Never Too Real (8 page)

“I’m . . . I’m okay.” Cat’s eyes welled up as she reached for her near-empty glass. The bartender brought her another, plus a water, as he took Gabi’s drink order.
He must recognize me, too,
Cat thought.
That’s the only time I get special service
.

“So, where’s your mind at? What’s your agent got cookin’?” Gabi the Fixer.

“A few things, some pilots. But I can’t work for another six months—contract ban.” Cat paused. She’d never stopped working since she was at least twelve years old. This was a new way of living, life in a foreign land.

“But you’re getting paid, right?” Money-balls Magda. “’Til your deal ends?”

“Oh, sure.
Gracias a Dios.
And I have a couple of speeches coming up, so . . . that’s something.”

“You have got to know that this is really the beginning of new things, new opportunity, right?” Gabi nudged.

“Gabs, I know that, but right now it just sucks.”

“Of course it sucks . . .” Magda chimed in. Sunniness not her strong point.

The women were quiet for a moment. Gabi’s tendency to move quickly and forge ahead was inspirational but at times it came off as too instructional, so she stepped back a bit. Magda wasn’t onboard to let Cat mourn either. She knew how cutthroat the media business had become and she knew the power of timing, of keeping yourself always in the game.

“Look,” Magda said, “you’ve got one more day to feel sorry for yourself. And then you need to realize that you cannot take this personally. You are great at what you do. People love you. Some sucky execs don’t. But the streets are littered with on-air folks laid off in the past five years whose faces will never meet the gaze of a studio camera again. One day they’re in your kitchen every morning, the next day, they’re out. Right?”

“Yeah, I mean, Karla was great in the mornings and I can’t even get a hold of her now.” Cat held back a tear. “I think she’s done . . . And she was great.”

“Hon, you’ve got something, though, that others don’t—a niche, right?” Gabi had built herself up from a small client base, from her first book, to guest spots on TV, and then eventually a thriving speaking and consulting business. She knew branding and she knew niche. Cat had to admit that.

“Yeah, but, and here’s the thing, I hate doing it. If I have to talk about a fucking loser company again . . .” Cat’s eyes stared at a knot of wood on the bar. She knew she was dropping a bomb on her friends. Cat herself hadn’t known this for sure until she articulated it—that she was worn out when it came to her main topic. As the words left her mouth, she felt there was no turning back. And it felt good, if very frightening.

“Cat!” Gabi said. “Really? You hate covering business?”

Cat nodded, her eyes down in a bit of shame.

“Okay, well, that requires more thought,” Magda said as she chewed ice. She was on her second drink and it was barely six o’clock. “Have you told your agent yet?”

“No, I mean, I’ve hinted . . . I suppose I have to.”

“Have to? Listen,
chica,
if this is your happiness, head that way. But make sure you’re not just angry. This would be a big move, no?” Gabi took a levelheaded stance, then paused for Cat’s nod that she’d heard her. “Look, your bills are getting paid. Give yourself some time to figure out what’s next before you make a big jump.”

Cat knew what she
didn’t
want to do, but she didn’t know what she wanted. She felt rudderless. And she could never swim that well. Cat had been the personification of purpose ever since grade school. But, without purpose, what was next? If she didn’t figure it out soon, she’d fall off the grid.

“Hey, you—don’t forget to talk to Joe!” the red-faced interloper halfheartedly called out to Cat on his way out of the bar, pointing.

“Yeah,” Cat responded. His blond companion looked over, eye daggers ready. Cat followed with a soft but snarky, “I’ll do that.” Taking a slug of water, she watched his back as the door closed behind him.
Well,
she thought,
at least Joe still has a show.

Chapter 8

M
agda’s oxblood designer loafers were propped on her desk, soles barely scuffed. As she reclined in her office chair, closed her eyes, and massaged her temples, she thought,
Can I go one night without drinking? Just one.

The door was closed, Magda’s office quiet. The loudest thing was the vanilla air spritzer, a few
pfft-pfft
s to smoke out any lingering scents emanating off her from the night before. Magda didn’t like the quiet, didn’t like sitting, but she had little choice as her hangover was holding her hostage. Of course, there always was her favorite cure. The bottle stood at the ready in the bottom drawer of her desk, and a coffee mug rested next to her keyboard. When tempted, she’d tell herself,
No, not at work.
Okay, maybe. But not until 5:00 p.m.

It was well before five.

Magda was jostled by her cell phone’s ping, alerting her to a voice mail. She couldn’t bear to look, refusing to acknowledge the Siren song of the notification, grumbling instead at herself inside for forgetting to change her settings. Thirty seconds later, there was a knock at her door. The leader of this multimillion-dollar business straightened herself up, opened her eyes for the first time in several minutes, and popped a breath mint.

“Come in,” she croaked. “Oh, hey, guys.”

Magda loved her team. As the five young staffers entered, each offered a “Hey,” “Hi,” or “
Buenas,
” then sat in whatever chair was available, some on the floor. Though a sincere financial leader in venture capital, Magda’s firm was aligned more quasi with the casual hipness of west coast tech style—hoodies, kicks, and jeans—rather than the Brooks Brothers and Tory Burches of Wall Street. But unlike the typical west coast venture capital firm, which was lily white and completely male, Magda’s was led by a gay Latina with a colorful, gender-balanced staff. Diversity was her competitive advantage. Plus, she had a chip on her shoulder about straight white males like her father. They’ve ruled for too long, she thought. Our turn.

“Troops! What’s up?”

Her vice president, Ricardo Huang, a thirty-something curly-haired brown Jamaican brothah with a Chinese grandfather, began rattling off updates on their to-do list as some took notes quietly and others listened carefully, ready to chime in. Magda was a fun boss, a fair boss, but she demanded the best of them, just as she did of herself, at least professionally. Today, though, she struggled to focus. Magda’s thoughts kept wandering to her mother. It had been a month since her last visit and she was due for a drop-by soon. A tug of curiosity pulled as Magda remembered that she’d seemed different when they spoke yesterday, off. Magda couldn’t put her finger on it. She had sounded weak—tired. And how skinny she was lately. What was going on? Was she stressed? Was her dad having (another) affair? What—

“Magda?”

“Yeah?” She straightened.

The only other blonde in the office stood at the door: her South African assistant, Lyra. “Um, it’s your dad?”

“My dad?”

“On the phone.” Lyra scrunched up her round, pink face. Magda checked her cell on top of her desk to see if he had tried her there. The voice mail was from another firm. No call or text from family. Weird.

“Tell him I’m in a meeting and I’ll ring him back.”

The room was full of wide, quiet eyes. Once she came out of the closet, living and identifying openly as a gay woman, Magda’s father had considered her essentially dead. There was no screaming row. It happened quickly and quietly, the way she suspected her father would get rid of anyone he wanted to get rid of.

“Sorry, Magda, but he says it’s urgent.”

 

Three months after her college graduation, Magda (still addressed as the more proper “Magdalena” by her family) came home to Miami following a mind-expanding backpacking tour of Europe—the usual wealthy-kid-finding-herself rite of passage. Unlike her compatriots from college, however, Magda went abroad not only to drink and sleep her way through Italy, France, and Spain, but to put enough miles between herself and her family so she could listen to herself,
be
herself. That meant a sultry affair with an older, wealthy, married Spanish woman who loved young ladies without shame. It also meant shedding femininity like old skin. Magda molted away her skirts, lipstick, and long hair. No more pretending to be what she wasn’t. Magda was gorgeous, but from now on she’d be her kind of gorgeous, which meant jeans and T-shirts with designer sneakers or loafers, and custom suits tailored to accent her figure in a more boyish way. And a floppy-front, under-buzz haircut that made her look like the lead singer of an eighties synth-pop band. Her signature move became flinging that blond flop of hair back, like Elvis, sending many women, straight and gay, into a swoon.

After the trip, sauced and savored, Magda showed up at her childhood home in the middle of a Wednesday morning, looking much less a prodigal daughter than a son. Her siblings were off to college themselves or hanging out with friends before the start of the high school year. When Magda showed up unannounced, she could see through the windows only her mother was home, busying herself around the garden, household staff puttering on the sidelines, all busy. Magda had her hands full with bags, so rather than drop them and go for her key, she rang the front doorbell instead. The sun sat on the back of Magda’s neck, exposed by her new haircut, and it felt good, liberating and new. She’d missed the hot, tanning sun and humidity of home, but not long hair. The door swung open.

“
Ay!
Magdalena?!”

Magda’s eyes struggled to adjust to the house’s dark interior to see who answered.

“Oh,
hola,
Miranda!” Magda noted the open jaw and drained pallor on the housekeeper’s shocked face, but she just smiled and walked right in, straight through her stupor.

“
Holaaa . . .
” Miranda managed to mumble. She was struggling to close the door and release the handle. This dear woman, whose own daughter the family had put through college as if she were one of their own, wasn’t surprised that Magda was gay. She’d walked in on Magda kissing a female friend when she was a teenager, and probably knew her inclinations even before then. Miranda didn’t need a diploma to know the truths of the people she had seen nearly every day for the past thirty years of her life. The people whose drawers she had to tidy up and papers she would pile neatly. What shocked Miranda was Magda’s physical transformation. She had hoped that as long as Magdalena remained feminine, the beauty queen, that no boats would rock, that there would be peace
en la casa
. She might even have done like Miranda’s friend Elena did back home: She married
otro gay;
then they did what they had to do to have two children together but kept their true lives and loves as secret as possible.

But this. This look. Magda’s hair gone, her makeup gone, dressed like that. Oh no. Miranda watched her ward walk down the hall, even her walk now different. More confident.

“Mama?” Magda called into the kitchen.

“
Ja, m’ija?
”

Magda plopped her bags onto the floor by the breakfast table and went into the refrigerator for something to drink. Her mother stomped the soil off her shoes and took off her gardening gloves as she entered the kitchen. In front of her was the backside of someone wearing a pair of hiking boots, partly covered by half-tucked cargo pants. The rest of the body of the person in her kitchen was behind the refrigerator door. She was confused.

“
Hola
. . . ?” Magda’s mother said tentatively.

“Hi, Ma.” Up from the fridge door popped the sheared blond head and makeup-free face of her beautiful daughter.

“
Ayyy!
” Still holding her very dirty gloves, Ma clutched at her chest as her eyes grew big.

“Hi.” Magda was not interested in her mother’s drama. She had rehearsed hard on how she was going to ignore it. She knew she’d have to be the one with feet on the ground. So, she gave her mother a “Wha?!” face, closed the fridge door, and turned to get a glass from the cabinet for her cold drink. Her mother still hadn’t moved from her spot, nor even moved her face. Normally, she would have run to her and hugged and kissed her darling, gorgeous, pride-and-joy daughter Magdalena. She was her first and, as everyone knew, her most treasured.

“
M’ija
. . .” she managed to whisper.
My daughter.

At least it wasn’t a yell. Magda had prepared herself for some extremely negative reactions, some screaming and throwing things. But she had also hoped dearly that her mother wouldn’t be anything other than sad but accepting. Isn’t that what all gay kids want?

“Whatcha got back there, Ma?” Magda was determined to pretend all was well, and she gestured easily toward the garden and its blooms while she made her way to the breakfast table to sit. This table was the family conference center, the space where her mother held court and all the family enjoyed being Reveron de Sotos. Announcements, arguments, decisions, confessions, forgiveness: all happened at this table. But her mother was not going to talk about the peonies in the garden right now. Her beloved daughter was shorn. Send a child to Europe . . .

She sighed.

Magda picked up a magazine and drank a soda, as if absolutely nothing out of the ordinary was going on. So her mother sat down, too, next to her, still staring, mouth agape. Her dirty gardening gloves left a dark smudge of fertilizer on the white Saarinen table. She didn’t speak.

“Well, the flowers look great,” Magda offered.

Her mother still didn’t speak.

“So . . . can Miranda make me something to eat? I’m starving.” Magda spoke into what she was reading, her face toward the table. She was doing a worse job of hiding her growing discomfort in this moment.

Her child was now in need, so Magda’s mother broke her silence, “Jes.
Sí,
sure. Miran—”

“
Sí, señora
.” Miranda was right outside the door, all too eager to hover around this conversation. “Magdalena,
mofongo, ’ta bien?
” Magda’s favorite dish of salty, mashed plantains was usually best for hangovers, but right now, it’d taste like a hug.

“
Ay,
Miranda,
te amo!
” Magda smooched the fingers on her right hand and blew a kiss Miranda’s way. Most families kept a bit more distance between themselves and their employees, but Miranda protected what she knew all these years and Magda loved her for that.

“Magdalena . . .
querida,
what is dees?” her mother asked her, more gently than she’d thought.

Magda turned the page of the paper, adding the crinkle of folding paper to the sound of sizzling food coming from the stove.

“Wha?” she asked her mom, shrugging.

“What do ju mean, wha?”
Mami
’s eyes looked fiery—and not with anger, but with fear.

“What are you talking about,
Mami?
I’m fine!”

“Why ju do dees? Dees?” She gestured toward Magda’s makeup-free face, chopped hair, loose white T-shirt, buffed arms, and burly posture. Ma switched to English when she didn’t want Miranda to understand too much. If she had taken the time to know Miranda better, she would have learned that her housekeeper understood English perfectly well. She just acted as if she didn’t.

Magda sighed and put down the paper. Moving her mother’s dirty gardening gloves to the side, she took her mother’s hands into her own. “Mama, this is who I am.”

Her mother’s response was a deep swallow, a gulp, as her eyes welled up with tears.

“Ma?”

“Jes,” Magda’s mother whispered as she maintained her stare at her grown daughter who left their home one way only to return a completely other person, in her eyes.

“Things aren’t going to be so bad.” Magda squeezed her mother’s shaky hands. “I can’t live my life like someone else, you know that.”

“Jor father, Magdalena . . .”

At the mention of the patriarch, Magda straightened up and pulled her hands away from her mother’s.

“I can’t live for him anymore, Ma!” Magda hissed. Her mother straightened her back, stiff, in response.

As the sweet odor of plantains and reheated pernil wafted from the stove, Miranda materialized behind her long-time
jefa
and slid a small box of tissues to her side before soundlessly moving back to the stove. Magda’s mother slowly pulled a tissue out and wiped her eyes. She blew her nose loudly. Finally, she sobbed, “I don’t know what he’s going to do.”

Magda’s father was no more abusive or oppressive than any other macho, successful Latin father. But his wrath could still be a frightening thing.

Over the past several months, Magda had been so single-minded in her quest to live her life as she wanted that she hadn’t thought much about how her mother would handle this. Magda knew she’d be disappointed. And she knew that her mother would have to manage her father’s anger somehow. But she was pretty good at that.

“
Mami
. I’m sorry. This is not your fault, okay?”

“I know.” She sniffed. “I jes don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll take care of it, okay?”

Suddenly a lightbulb went off in her mother’s head.

“
Ay, m’ija!
What about marriage and children? How can you have children?” She started to wail.

Magda had not seen this coming. This was the time before marriage was legal, even well before living with a partner of the same gender was considered normal. She leaned in again and gently pulled her mother’s arm toward her.

“Mama, calm down! I can have kids, somehow, or maybe someone I’m with can have kids. But really, I’m way too young for that right now, okay?”

More wailing.

“Anyway, don’t you have other kids who can get married and start families?”