Page 31 of Marisol Acts the Part
Dad winces as he loosens his matching blue tie, stopping in his tracks when he finally spots me. “Oh” is all he can say when he takes in my new hair.
Gee, thanks.
“Pareces una…” The woman trails off, searching for the right word before settling on “Snow princess!”
This hairisgiving Elsa fromFrozenvibes but without the fabulous turquoise dress and castle made of ice.
“You look very regal,” Dad agrees before crossing over tothe kitchen, inhaling deeply over the cauldron-esque pot. He goes to sneak a bite when the woman comes rushing over to him and slaps his hand away, telling him off in rapid Spanish. While the two are distracted with bickering over the wooden spoon in Dad’s hand, I finally take a closer peek at the woman who, I slowly realize, is my grandmother.
Her silver hair is held back in a loose bun, and a pair of glasses that seem like something a serial killer from the eighties would wear are hanging from a chain around her neck. The rest of her outfit is the definition of overstimulation. A cheetah-print cardigan over a pink Minnie Mouse T-shirt paired with brown pants and a pair of white Crocs. Pinned to the cardigan is a gold brooch of a baby cherub playing the trumpet.
Very cursed aesthetic. Are we sure we’re related?
The confusing layers of her ensemble, along with the bits and pieces of Spanish I’m struggling to string together, make my temples pulse with the first signs of a migraine. With a huff, Dad finally gives up on sneaking a piece of meat before it’s ready and turns his attention to me instead.
“Munchkin, you remember your abuela, right?”
Annoyance that Dad totally ignored my request to stop calling me munchkin aside—I’m a whole legal adult now—I definitely don’t remember my abuela whatsoever. Most of my memories of my time living with Dad in the city are fuzzy at best. The few times he came out to visit me in LA, she never tagged along, thanks to her intense fear of flying that she must’ve passed down to me. We’ve spoken a handful of times whenever Dad handed the phone off to her during our occasional check-ins, but the language barrier has always beena bit of a problem. Her English is solid enough to hold a short conversation, but she usually defaults back to Spanish.
I put on a smile anyway and nod. “Cómo estás?” I ask her after she pulls me in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek that leaves some red lipstick behind. I’ve got enough rudimentary Spanish in me to get through the basics, but anything past “how are you,” “I’m hungry,” and “where is the bathroom” is out of my depth.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t know that, and immediately launches into an answer in Spanish so fast I can’t even grab on to a single word that I recognize.
Dad must catch the panic on my face and interrupts his mom midsentence with a nervous laugh. “Ma, I don’t think Marisol’s had much practice speaking Spanish.”
That’s an understatement. The last time I got to practice my Spanish was when Miles and I got really into Duolingo for two months. Unlike me, he actually mastered Mandarin by practicing with his own grandma. I never made it past the vocabulary lesson on school supplies.
“Ah!” My abuela balks, as if she’s offended. “What you mean? Of course she speaks Spanish! She’s Puerto Rican!”
In this moment I’ve never feltlessPuerto Rican.
Dad sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment before wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “Mari didn’t grow up speaking Spanish at home.”
Abuela wrinkles her nose, seemingly unconvinced, but drops the argument anyway. Then she bustles back to the stove.
“I make you dinner,” she proclaims while reaching for a bowl in the overhead cabinet. “Your father”—she gestures to Dad with her wooden spoon—“not know how to cook.”
Dad holds up a hand to his wounded heart, an over-the-top hurt expression on his face. Guess that’s where I got my dramatics from. “I do know how to cook.”
Abuela whips around to shoot him a glare.
“I just don’t know how to cookwell,” he amends.
Satisfied with that answer, she turns back around and starts ladling stewed meat and rice into a bowl. “Too skinny,” she says over her shoulder. I’m assuming to me. That’s answered when she pushes the bowl into my hand with an “Eat” and a gesture to sit at the dining table.
“Oh, I, uh, can’t eat meat,” I stammer out as I see what she’s served me. While the shredded meat smells fantastic, my stomach would hate me for indulging in meat this rich and savory after so long without it. Her brow furrows for a moment. “I’m a vegetarian,” I add, to be safe.
Abuela nods in understanding, taking the bowl back and handing it to Dad instead before serving me another one, meat-free this time, and nudges me to sit down.
Over the past week, the kitchen table has become crowded with debris. Reams of fabric for the dress Dad is working on for Jerome. The makeup bag I didn’t have enough space to store in the bathroom. New toys for Bruiser since I forgot to pack hers. There’s barely enough room to sit at the table when it isn’t cluttered, and now it’s impossible. Dad makes quick work of clearing it off as best he can, tossing the fabric into a nearby closet—that’s full to the point of bursting—and moving the rest to his bedroom.
Abuela takes the seat opposite me, waiting expectantly for me to try her food. Nerves prickle my skin as I give her a nervous smile and spoon some of the rice, sauce, and a chunk ofglossy avocado onto my spoon. I’ve never felt so…watched before. And that’s saying something—my face was literally on millions of people’s TVs every week for four years. The pressure weighs on my shoulders like an overstuffed backpack as she doesn’t take her eyes off me for even a second while I take my first bite.
I was already close to starving by the time I got here. All I had for breakfast was a protein bar. My stomach rumbled the entire subway ride home, and if I hadn’t been so traumatized by my rat sighting, I probably would’ve picked something up from one of the shops sending intoxicating scents of fried, seared, and marinated food wafting down the block.
Still, my first bite of Abuela’s food is nothing short of mind-blowing.
Fried plantains coated in a light layer of sauce that I can only describe as the garlicky goodness of the gods. Light and fluffy rice to soak up the Garlic Gods Sauce, perfectly complemented by the creamy chunks of avocado.
