June
I looked down at my hand, holding a knife that old that I remembered using it before. A knife had outlasted my dad. A knife. And not only a knife, also the kitchen it belonged to. The whole neighborhood. All of it was still there. All of it, except for my dad.
"Déjamelo hacer, cariño."
The voice hadn't even finished the sentence or gone was the knife. Gone was the tomato I'd been slicing to pieces. The juice and seeds covering my fingers were the sole signs of me ever having had it. My eyes wandered to my left index finger. It'd been days since I took off the ring, and yet, every time I was confronted with the band of pale skin, the only evidence something had ever sat there, I was struck by lightning, scared I'd lost or forgotten it.
I hadn't. It was never supposed to be yours, June. This was your life. Abuela taking over halfway through whatever I was doing, me being destined to stand there and watch.
Strange. How could I've forgotten this was how things went?
Two of my younger nieces, barely toddlers when I'd set out for California, were now running after each other, laughing and screeching outrageously as the smaller one hid behind abuela's apron. Abuela scolded them, not even needing to put down her work, like it was easy to tell off a child while keeping an eye on the pans and simultaneously slicing tomatoes with the speed of a machine. It was easy. For her.
Here, in Soundview, she was the woman of the house. The one who cooked. The one who decided. The one who people listened to.
Here, I was nothing, because everything I could do, someone else could do better and faster.
Here, I was the one people had to take care of.
Here, I'd never gotten older — I was still a kid, too clumsy and young to have any influence over anything.
California was independence. And I'd gotten used to it.
A hard smack against my legs made me stumble backward, colliding with the counter. One of my nieces giggled, getting up from the floor to sprint away, abuela yelling after her. I squeezed my eyes shut — did that woman have to shout every second of the day? Before she could start to fuss all over me, like everyone seemed to be doing since I'd returned, I followed my niece to the living room.
Why were there so many people in such a tight space?
They'd created one long table out of multiple smaller ones, the ones plastic and round, the others wooden and square, lined with an array of different chairs and stools. David had kept a normal one free for me, one that was at a good height so that I could actually reach my plate. He drew it back for me when I approached, giving me that smile that everyone sent my way again and again. The pity smile. It made me sick to the stomach. Did they have to treat me like I was broken?
Nathan would've never let me suffer through a pity smile.
Ignoring that thought, I reached out to take a piece of bread — immediately, uncle Pedro pushed the basket in my direction, winking at me. Without hearing myself, and without meaning it, I thanked him, while the only thing I was really grateful for was him going back to his conversation with uncle Antonio, who was in one of his manic states and was talking the loudest of everyone in the room. They were discussing Franco, a subject I was very familiar with, having written a paper on it for European History only a few months ago. Yet, I doubted if they'd listen to me if I would try to join them. Maybe out of courtesy. Let's pretend to be interested in what the girl who lost her father had to say.
Dad would've listened. He always did.
"You good?" David asked. He was seated in a plastic kid's chair, yet still managed to tower over me. There was something about him that reminded me of dad. Maybe it was the fact he was big, and at the same time appeared to be entirely harmless. Strangely enough, it was soothing.
"I will be good once abuela stops inviting the whole family and half of Soundview over for dinner."
David snickered. "Yeah... I told her I had my shift and needed to catch up on some sleep, but she threatened to make me do the dishes by myself the next time I'd come over if I wouldn't be there today."
Sounded like her. Why did everyone think I wanted to be surrounded by so many people all the time, smothered by their care? Didn't they get I just wanted to be left alone?
To the left of me, David's and Valentina's mothers were chatting excitedly, their voices becoming louder every time one of them slapped the table. Kids were jumping around, some older ones showing each other videos on their phones, some girls teaching each other a dance with lots of hip-shaking. In the background, one of abuela's ancient neighbors was watching Noticiero Univision, occasionally turning up the volume or grumpily commenting on what happened in the world today. The noise was unbearable, had been unbearable ever since I stepped out of the car and let The Bronx greet me, and I had a pounding headache that no aspirin was able to expel.
How had I survived this before California?
"Honey, honey..." Valentina was squeezing herself through the group of kids, hurrying herself towards me. There was a stern frown on her face, and for a second, I was scared something was wrong — that someone had died, again. Then, I noticed the phone in her outstretched hand, showing that she was one minute into a call.
My phone.
My body tensed, fist pressing into my upset stomach — no, how could she have? I couldn't talk to him. I didn't want to talk to him. It would be the end of me.
"You know who it is. Come on, take it."
He'd been calling me non-stop for the past few days, texting me that he read the letter and that he was sorry and that he just wanted to talk. I didn't get it. If he read the letter, wouldn't he have understood I wanted nothing more to do with him? I couldn't handle another goodbye. I really couldn't.
Valentina tapped her foot impatiently, waving my phone from left to right before my face. Before she could start to scream at me, I snatched it from her hands, accidentally dropping it. Instantly, multiple people bowed down to get it for me — "I can do it myself, please!" I wanted to pick it up quickly, so I could escape their concerned expressions, but of course, my fingers wouldn't do their job with everyone watching, and I had to let Valentina help me after all.
Without another word, I fought myself a way to the porch, which was deserted except for one of abuela's friends smoking a cigar. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for what was about to come. The stench of the cigar and the garbage on the sidewalks made me nauseous, and I was tempted to throw my phone away, let it be stolen, and not worry about it anymore.
"Hi," I said instead.
"June! You picked up. Are you okay?"
Those three sentences already formed a blockage in my throat. I needed to get this over with as soon as possible. "No."
"That was a useless question. Listen, I'm so sorry — your dad — if I'd known—"
Dad, in bed, unmoving. My fingers tightened around my phone, and it wouldn't have surprised me if I'd cracked the screen with solely my physical strength. Him too. Dad. Everyone mentioned dad, like it was any of their business. "Please, Nathan, can't you just leave me alone? I don't want to hear it. I don't want to talk about it."
"Okay."
Even though that was the answer I wanted, the answer I needed, it left me with an empty sort of disappointment. "Thank you. Just... don't call me again."
"Junie, wait!"
No. I couldn't wait. The longer he would talk to me, the longer it would take for me to forget about him, and I needed to forget about him soon — it hurt too much, everything hurt too much.
"Do you need anything? Money maybe? Because—"
"I don't need money. I don't need anything, but to be left alone."
"Junie..."
"What part of this don't you understand? Just leave me alone. I need to be alone — there are too many people on my case, and I just need to breathe. Leave me alone. I can't handle you. Not now."
Why did he have to call me Junie? Why torture me like that? I lost my dad, the only person on earth who had always been there for me, and no one seemed to understand that I was alone now, hopelessly alone, and that they shouldn't pretend it wasn't like that, when it was like that — it was like that — I was alone, and no one had the decency to let me breathe and be alone, not even him. Did he want to break my heart, crush it until there was nothing left? Make sure I wouldn't survive?
There was a long, stretched silence. "Okay. Call me if that changes?" The words were small, barely audible.
I didn't say anything.
"And Junie, I mean it, whatever you need, anything, money, doesn't matter how much—"
No. Not more of this, please. I couldn't. I couldn't do this. As the tears rolled down my cheeks, I ended the call, cutting off his voice, being well aware that this was the last time I'd ever hear it.
I didn't need money.
I just needed him to love me.