Fat Girl (26 page)

I step inside and a feeling of nostalgia surrounds me. Every crack and creak tells a story. I can understand why Papa and Mama T would never let me buy them another house.

“Uncle Mick’s here!”

“Uncle Mick’s here!”

Maria’s kids, Justin and Danielle, bound out of the kitchen toward me and contort their little bodies around my legs. “What are you troublemakers up to?” I ask.

“Waiting for you,” Justin, age five, answers with a grin that exposes a front gap.

“Hey, where did your tooth go?”

“To the Toof Fairy’s castle. I got free dollars ’cause it’s my first one.” Justin pulls the three wrinkled dollar bills out of his pocket and proudly hands them to me.

“Wow!” I say, admiring the loot and reach for my wallet to add a twenty. Maria would accuse me of being indulgent, and I am. But I’m the uncle and that gives me license to spoil them.

“Fanks,” Justin squeals and runs off, calling for his mom and dad to see.

Danielle raises her arms up to me. I switch the flowers I’ve brought Mama T to my left hand to oblige the four-year-old, who sports a pink tutu over sparkly purple leggings. On her head, a beaded tiara is tilted to one side.

“Hey there, Princess.”

Dani squishes my face between her small hands and plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek.

“You’re furry.” She wrinkles her nose. “It tickles.” Then she’s onto something more important. I listen to her girly chatter about a Dora doll as we head to the kitchen.

It’s noisy and busy, and the delicious smell of a traditional Mexican brunch punctures the air. Mama T and Isabelle are at the counter garnishing a plate of huevos rancheros: fried eggs served on hot corn tortillas, smothered with cheese and salsa.
James, Maria’s husband, is at the stove sautéing cubed potatoes with chili peppers. His apron reads: Kiss the Cook. Maria is bouncing Mason, their five-month-old, on her hip while setting the table with Dwayde. Victor’s making freshly brewed Mexican coffee, flavored with cinnamon and chocolate. That’s usually my job, but I’m late. And Gabi is cutting up fruit for the salad.

Everybody in Mama T’s kitchen is expected to help. It’s a familiar scene. The only thing that would make it complete would be if Cayo and Dee were here.

Conversations pause and everyone greets me with smiles and waves. I set Dani down. Maria ushers her and Justin out back and then turns to me with her evil eye.

“Twenty dollars, Mick. Really?” she scolds, shifting Mason into a more comfortable position. “Now Justin thinks the Tooth Fairy is cheap.”

“Free dollars is cheap,” I say winking at Maria, which earns me an attempted swat on the ass. I dodge it and make a beeline to Mama T.

I bend low to circle my arms around her thick middle. She smells like sugar cookies and the comforts of home. “How are you?” I ask.

“Every day gets a little better.” When we pull apart she peers at me and pleats her brow. “You look tired, Micah. Troubled.”

“Nah, I’m good,” I quickly lie.

“Humph. You think I don’t know when something is bothering one of my children?”

I catch Victor’s sideways glance and ignore his knowing look. We played nice for Dwayde yesterday, and we’ll do the same today for the rest of the family. But he’s still angry that I brought Dee back into our lives. The tension from it stretches between us like an elastic band about to snap.

“It’s nothing, Mama T.” I take that opportunity to present her with the bouquet of sunflowers.

“
¡Gracias, mi hijo!
” she says and brings them to her nose. “They’re so pretty. Isabelle, hand me a vase from the cabinet, so I can put them in water.”

Distraction accomplished, I leave Mama T to the task of arranging the flowers and make my rounds, kissing the women. When I get to James, he points to his apron and puckers up.

“Yeah, not gonna happen,” I say.

“What if I put on some lipstick?”

“That’s not sweetening the deal.”

We laugh and shake hands. James is a good man and treats Maria and the kids right.

I turn to Dwayde. “Hey.”

“Hey, Uncle Mick,” he answers, lacking his dimpled grin, worry sitting on his slumped shoulders.

“You and me,” I say, moving my index and middle fingers between us, “after brunch, a rematch. And prepare to bow to the new king.”

“Yeah, right.” He snorts. “The only chance you have of wearing a crown is if Dani lets you borrow her tiara.”

Everyone laughs at his quick comeback, and while he’s preening, I make my grab. He squirms and grunts, trash talking around his young boy giggles.

“Micah Anthony!” Mama T chastises me. “You know better than to wrestle in my kitchen.” But I hear the smile in her voice.

“You have your grandmother to thank for saving you, kid,” I say, letting him go.

“Yeah, right,” he retorts, getting in the last jab.

“Okay, what can I do to help?” I ask.

“Here, hold Mason while I finish setting the table,” Maria says.

“Best job in the house.” I take Mason from her and lift him over my head. “Hey, little man.” I blow a raspberry on his round tummy. He kicks his pudgy legs and his mouth bubbles. I laugh and do it again.

“Someone who loves children so much shouldn’t stay single,” Mama T opines.

She thinks it’s a tragedy that I’m over thirty and still “sowing my wild oats.” She wants me to be married and happy, like Victor and Maria. She wants more grandchildren.

“What, am I wrong?” Mama T asks, looking around the room for confirmation.

“Mick will settle down once he has the right woman,” Isabelle tells her mother-in-law with a cryptic grin.

Not
meets the right woman
but “has the right woman.”

I get her meaning. But the chances of Dee and I reuniting are between zero and zilch. We can barely get through ten minutes together without the past driving us apart.

Brunch is a lively affair, filled with noisy conversation, easy banter, and delicious food. Dwayde seems to put his worries on the back burner as he goofs around with his cousins. Victor and I exchange the most words we have in days that have nothing to do with the case, and even Gabi stops brooding about her latest boyfriend drama to join in. I talk, laugh, and eat, but my thoughts are never far away from Dee.

After Mason is fed some foul-looking green mush, he starts to fuss on his father’s lap. Having had my fair share of brunch, I offer to take him.

“Don’t you dare sneak him any food this time,” Maria warns, as if reading my mind.

I’m already in the doghouse over the twenty bucks, so I resist irritating her further and bounce a very cranky Mason in my arms. Within minutes, he falls asleep. That earns me a wistful smile from Mama T.

When the meal is over and the plates are being cleared away, Maria asks me to put Mason down for his nap. “Check his diaper. If it’s wet, use the wipes and the baby powder, so he doesn’t get a rash. Oh, and lay him on his stomach, not his back. And make sure he has a blanket. And don’t forget—”

“Bunny,” I finish for her, referring to Mason’s stuffed rabbit. “Relax, Maria. It’s not my first time. I know what to do.”

“She can’t help being bossy,” James teases and wraps his arms around Maria from behind, pressing noisy kisses into her neck that make her sigh.

I feel a twinge of envy over their affectionate display. I leave the kitchen and take Mason into the den. I get what I need from the diaper bag and lay him down on the sofa. He stirs but doesn’t wake. I unsnap his pants and remove the wet diaper, hoping like hell he doesn’t spring a leak before I get the dry one on.

Just as I’m pinning up the sides, trying not to stick him—God forbid Maria should add to the ruin of the ozone layer by using the disposable kind—he gives an agitated cry and his sleepy eyes blink open.

“Hey, buddy,” I murmur in an attempt to stave off any wailing. But Mason just gurgles and smiles a toothless grin. I get him dressed and lift him onto my shoulder. He snuggles into me and I rub his back, inhaling the scent of baby powder.

I haven’t let myself think much about fatherhood. There was never a woman, other than Dee, to whom I wanted to commit, much less have children with. When I hear Mason’s soft, deep breaths, I place him inside the portable playpen with Bunny and cover him up. I watch his cherub face for several minutes then bothered by the clog of longing, start away. But rather than return to the kitchen, my feet take me across the room to the table behind the sofa.

Dee’s picture sits among the other framed family photos. She usually avoided the camera, but she’d consented to this one. I snapped it of her sitting out on the back deck. Her golden-brown eyes have a little twinkle in them that I like to think I put there, and one side of her voluptuous mouth is tilted up in a crooked half smile.

I pick up the photo and trace the quirk of her pink lips with my thumb. It was taken a week after I proposed. She looks happy. There were no doubts, no second thoughts then. I stare into her eyes as if I might finally find the answers.

Whatever happened to change her mind was sudden. Several days before the confrontation outside the library, we’d been at the lake making out. She complained of her breasts being tender in anticipation of her period. Conscious of hurting her, I’d been gentle in my lovemaking that evening. It was to be our last time.

After that she got sick, or so she said, and stayed holed up in her room. I was climbing the walls between missing her so damn much and concern—how could a period make her that sick? But what did I know? By the third day, I wasn’t buying the excuse anymore. If she were really that ill, Mama T would have taken her to the doctor. Victor had no idea what was going on with her either, but he warned me that withdrawal was typical Dee. I didn’t give a shit about his warning.

As soon as she returned to work, I went to see her. I had to. She had circles under her eyes—she looked more tired than sick—and she was jumpy. But the dead giveaway that something was wrong was when she failed to respond to my kiss and pulled away from my touch. For all of Dee’s insecurities and outward reserve, she was a powder keg of passion, sparking hot and fast. But that night outside the library, she was remote. And when I pushed, she said she needed time to
figure stuff out.
It felt as if she’d punched a hole in my chest and ripped my heart out with her bare hand.

Hurt and angry, I accused her of not trusting me to love her and walked away, hoping she’d run after me. With each three-ton step I took through the rain, I willed her to call me back. But she just let me go. When I reached the car, I pounded my fist into the driver’s side window with enough force to pop my knuckles. And still it didn’t compare to the pain twisting inside my chest.

Fifteen years ago…

STRUNG OUT BY DEE’S REJECTION, I’ve moped around for a week, my mood so black even I can’t stand my own miserable company. On Friday night, I decide to throw a post-graduation party. Before Dee, having parties was how I took the edge off. My old man’s been on me about not practicing, he wants me in top shape for North Carolina. The shit’s going to hit the fan when he finds out I’m going to NYU. But I don’t have the energy to deal with that now. It’s all I can do to drag my ass out of bed every morning and face another day.

I stack plastic cups on the kitchen bar and arrange the liquor on the counter. Sheriff Peters turns a blind eye to underage drinking as long as no one drives. Victor fills the cooler with ice and sticks a bunch of longnecks inside. When everything’s ready, we sit in the kitchen, waiting for people to show. I tip my chair back and take a pull from my third bottle of beer.

“You might want to slow down,” Victor says, eyeing me from across the table. “The party hasn’t even started yet.”

“What are you, my babysitter?” I snap. I’ve got a good buzz going, and I don’t need his bullshit.

“Hey, man, I just don’t want to see you get drunk and do something stupid to get over this thing with Dee.”

I take another gulp. “What do you care how I get over
this thing
? You said we were a mistake.”

“Jesus, Mick, stop harping on that already. You know why I said it. Finding out about you and Dee was a shock. You two are like family.”

“We’re not related,” I say defensively.

“I’m not related to her either, but I still think of her as my sister.”

“Well, I don’t and I never did.”

“Yeah, I get that now,” he says. “But she’s not exactly your type.”

I let the front legs of the chair reconnect with the floor and narrow my eyes at Victor. “Don’t make me have to kick the shit out of you.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t mean it like that.”

“Then how
do
you mean it?”

“You’re used to girls looking for a good time. You don’t do long term or high maintenance.”

The muscles in my jaw pull tight. “Fuck, you’re such an asshole. I didn’t do long term because I didn’t care about those girls.”

“Chill, Mick,” he says. “I know you care about Dee. I’m just saying it’s kind of strange that you picked someone the polar opposite of every girl you’ve ever been with. Dee’s like a closed book. She doesn’t let people in. I love her, but she’s got a lot of baggage.”