Page 55 of After the Fire
“What do you want from me, Victoria? What do you want me to say to you? Do you want me to ask for forgiveness? Because I won’t. I don’t regret it one second. We—you—have the life you have because of the choices I made, so don’t you dare say that the decisionsImade formyfamily had an impact on anything else. Would you be saying the same if you hadn’t had such a comfortable life? No vacations, no trips abroad, no top schools, and no career prospects? You have the life you have becauseIforged your path. Don’t you dare forget that.”
The line went dead.
She wouldn’t ever get it, right? She wouldn’t ever understand how the narrative that she created gave us all illusions of grandness. She carved a path for herself, a path where there was no potential for humiliation, where she was seen as a victim and adored by her peers for her strength and composure.
She made my grandfather a larger-than-life man when all he was was a thief. He must have had his reasons, but I wouldn’t defend him. But was she right, though? Was she correct in her narrative that she built everything we had from the ground up? That everything I’d become was because of her?
27
SUSANA (1988)
“¿Mamá?”The sound of one of my daughters calling me snapped me from my daydream. The images of Roberto’s kitchen swallowed up by flames ran in a loop inside my head. For six nights, I hadn’t been able to sleep, the nightmares coming immediately once I closed my eyes—the memory of Roberto’s hurried movements inside the house, the heat of the flames, his words. The staff was starting to notice. My disheveled look was completely out of the ordinary, and my temper was shorter than normal.
Monica, maybe? Or Cristina. I heard the footsteps down the stairs, and then her gaze immediately landed on the massive display of samples at my feet. From napkins to chair covers to tablecloths, everything in every single shade of white was splayed in front of me. “What is this?”
“Cristin—”
“Mamá, I already told you.” She sighed. “We should cancel.” Her voice sounded sad, but her eyes looked hopeful. “He’ll come back. I feel it.”
Always so hopeful, this girl. She was in her mid-twenties and late to the game where marriage was concerned. She wasn’t a late bloomer, per se, but she always believed in fairy tale romances, obsessed with love, marriage, and children. In the past years, she had resisted every attempt I’d made at setting her up with the sons of the people we knew. Thankfully, she met and fell in love with a wonderful boy who carried an even more wonderful last name. I was anticipating a grandchild within the next year.
“Cristina, we’ve been over this a million times,” I replied sternly. “The wedding is happening.”
She looked around the room. All the samples were on the floor, and there were at least ten binders on the small loveseat by the window filled with photos of floral arrangements, place settings, and many other wedding-related things that I hadn’t had a chance to look at yet. She frowned.
“Mamá, por favor. ¿Qué va a pensar la gente?”
“Exactly, what are people going to think?” I couldn’t afford another scandal. It was still a few months out, so I was hoping that everything would die down by then. “What is your fiancé going to think?”
She walked over to the loveseat and sat, grabbing one of the binders and putting it on her lap. She started looking through it, running through the pages quickly, barely paying any attention. Of all my children, she was probably the most hopeful that he would be freed and that he would return to us.
“I’m not getting married withoutPapá,” she said without looking at me. Her voice trembled. “I don’t understand why you are being so nonchalant about this.”
“Basta,Cristina. That’s the end of this conversation,” I barked. The topic was getting too repetitive at this point. He wasn’t allowed to return. End of story. “We need to make dinner plans with Mariano’s parents to discuss some outstanding details.”
“Why are you like this?”
“I’m not discussing this further,” I said. “What did you want?”
“Nothing,” she huffed and crossed her arms across her chest. She stood and stomped out of the room, pouting like a spoiled child.
“Susana!” Pedro yelled from the front entry. The sound of a door closing startled me, even though I knew it was coming. “Susana!”
He sounded agitated, and his steps grew louder as he approached me. I was in the library, only a few steps away from the entry. It was a matter of seconds until he found me, especially now that Cristina had left the room with a scowl on her face.
“What did you do?” Pedro said when he entered the room. I turned to face the door as he got near, his gray eyes ablaze with anger. “¿Qué mierda hiciste?”
“Pardon? Do not take that tone with me.” I was taken aback. Pedro never raised his voice, let alone addressed me that way. “Not in my house, not anywhere. And for the love of god, lower your voice.”
“Tell me, Susana, what did you expect was going to happen?” he asked me. I had a vague idea of exactly what he was talking about, although I was mostly certain that my story was airtight. “Please, enlighten me.”
I blinked up at him, looking straight to his eyes.
He was being condescending, something that I’d never seen him do. He was never like this, a contrasting image to the kind man that had been by my side all these years. Growing up together had been something almost out of a book, a classic childhood friends turned something else. Except that our story ended the moment Roberto entered my life, and there was no turning back.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I replied, my tone cool and even. I wasn’t trying to give anything away, and although I was good at pretending, I always thought that Pedro could read me well. His eyes were trained on me, and his jaw was clenched. He fisted his hands by his side, the knuckles turning white with the intensity of the grip. “I’ve had enough today with Cristina acting like a brat. I don’t need any more drama.”
“Cortala.Enough with the snark, Susana,” he said. I took a seat on the desk chair, trying to give myself time to think. “I know you were out of town last week.”
