Never Too Real (16 page)

“Good man, good friend. So. Hon, I have another sister.”

“
What?
”

“A teenager!”

“Wait. Your mom is, like, in her sixties—”

“No, no, it’s not from Mom, silly.”

“Your dad has a baby-mama? Oh Lord, Lord . . .”

“Nooo! My dad wears bow ties. He’s like chastity on wheels,” Luz said, “or maybe not. Okay, not going there . . . So.”

“So,” Cat urged.

“Speaking of my dad. He’s not really my dad.”
Oh God,
Luz thought.
I don’t like saying that at all.

“Luz!”

“Seems my mother had an affair or something, well, I guess they broke up—my mom and dad—the dad that . . . Argh!” This was so hard to wrap her head around. What did it mean? Who was she now if not her father’s daughter? Did it mean she couldn’t claim his legacy bloodlines? Hadn’t she inherited her bookishness from him—her sharpness? Who was this new man who supposedly was her father, and what had he given her besides her light eyes and lighter skin?
I can’t just stop Dad from being Dad,
Luz thought.
I can’t just stop him being my father.

“Luz?”

“Sorry. Just processing.”

Luz did her best to share the backstory with Cat, filling her in on the details.

“So he’s in jail now,” she said, wrapping up, “and he got in touch with my brother and had someone drop off a teenage girl, like a total, like, ghetto girl.” Luz felt bad saying that word “ghetto.” She knew it was elitist, even racist, and she hated when she got this way. Some Vineyard snob had really rubbed off on her and now here she was, “ghetto” herself.
Takes one to know one.

“Ghetto? You mean like a girl from the ’hood?”

“Yeah.” Luz paced again, rubbing her head. There were so many places her mind was running and each sentence she spoke seemed to lead her down another route that she was just discovering. The father-route, rife with brambles. The mother-route, messy with loose ends. The sister-route, burdened with the weight of how the other half lived. What seemed to hold all these together in a swirl was Luz’s insides asking:
What does this mean about who I am?

“Well, is she nice? Did you meet her?”

“I did. At my brother’s place. That’s where she’s been staying.”

“Girl, you can
not
let your brother take care of a teenage girl!”

“I know. I know. That’s why he was just here to ask me to take her in.”

“So, are you?”

“Yes.” Both women paused. “Yes. And the kids are coming back tonight with Chris—who I haven’t even told all this to yet—and then she shows up like an hour later.”

“
Carajo
.”

“You said it.”

“Want me to come over and help?” Free of the responsibilities of children or spouse and now even a job, Cat welcomed the distraction. “I don’t want to be in your way, but I’m here if you need me.”

Luz, for once, was grateful for the aid. “I may need you tomorrow, if you don’t mind. I just don’t think I feel comfortable with her here, just the two of us. I mean, I don’t know this girl, and I don’t know how to feel. . . .”

“Totally understandable. But . . . how is she feeling about all this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Luz, is she okay? And what is her name, anyway?” Cat might be short on family, but her heart was huge and her empathy personal.

“Oh. Yes, I mean, yeah. I guess. Yeah. Um, she’s Emeli. Like ‘Emily’ but spelled Dominican, weird, with like three E’s or something . . .” Luz was still in staccato mode and slightly taken aback by what felt like a reminder to not be selfish. “Wait, Cat?”

“Mmm?”

“Cat. This girl, I mean, Emeli, and her world are all new to me. I mean, forget for a second about my whole new-dad thing.” She growled in frustration. “Just . . . I mean, the kids will probably love her because she’s beautiful and young and cool and shit.”

“Yup, they will.”

“But, what if she disrupts this house? What if she completely throws everything off? What if she gets between me and Chris? What if she brings in drugs! I mean . . .”

“Okay, just stop for a sec. Luz. She’s not going to ruin your marriage or your family. She’s going to
be
family. So you guys will all adjust and I suspect that just as much as you fear her being an influence on you, you guys can be a great influence on her, right?”

“Right. But will we?”

“I have no doubt that you will. But it’s not going to be easy.”

“Tell me something.” Luz sat and then paused, sucking in a breath. “Don’t take this the wrong way, okay? But, you grew up kinda like this girl—”

“Emeli,” Cat corrected her friend.

“Yes, Emeli. So, can you help me out with her here? I mean, I just don’t know how to deal with someone like that, ya know?”

Cat sighed. She pressed Luz, annoyed. “Like what?”

“Like, from where she’s from!”

“Look, she’s from the city, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing, really. Look, she’s a kid and we all were kids and you gotta treat her like your kids,” Cat said gently.

“Well,” Luz harrumphed. “She’s far from being like my kids.”

Cat was beginning to take offense. “Okay, now. That’s just not . . .”

“What?!” Luz didn’t get it.

“Luz, pretend she’s me. That was me at her age. I mean, single mom, poor, people like you dismissing me . . .”

“I’m not dismissing her.”

“No?” Cat waited a beat. “Luz, think of how little control you have over this situation, and how that feels. Well, she has no control over where she came from or her father’s failings or being alone and suddenly finding herself with this bougie family!”

“Uh.”
She just called me bougie.

“Hmm. Just sayin’.”

Both women waited a bit. Luz admired Cat and felt gratitude that Emeli had an advocate—that both Luz and this teenage ragamuffin had Cat on their side. Because they were going to need advocates, desperately.

“Yup, I got it. You’re right. You’re right.” Luz echoed her brother’s tic. “So right.”

“I don’t wanna be right so much as help, mm-kay?”

Luz smiled and sighed. “Girl. Thank you, hon.”

“No problem.”

Suddenly Luz shot to attention. “Oh shit, I gotta get a move on here and get a bed ready and make more calls and what the hell am I going to do about my mother and I’m scared to talk to my father and I’m not even thinking about the kids and their father and—”

“Aiight! Go, go and please text if you need me, okay? I’m here.”

“Thank you. That helps a lot.”

“And if it helps, Luz, every time you look at that girl, think about her as me.”

Chapter 16

C
at set her phone down.
Heavy stuff with Luz,
she thought.
That poor young girl, Emeli.
Cat remembered herself at the same age as Luz’s “new” sister and imagined how it would feel to be thrown into her world—a sharply different world—so abruptly. And as Cat was now part of that world, she knew how harsh and judgmental it could be, where fewer people looked like you and knew the life you knew. Where everyone’s heads are filled with much more than yours (international travel, how to eat edamame, art films), and their expectations of a young woman of color were slim to none: You’ll get pregnant by a few different men over your lifetime, sit at a receptionist’s desk for decades if you were cute, or maybe just lug dirty towels at a gym until your back gave out. Because it was assumed that there was no brain in that pretty little brown head. No aspirations, no drive, no sense, no entitlement, and no desire for the things they had, their lifestyle.
Yeah, I love sci-fi, too.
Really?
Yes, I’m applying to these colleges.
Really?
No, I’ve never been pregnant before.
Really? Cat’s mouth went sour. That last one she used to be proud of. But now, decades into her diminishing fertility, she wondered: What price had she paid for her success?
Ding-dong! Delivery! Here’s your crown,
m’ija.
Here are your degrees and your celebrity and your paychecks and your free clothes and fancy parties and awards won for all your hard work.
But, what about babies, husband, family? Lo siento, bella,
you didn’t order that.

Shit—what time was it? Cat shook herself out of her thoughts and started moving quickly between her closet, her dresser, and her bathroom. She was still in workout clothes after a halfhearted spin on the bike and she needed to shower and dress up for an early dinner appointment. Now that she’d been laid off, Cat didn’t go out much. Sure, she would be getting a paycheck for another several months, but you had to shift your gears down just in case the hunt took longer than expected.

As she turned on the shower as hot as she could take it, Cat wondered:
What am I hunting for again?

 

Cat took in the dark, narrow restaurant, an old speakeasy in the East Village full of Mexican wood décor. Like Luz’s front door, she thought. But the layout was dark and tight. Sexy, though. And empty at this time of the early evening.
Ugh,
she thought,
I’m getting old.

Cat was meeting a young woman whose name she knew in passing, a fairly green Latina starting out in TV and online as a host. Sofia Montez was impressive; her father was a well-known politician, a local congressman. Of course, at this point Cat was impressed by anyone actually still working in the business. Plus, she was looking forward to hanging with someone who was neither stuffy nor blustery for a change. There were too many of those at her level. In and out, always in a rush, no lingering. Transactional relationships only. Of course, they tended to have families, and she didn’t, so . . .

“Right this way.” The wispy hostess, dressed snugly in all black, led Cat upstairs to a balcony level, a flight and a half from the main bar.
It’s even quieter up here,
Cat thought. Ten-plus years ago, she had done a lot of eating and drinking in spots like this, but not lately. The word
old
still echoing in her head, she sat down.

“Do you have Herradura?” Cat asked the hostess.

“Sure. We have a library of tequilas.” She flipped over one of the plastic-covered menu pages and pointed to the word
Tequilas
. Usually Cat loved spending time with a list like this one, but tonight she didn’t want to wait.

“How about just a clean Herradura margarita, on the rocks, no triple sec, with salt?”

As Cat sat, contorting herself to get out of her jacket in the tight booth, she let her eyes wander over the list. How she wished she could taste each and every one. Just a sip. And how she wished that someone else was paying.

“Hellooo, girlfriend!” Sofia was a pretty brunette with green eyes and the olive skin of conquistadors. She came in with a bluster, jacket and bag rustling. She wasn’t smiling, but Cat noted her internal smile. One of
those,
she thought—reserved, dry, above it. She liked that. In contrast, Cat was all surface. What you saw was what you got. She was happy, you saw happy. Disgusted, you saw disgust. She had to train herself not to be so transparent on air, but it was why people loved her, right? Nothing phony. Sofia was nearly the opposite. Snarky smile, and maybe, if you were lucky you’d get teeth. But Cat sensed that she was all warmth on the inside.

“
Hola, chiquitita
.” Cat leaned upward for a peck on the cheek.

“
Ay,
woman.” Sofia dropped her bags near Cat on her bench, then plopped herself down on her chair with un-self-conscious force. “Whew!”

They smiled at each other.

“Thank you so, so, sooo much for meeting me,” Sofia said.

“Of course, hon—”

“Here you go, a clean margarita.” The server set down Cat’s drink, sweaty already with condensation and possibly from being so near the amazing breasts of the woman serving them. Both women’s eyes went wide at the drink, and the twin mountains in their faces.

“Okay, well, I gotta have me one o’ dose!” A native of New Jersey, Sofia slipped into urban patois fluidly.

Cat raised her brows. Gracias a Dios
she’s drinking with me.

“Sure, and, ladies, let me know if you want me to bring you any chips, mm-kay?”

“Oh yes, chips
por favor
.” Sofia waited until she was out of earshot to say, “Man, did you see that rack on her? Amazing.”

“Ah, to be young.”

“I’m not that old, and mine don’t look like that.”

“True, true,” Cat agreed.

“Though my sister’s got an awesome set o’
tetas
. Man, they’re like gravity-defying boobs, and her waist . . .” Sofia rolled her eyes.

“Oh, girl,
tetas
are overrated. Trust me, when you get older, your sister will be envying you.”

“These things?” Sofia pulled her jacket open to reveal maybe B-size breasts held up by a snug tank.

“Hey! I got the same and I’m so glad.”

“Right, because otherwise, clothes don’t fit.”

“
Exactamundo
.”

The server was back. Sofia and Cat made eye contact over her breasts as she leaned down to serve the other margarita and some chips. Both smiled and raised a brow at their shared wonder and appreciation. They ordered some appetizers and refocused.

“So, first of all, thank you so so much for being here,” Sofia gushed.

“Oh no, no, you’re welcome, of course.”

Sofia fawned and Cat self-deprecated. They both ate and drank heartily, particularly for women on television—Cat still getting called in for pilots and tests. Both wore a size six and bonded over being told by producers to lose ten pounds—size two or four was much more preferred in their very
blanco
business. The women ended up swearing allegiance and toasting to their ample asses and the joy of keeping those friendly pounds on. Cultural solidarity—fight the white patriarchy with plump, Latin behinds. After two margaritas each they were toasty.

“Okay, so let me just tell you . . .” Sofia was slurring a bit as she reached out to hold Cat’s arm across the table. “Let me just tell you how much it meant to me to see your face on television.”

“Aww.” Cat was taken by surprise.

“No, really, I gotta tell you.”

“Okay.” Cat perked up to show Sofia she was paying sincere attention.

“I didn’t think there was a place for us out there, in that space, ya know? And just, and just, seeing you and that you were—I mean
are
—a proud and loud Latina and just owning it, ya know?”

“Thanks.” Cat meant it. She was flattered, but at the same time she was ambivalent. She was grateful, particularly as she grew up and then came up in the business, that there had been no one who looked like her, only “secret” ones like Linda Carter and Raquel Welch. But she also felt a huge chasm between herself and this maybe-ten-years-younger (or maybe twelve) woman who was of a different generation. She felt beyond her sell-by date. Outdated. Both feelings sat inside her. The margaritas made it a bit better, but also bitter. And then Sofia started crying.

“Cat, I mean it. You are the reason I do what I do. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t seen you . . . just know that, okay? Just know that.”

“
Ay,
hon. Thank you. I mean it. Thanks.” Cat now felt honored. And yet, still, beyond her expiration date. She felt her own eyes well up, but it wasn’t out of pride or empathy. It was that she felt she had let down this fellow Latina whom she’d inspired by not keeping her show. By getting canceled. By realizing that this wasn’t really what she wanted to do. That maybe she had been a fraud, an imposter. Well, she did want to do it—have her own show—but she also dreaded doing it again. How could she stop, though, when she had to be out there helping more women, representing the people who most folks thought only cleaned their houses, answered phones, and handed them their burger and fries.

Sofia and Cat then spent the next twenty minutes playing Did-You-Know-Blank-Is-Latino? From there they moved quickly to which-
macho
-did-your-mother-have-a-crush-on? Then on to the history of their families and why Cousin Tito has so many moles.

Knowing it was late, Cat secretly hoped that Sofia wouldn’t want to go yet. It had been forever since Cat had been out this late, and they had great rapport. But Cat also didn’t want to seem like a loser with no one to go home to and no job to wake up to in the morning.

“Listen, mama,” Sofia said. “I have, like, a late call-in tomorrow, so, wanna do one more drink downstairs, at the bar?”

“Love that.” Cat hadn’t felt this tingle of possibility in much too long. Maybe she’d actually meet someone, a man to fulfill that last to-do on her list: having a family. That made her nervous. But it was the same good nervous that fluttered in her belly before the control room said “Go!” in her ear for live TV. Cat was jazzed—if buzzed—to her fingertips.

 

Two hours later, the restaurant was far from the empty, hollow place Cat had walked into. Here was the hustle and noise that she had reveled in years ago. Those nights of hers that ran late into the sun rising in the morning. Nights that Cat danced on tables, smoked hand-rolled substances, and put her tongue in many mouths. But that was when she was right out of college, frustrated at how slowly her life was moving and stunted by work that limited her ability to shine as brightly as she wanted to. Once she turned onto the television track, Cat was waking up at the time she used to come home after a night out. Many times, she’d be in a cab flowing freely up and around the city streets at four in the morning on her way to the studio, and she’d take in the few people they’d pass. They were split between two groups: those who were heading to where they made their living, like Cat, and those stumbling home after a night of adventure. To Cat those nights hadn’t always been good, but they were her own adventures. She would gaze at those late-to-bedders with nostalgia. The little beast inside her that was not so tightly wound saw them as familiars, friends in kind. But the hardworking, don’t-stop-’til-you-get-to-the-top spirit would whisper, “Oh no, Cat. Those days are gone for a reason. Thank the Lord they are behind you.”

“The same, please.” Cat signaled for two more drinks, feeling oddly puffed up with the confidence that alcohol gives. Also, Sofia’s time with her had made Cat feel appreciated, important, a trailblazer. So unlike how the media world made her feel, especially her former bosses and the producers she’d work with here and there. Their job was to make you feel as small as possible, until they really needed you. Then they crowned you queen of the world. Until the next up took your throne. But those days seemed over. Might as well suck these drinks and this night down while she could.

“Cat—this is Tom.” Sofia practically had to yell due to the noise. In the brief time it had taken Cat to get the bartender’s attention, Sofia had managed to turn on her bar stool and signal with her body an open invitation to surrounding men. In thirty seconds she’d met two. She pulled a young man toward Cat, parting the crush of bodies now behind their bar stools. Tom was a six-foot, cacao-colored young man, all shoulders and smile. His nubby sweater hinted at brains. Cat gulped. Yum.

“Oh, hi, Tom,” she said, and held out her hand formally.

He ignored it, instead gently taking her extended arm to draw her closer and give her a peck on the cheek.

“Oh!”

“Sorry—” Tom politely drew back a bit, showing his palm in supplication.

“No, no, it’s okay.” Cat blushed and waved her reaction away. Silly her. He was gorgeous. And young, maybe late twenties. When was the last time a man had kissed her cheek who wasn’t a cousin saying
hola?

“So, Cat, Tom is friends with Clark here,” said Sofia.

“Hi, Clark.” This one was just getting a handshake. Handsome in a hipster Kennedy way, Clark didn’t seem as naturally warm to her as did his buddy. Cat had a knack for reading people quickly and accurately.

“My buddy givin’ you a hard time?” Clark feigned concern, but to Cat it rang of “Sorry, ma’am.” Tom was relaxed but blushing. He’d already moved his body to Cat’s right, angling himself sideways into the bar to lean and close the distance between them. She noted this gesture and felt warm. He’d settled in already.

“Nah, not at all. It’s how we roll,” replied Cat.

“We? What’s ‘we’?” asked Clark.

“Mexicana.”

“Ah! Me too. Dominican,” Tom said with authentic pride. An accent wasn’t there, so Cat assumed second generation, just like her.