Never Too Real (20 page)

Now that crisis was averted, Magda found herself suppressing a chuckle. The graveside theatrics were the very essence of her mother’s side of the family. Drama came in daily doses—cousins had been kidnapped back in Venezuela and one returned missing a pinky finger, the family fortune lost. But this took the cake. Magda had to see if anyone else found this as hilarious, in a twisted way, as she did. She scanned the faces present and ended up locking eyes with her father. The father who had disowned her.

For a second he was stone. Then he did what Magda instinctively knew he might do—he shook his head in disbelief and smiled.
Can you believe this
loca
? You see your mother’s family? What a mess . . .
Magda let her eyes smile back.

In that split second, she was twelve and her father loved her again. They were ganging up on her mother about the latest gossip-drama she was serving up. Magda and her father had bonded in having both feet on the ground. It’s how she identified with him. Magda was pragmatic, not a fan of hysterics. She was type A. Levelheaded. Not prone to tears.

And now here they were. A brief moment of reconnection: Had she imagined it? Nope, it happened. She missed him, Magda realized. Her eyes welled. But she quickly sniffed back the tears that threatened to fall. She was grateful that most of the burial attendees were still reeling from the near-spectacle; they’d missed her private moment. Tia Cristina had been scolded into silence now, not only by Olga, but by another in-law as well—put in her place by the original G’s.

“Holy shit.” Luz’s mouth barely moved and she hadn’t even blinked.

“Yup.”

“I just . . .” Cat mumbled, “. . . can’t believe . . .”

“Typical.”

“Typical?” Luz asked in disbelief. “Wow.”

Gabi, savvy in the tendencies of their people, commented, “Luzita, it’s only just begun.”

The priest gave his final blessing over the plot and the muscled ushers from the funeral home—unperturbed, of course, they’d seen it all—began to lead folks back to the parking lot. They followed like quiet lemmings.

Magda turned one last time to her mother’s grave.
Ay,
Ma. But she knew her mother wasn’t there, really. She was gone. The hollowness in Magda’s heart wasn’t only for the loss of her mother. In this moment, she mourned two parents. As long as her mother was alive, she had connected Magda to her father in a way that kept their family ties bound. But now that her mother was gone, where was her connection to a father who didn’t want her? And why did she care so much? Why did it hurt just now, so bad?

It had been the most bittersweet shared eye-roll of Magda’s life.

Chapter 20

Cat ambled through the terminal at MIA, Miami, toward her gate—the last one, naturally. It stood at the end of what felt like a two-mile walk. Along the way she was assaulted by horrid lighting, clueless travelers, and the Siren call of all things ketchuped, fried, and chocolate.

Fuck it.
She swerved right, towing her overnight bag behind her, her right arm leaded down by her carry-on packed with everything, her eyes shielded by glamorous, oversized sunglasses.
Eighty percent off, suckas!

“Uh, can I have a venti Pike, room for milk, and a chocolate croissant?” Cat knew that sucking down a venti coffee meant several trips to the bathroom on the plane, but she still needed to prep for her speech—paid, hooray!—and plane time was prep time. She shook work thoughts out of her head for a moment. She wasn’t ready for them yet.

Balancing with the skill of a former waitress, Cat managed her bags and her coffee and eats. As she plopped it all down with relief at her gate, her phone buzzed. At the risk of losing her call, she struggled to finish taking her coat off. The terminal was sweltering. Cat had been waiting all week for word on the local station’s offer. Yes, it was local. Yes, it was a major step down for her professionally. But nothing else was coming through and she was about to hit a wall, of both patience and financial security.

It was her agent.

“Cat. Where are you?”

“In Miami. About to board for a speaking gig in Oakland.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t get the local gig.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, shit.” His tone was sour, contemptuous.

Two seconds of silence. Cat felt his lull as the disappointment of a parent or a teacher—a superior.
Wait,
she thought.
He’s not my superior.

“So, what’s next?” she asked, her confidence slightly renewed in reminding herself of their roles.

“Well, we should talk about that.”

“Okay. Talk.”

“We’ve been everywhere and you don’t want to go to the other networks, so—”

“Because their brands suck, Guy! And that would cost me major in the long run, not to mention my sanity. . . .”

“Yeah, well, that leaves us with little else. And I’ve really done all I can do for you.”

It was Cat’s turn to pause. “Wait, what . . . What are you saying?” Cat knew, but she had to hear him say it himself. Just to make sure.

“Just that I think we should both move on.”

“Move on?” Why did this feel like being dumped by a boyfriend? Oh, right, because in the past they’d fought hard enough to make her cry and then he’d apologized by sending her fancy cupcakes. To make her fat! What the fuck.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I guess so. Well . . . Thanks. Good-bye.”

Cat hung up. Dumped by her agent. Unhireable. No, no, it was because she didn’t want to sell her soul to be the token Hispanic at a conservative, nearly all-white network. He told her of the offer within a few weeks of her show being canceled, but there was just no way she’d take a job in hell simply because it paid. Yup, she wasn’t unhireable, but she was still just dumped by her agent.

Cat sat down, moderately stunned. Her sunglasses still on, she looked across from her. In front of her she recognized the daughter of a famous actress. Pretty. There were some tech guys or students. Hard to tell these days. And an extremely large woman, wrapped in too-tight Lycra, wolfing down a Quarter Pounder. In times of stress, Cat would lose herself in the faces and forms of others. As a bored child to a single mother, she’d been taken from job to job with her, from appointment to boring appointment. And in the days before electronics, outside of her library books, all she had to watch were people. She’d try to guess who they were, what their house looked like, and read their lips to see if she could decipher what they were saying. It was a reflex, but now she could only do it for maybe thirty seconds before reality snapped her right back into her own skin.

She didn’t know she was crying until a tear fell onto her hand. She dabbed her eyes with one of her napkins from the coffee shop.
Can’t let it show on your face, Cat
.

Her phone buzzed again. It was her mother.

She sniffed. “Yeah? Ma?”

“Hello,
querida
.”

Cat tightened up.

“Where are ju? Ees so loud.”

“The airport. Headed to a speaking gig.”

“Where ees it?”

“Oakland.”

“Well, where’s dat?”

Cat sighed. She held her head in her right hand, propped up by an elbow on her leg. “In California, Ma.”

“Oh! Okay. Das good. California ees good. Ju gonna see any-bah-dee in California while ju’r dere? Like TV people?”

“No, Ma.” Cat’s insides were winding tighter and tighter.

“Why not?” That was it. She couldn’t take it right now. Her mother could not be the priority today. Or maybe, for many days.

“Ma, I gotta go. They’re calling to board the plane.” She hung up quickly, though she knew she’d hear about hanging up in such a way later.

Oh no.
Cat’s stomach roiled and moaned.

Leaving her coffee and croissant behind, Cat stood up suddenly, grabbed her bags, and headed to the ladies’ room.

“Excuse me . . . Excuse me.” She weaved between other women and ran into the handicapped stall. It was big enough not to add to the too-hot, can’t-breathe, I’m-about-to-puke feeling overwhelming her.

Cat dropped her bags and locked the door behind her, then quickly took off two layers and her sunglasses. Her hair was matting around her face.
Oh shit, oh shit.
Cat’s gut took over. It was not pretty. A full five minutes later, still sweating, her makeup smudged, she emerged from the stall. She could barely look in the mirror as she washed her hands.

It had been years since she’d experienced a panic attack like this. Years. The cold water felt good on her hands, but she desperately needed to slow her mind down or there was no way she would be able to get on that plane.

Back outside the ladies’ room, in a relatively private corner of the waiting area, she texted Gabi.

 

She thanked God as she quickly got a response.

 

 

As she dialed and Gabi picked up, all Cat could muster was a trembling “Hi.”

“
Chica,
talk to me.”

“Hon, I know I just left you and I so should not be bothering you with this—”

“I can use all the distraction I can get. Talk to me.”

Being best friends with a psychotherapist had its privileges.

“Gabs. My agent just dumped me—over the phone!—and my mother called right after and I just . . . freaked out.” Trying to keep her voice down, Cat was pacing, hair sticking to her face wet with tap water and sweat.

“Are you sitting down? Find a good spot to sit in and put your head back while you talk to me.” Gabi had told Cat about this therapy trick, an oldie but a goodie that she liked to employ when she had a panicked client on the phone. Letting your head drop backward while you talked was usually so uncomfortable that it made it hard to cry or hyperventilate. If you could keep your head this way, you were on your way to fine. It slowed you down first physically, then psychologically.

Cat found a seat at the end of a row—right near the window, so at least she could face away from people near her. “I’m down.”

“With your head back, take deep breaths with me.”

Together they inhaled deeply, then exhaled, three times.

“You can put your head down now.”

Cat’s chin dropped to her chest. That had been uncomfortable, but it had snapped her out of the wackadoo whirlwind going on in her head a few minutes earlier.

“Okay. Now I’m just sad, I think.”

“Cat, what set this off?”

“Well, Guy called to dump me, in effect.”

“But you hadn’t been getting along much, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well, he treated you badly and now you’re free.”

Cat was a bit stunned. Usually Gabi didn’t lay this stuff on you until after a couple of drinks. Understandably, though, her patience right now was short. “Yeah, that’s true.”

“And what about your mom?”

“She just started right in with all her ‘Where are juuu going?’ and ‘Why aren’t juuu meeting with any-bah-dee?’ . . . I hung up on her.”

“Good for you.”

“Ha! Except I’ll never hear the end of it. She’ll make me pay for that.”

“Not unless you agree to pay her.” Like a hot knife through
manteca,
Gabi was slicing through the bullshit. “Where are you headed again?”

“Oakland. For a speech.”

“What’s the speech?”

At Gabi’s question, Cat felt the panic rise again.
What’s the speech? What’s the fucking speech? Who am I? I don’t have a show, I don’t have an agent. Who the fuck am I to be giving a speech right now?

“Uh . . .”

“Cat. Listen to me. At times of great change, we are forced to face our true selves. We suddenly find ourselves asking, ‘Who am I?’ Only you can answer that for yourself.”

“Gabs, I don’t know how to be anyone else—anyone other than who I’ve been for so long.”

“I bet you do. That speech? What would you like to say to those women? Let’s say that you’re just you—no ‘former’ this or ‘former’ that. Just awesome you. What do you really want to say to them?”

Cat thought. She wasn’t sure. But she knew it wasn’t what she had written down and stashed in her computer case.

“You’ve got nothing to lose now, Cat. You have no producers on your tail. No agent trying to get you a horrible job. You hung up on your
madre,
for Pete’s sake!”

Cat had to laugh at that one.

“You’re panicking because you’re standing on new ground. It’s not soft ground, just new ground. But it’s more real than what you were standing on before, okay? New ground is squishy, but damn it if it’s not like concrete once it sets.”

“Like concrete . . . Okay.” Cat wasn’t sure what was going on in her head but at least she didn’t want to throw up anymore.

“Now focus on that speech. What do you really want to say? Inspire those women to rise up at least half as high as you’ve risen already.”

“Thanks, Gabi. I’m sorry—”

“No sorry. You’ll get through this, hon.”

“I know . . . I gotta run, I think they’re boarding.”

“Text me when you get there, okay? And call if you need anything. I’ll ring you back if I’m with a client.”

Cat’s flight had been boarding for some time already. The last passengers were handing over their tickets for scanning. Cat sat still as the final boarding call went out.

“Catalina Rivera, please report to your gate.”

She watched the service agent call her name. She stared right at him for several minutes. She was far enough away that as he looked around, he didn’t suspect that his missing passenger had her eyes on the gate the whole time.

What was Cat waiting for? She didn’t know. She just knew that she was not getting on that plane. Not yet.