery and set the table, folding the napkins into sharp rectangles the way I imagined Mimi liked them. I placed the forks and knives precisely parallel. Just as I was arranging the bouquet I’d brought into a vase, Mimi stepped into the kitchen.

“Wow,” she said. She wore slippers, the kind that made a scuffing sound when you walked, plus gray leggings and an oversized UCSF sweatshirt. Her hair was tied up into a loose fountain of curls on the top of her head.

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