Penelope Martinez Narrating:
My abuelita had returned from Colombia with a new hair style, plus she seemed to have brought practically every essence of tangerine, the whole house smelled of tangerine and lemon.
Ignoring my agent who kept calling, I went upstairs to talk to my mother. I went up the stairs, opening the second floor balcony door, my abuela hugged me, stopping the music I was listening to.
Just with her hugs my chest no longer felt so heavy, it's refreshing to be with the one you love. Her bright brown eyelids fluttered open.
- Penelope! Por Dios, what a long time to come. - She ran her hands over my face. - I was worried, and sad, Francine was like a granddaughter to me.
I noticed her makeup all over her face, and the glow around her that even though she looked sad, she had something good there to tell me.
I sighed, wiping my eyes, looking at the beautiful landscape of New York at sunset. When I was little I used to imagine that the lighted windows were floating stars that shone.
- I know, she loved to cook with you.
I held back tears to keep from crying, she ran her hand through her hair and smiled. I ran my hands down my arms and warmed myself.
- I know, I taught her all my recipes, even how to make my pajõnes.
She bowed her head, grimacing, realizing that she would regret what she had said. I opened my mouth, in disbelief.
- You mean the recipe that you refuse to leave the list for the employees to buy? - I put my hands on my hips. - This recipe is so secret that you buy each ingredient in a different store, so that the cashiers don't copy the recipe.
- It's not the cashiers, it's the packers. - She put one hand on her waist, while the other gestured with her index finger pointing at me. - I know very well what they want when they offer to help me carry the groceries.
We stared at each other in the afternoon chill, allowing ourselves to laugh. I hugged her tighter, feeling comforted by her affection, and we sat for hours on the couch talking on the balcony until the sun went down and there was no sign of my mother.
It was so obvious that she was ignoring me, I looked away finishing my strawberry milk shake.
I told her everything, about the trip, about talking to Sebastian, even about the card with the flowers in my name.
- Abuela, why are you wearing so much makeup? - I raised my eyebrows, crossing my legs over my skirt.
Her skin, a deep shade of magno, had reddened. - Oh, this little thing here, it's nothing. I painted myself before I heard the news, Lope.
Her speech was accompanied by a gentle pat on my arm, and she drank the passion fruit juice in one gulp, making me even more curious.
- Abuela! You're wearing makeup like you're going to bump into Julio Iglesias at any moment.
She shook her head, looking around. - Have you seen Julio Iglesias? Where have you seen him? - she asked jokingly.
- No." I let out a short laugh. - I let out a short laugh. - He's not here. What's up, abuela?
- Hi, what are you two doing out here in the cold? - My mother came to the banister door, taking her gloves out of her pocket and putting them in her hands.
I felt curiosity and circulating through my veins something similar to transformation.
- Well, if it isn't my favorite bride.
I opened my mouth in surprise. - Abuela, do you know?
- I know how to use a cell phone, my dear, it was just a matter of time. She put her hands together on her lap, smiling.
My mother stopped in front of us frozen, she pinched the tip of her nose, comfortably adjusting her straight posture.
I analyzed her nervousness, she looked so beautiful, I imagined her delay. I raised my eyebrow, my grandmother was eating with her debauched face.
I made a mistake, girls. - No need to make a big deal out of it.
- Mother, you married someone! And not just anyone, Nick. - I put my feet up on the sofa. - I think that's reason enough to make a fuss.
She ran her hand over her left knee, adjusting the height of the tight black dress that insisted on riding up.
- Enough of this subject. What to say! I've just come back from a talk with Nick, we're going to file for divorce. - She walked out onto the balcony with her hand on her forehead. - I need your opinion, well... We wouldn't stay married anyway, but, he said he has feelings for me.
I almost jumped from where I was sitting. - huum! Mom, I don't really know what to say, I'm not going to lie that I was overjoyed, and you can tell there was always something there. - I stood up, taking her hands. - As soon as you arrive I promise we'll talk, okay? I'll get ready to go to the funeral.
- No, no, you won't get me out of here without the cops. I already called them.
She hugged me, running her hands carefully through my hair. Asking my mother to be less overprotective when I was a child was like asking her to be less Colombian.
We are overprotective when it comes to motherhood.
- Hey, as I said in the link, she is at peace now. It's going to be okay in Dios name, you will be. - She did a cartwheel on my chin. - I love you, Penelope Micaela Del Fuentes Martinez.
- I love you too, Momzita.
I left to take a shower, Grandma and my mother stayed home because they were very tired from the trip. The funeral was an hour and a half away from New York in Rockaway Beach, Queens, where Francine grew up.
Her father was a surfer, and taught surfing before she moved to Los Angeles. And it was there on the beach that she wanted her ashes to be scattered, I got into the car with a heavy heart.