It is never too late to return to the ones you love

It is never too late to return to the ones you love

Winter, 1979 "Originally he was from Chihuahua," Uncle Leo
began.

"Chihuahua’s are little dogs!" I said.

"Well it’s also a state in México. It’s near Texas, at
least the part our family’s from, ’cause he knew Uncle Robert.
Anyway," he continued, "he was from Chihuahua, but when he drove
his Cadillac through the dust – right up to the front door of the
house, wearing a suit and a hat – everyone knew he’d hit the big
time. That’s what Uncle Robert told me. They were best
friends."

"Is that when he met Grandma?" I asked.

"Maybe he’d seen her before," Uncle Leo answered, "but she
would’ve been a little girl. See, grandpa had gone to Los Angeles.
It was just before the war, there wasn’t any work anywhere, and he
was Mexican, and Anglos in Texas treated Mexicans horribly."

"Anglos?"

"White people."

"Oh."

"Anyway, he went to L.A. to work, and he came back to visit
Robert and his sister Viola. Viola was tall and pretty. Uncle
Robert wanted to match the two up, but it didn’t work."

"Why?"

"Well, Viola was kind of wild. She would smoke cigarettes
wherever she went. Back then that was a big thing, especially for a
Mexican girl in a little hick town. But I think she had a job at a
store, so she made money for the family and figured she could do
what she wanted. That’s what happens when you get money."

"And Grandpa had money then."

"Yes. Uncle Robert told me, ‘Herman impressed Barbara right
away, because we were so poor.’ And Grandpa liked quiet women, not
women like Viola, and Grandma was a short, pretty, quiet girl, a
lot like your mother before she went to college. Your grandma had
made it through eighth grade, and she was very proud of that.
Still, she fell in love with your grandpa, and a week later, they
eloped and moved to L.A.!"

"Eloped?"

"They ran off and got married. Her mother cried and cried and
hated my dad for a while because he was about 25 or 26, and your
grandma was only 15. But she’d come back to Texas almost every year
so her mother could help her when she gave birth to another child.
But they couldn’t afford all the kids, and each year, she was
poorer and more unhappy."

"So Mom was born in Texas?"

"Yes. She was the fourth. I was the eighth. Your grandma had her
first nervous breakdown a little after Lizzy was born. Lizzy came
before me. And I never got to know my mother because sometime when
I was a little baby, she just went insane for good. That was in
1955."

* * *

Christmas, 1985 Our house was loaded with my mother’s brothers
and sisters, their husbands and wives and all of their kids. My
older cousins played basketball in the backyard. My mom and her
sisters noisily prepared dinner. My dad and uncles watched sports
on television in the adjacent room. Every now and then one of them
called out, "Hon, could you get me a beer?"

Uncle Leo and I sat at the kitchen table, coloring. In the midst
all the racket, my grandmother floated in quietly.

"I want another cigarette," Grandma murmured to my aunt.

"You’ve had too many today."

"I want one."

"No."

"I want one."

"For God’s sake, Linda, give her the damn cigarette!" my Uncle
Leo exclaimed.

"They’re unhealthy, and she shouldn’t be smoking in front of the
all the kids."

"Well what do you want her to do, just sit in Sam and Valdina’s
room all day?"

"Linda, let Mom do what she wants," my mother said. Aunt Linda
went to get her purse, and Grandma followed.

"Didn’t you say Viola was the one who smoked?" I asked my
uncle.

"Your grandma started when she first went to the hospital,"
Uncle Leo explained to me. "She told my dad the voices in her head
told her it would help her pass the time."

* * *

Summer, 1986 We visited my Aunt Linda’s family for about a week.
She lived in an ugly pink house in Chula Vista, a barrio near the
U.S./México border, not far from Tijuana.

Grandma lived with them, too. My cousins all avoided her. She
scared them, smelling of tobacco and medication, somewhat blind,
missing a few teeth, talking to herself.

Sometimes she’d wander around my aunt’s mismatched house,
rambling in Spanish. Sometimes she’d gaze dully at the television
when my cousin Ben watched Bruce Lee movies. Sometimes Grandma just
sat on the edge of the bed in her dusty room, out of everyone’s
sight.

But most of the time, she’d just stand on the front porch,
smoking, and staring at the sky.

* * *

Spring, 1991 Raquel barged into our room. "There’s a red sports
car parked in front, and there’s a good-looking guy walking up the
driveway," she announced.

I smiled. "He’s here."

"The one you’ve been talking to on the phone?"

Someone knocked at the door.

"Yes," I answered. "Bye!"

I beat Mom to the door. "I’m going out," I told her.

"When do you plan to be back?"

"Mmm … I don’t know. Soon." I could hear him pacing
outside.

"Where are you going?"

"Probably In-n-Out."

"Raquel says gang members hang out there, that a guy got shot
there."

"Well, I don’t know, maybe we’ll go to a party instead. I really
don’t know, but he’s waiting, Mom. I’ll come back soon," I said and
I dashed out the door to be with him.

* * *

Winter, 1992 "Where were you all weekend?" Mom asked me on the
phone. "I left messages and you didn’t return my calls."

"I’ve been really busy, Mom."

"You were at his place all weekend, weren’t you?"

"No!"

"Don’t lie to me, little girl. When I call, you’re not there.
What about your classes?"

"I’m 18 now, I can do what I want. We’re probably going to get
married soon anyway. He already asked me a long time ago."

* * *

Fall, 1992 The constant drums and bass thudded through the
house, and I couldn’t read my history book no matter how hard I
tried. I walked down the stairs and opened the garage door.
"Hello!" I yelled.

His band stopped playing. "What?" he asked me.

"Can I talk to you?"

He unstrapped his guitar and stomped outside. "Whatever you got
to say, say it now and say it quick, I’m busy," he snapped.

"You’ve been practicing for three days straight. I can’t
concentrate on a thing. And it’s been like this for months,
months."

He sighed, annoyed. "You know how important this is to me."

"Yeah -"

"Then what’s your problem?" I looked up at him. "Don’t you bail
on me, girl, not after all I’ve done for you. Don’t you even think
about it."

"I can’t take this anymore. I want to go."

"Yeah? How you gonna get back? Call your Mom? She’d be real
happy to know you’re here. Homegirl, it ain’t that easy gettin’
away."

I said nothing. Finally, "Look, just gimme a couple bucks to get
a pack of cigarettes on the corner."

"You’ve smoked enough for this weekend, don’t you think?"

"Who are you to talk? And what the hell do you care? I’m taking
care of everything and you’re not around anyway! And it’s my money,
give me my god-damn money!"

"Keep it down!" he shot back, opening his wallet. He held a 20
before me. "Our money. Now get your cigs and bring me back a
12-pack." I snatched the bill and began trudging up the driveway.
"Hey!" he called to me.

I turned around.

"Don’t you ever talk to me that way again. Ever. I could break
you in two with my bare hands."

* * *

Spring, 1994 I lit up again. How to get out …

He’ll find you. He’ll make you come back. He’s done it before.
He’ll do it again.

I took another drag and listened to the endless traffic whir
past me.

Mom …

You failed her.

I want to go home.

You failed her. She may not take you back – he always will.

For a price.

Everyone has a price.

I exhaled a harsh line of smoke.

Go.

It’s useless.

Go.

I can’t.

Puffing, over and over.

If you smoke too much you’ll scorch the back of your throat and
you won’t be able to talk.

I can’t even think.

You’re thinking now. You know what to do. Go home. Your mother
is waiting, and her mother, too.

* * *

Summer, 1995 By now, I’d forgotten him. The summer prior,
however, I hadn’t completely forgiven him. Maybe I still
hadn’t.

More importantly, I hadn’t forgiven myself. Because all the time
lost, what did that say about me? I had been warned, and still I
went ahead … what did this say about me?

"That you were young, that you should have listened to your
mother," my mother would tell me when I asked her, sobbing. She’d
hold me and let me cry. "Mi’ha, mi’ha," she would whisper. "Don’t
ever be afraid to say you made a mistake. Don’t ever be afraid to
come home."

Márquez is a fifth-year senior double-majoring in history
and English/American studies and the editor in chief of the Daily
Bruin. This is her last column.

Roxane Márquez

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