Chapter 1 - Maribel
August 25,2015
Senior year of college. Twenty-one years old. Years young? My Santana can never be old. When she was four years old and lifting a giant orange basketball above her head and giggling so much that it nearly toppled her - no, I couldn't have ever envisioned her as she is today.
I'm sure she never envisioned this: me in four inch heels pummeling at the accelerator of the SUV to move her into a one-bedroom, on-campus apartment.
The three hour drive down Route 33 South isn't much. To be honest, Ohio isn't much. Santana knows it. I know it. I have an inkling that even Ronaldo knows it, though he'd never admit it. The only part of our family that seems to like Ohio are the boys, Marco and Javier, and only because they've fallen in love with the packed football stadiums and girls fawning over the line-runners or whatever it is that they play.
The drive is mainly suburban shopping malls and strips of newly planted trees, some yellowing grass, but not much else in the way of culture. Ohio. Thank god for weekend trips to Chicago and New York City. Thank god for money, really. And Ronaldo, always Ronaldo.
When we stop outside of Marysville so that Santana can stretch her legs (she'd never ask, so instead I call it a "Powder Room Break"), I have the choice of a McDonald's, Burger King, or Wendy's. I haven't set foot inside one of these places in years. Not since the kids were small and we had to use Happy Meals as bribery. We pull over and she slides out of the car and into the grass near the picnic table where she can do a few exercises. I can tell by the way that she winces that she needs the break far more than I do.
The stop just south of Columbus is a little more tense with Santana whipping me one of those sour glares that I swear must come from her abuela (her father's side, naturally). I'm only able to force her on a slow march for about five minutes before she's ambling back into the car and glaring at me to turn the ignition. I want to smile at her and pinch her cheeks because it's that same glare she used to get when Ronaldo would tell her to finish her vegetables at the dinner table.
There's a cute little antique store in Londonderry, which is about thirty minutes from Jackson, but I can only get through about half of my argument for making a quick shopping escape before Santana just cuts me off. Her mother. Cuts her mother off. The motherly thing would have been to scream "Do you want me to stop this car?," snap back at her, remind her of who's really in charge, yadda yadda. But we've been at this since March - bickering as though lives were made in the mix. Maybe Santana's putting up such a fight because it's all she has now. I think that's why I've been letting her win so many of these arguments. We drive right past the Londonderry exit and on to Jackson, even though I can almost hear her wince in pain every few miles or so.
The University of Southern Ohio wouldn't necessarily have been my first choice. It's in the middle of podunk Jackson, Ohio. Some of the buildings have a beautiful Classical feel to them, right down to the ivy straining over the brick. But other buildings look like they've been haphazardly erected at the edges of the campus in whatever architectural style was most convenient at the time. Most likely it's the result of rapid campus growth as USO's sports teams climbed higher and higher in the rankings. There's something about Ohio and sports that I'll never understand.
We drive past the Knights Coliseum and I hear Santana suck in her breath. She hasn't stepped into that building since February 23rd and I want to hold her little hand right now and tell her that she'll be back soon enough. I want to kiss her forehead, like I did all those hot Lima nights, where even with the air conditioning on full blast a little bead of sweat would trickle down her brow. But, she is her father's daughter. I keep my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road.
/
"Santana!" Dios does my voice carry in this godforsaken place. Linoleum floors, matte white walls, mattress covers over twin beds that crinkle when you sit on them. I just know there is some sort of insect egg somewhere in this building.
"Santana Maria!" I'm almost ready to flip into the Spanish that my daughter will only mildly understand save for the curse words that her older cousins taught her so long ago.
As soon as we'd arrived outside her room, she'd sprung out of the car with a heavy box in hand. Well "sprung" is an overstatement, she doesn't do anything quickly these days. But I was shocked to see her move as quickly as she did. I suppose three hours in the car with your mother will do that to a girl.
Nevertheless, we've hired movers for this occasion. I certainly won't be carrying any boxes with these heels on. These are Louboutin's, a gift I gave myself for getting all of my children into college. Besides, Ronaldo has already paid for the movers and Santana's under express orders not to push it too much.
She'd pushed it enough at home anyway. Often to the point of a fight. When she'd had to move back home, every day was a fight. Not just with me, but I sure didn't make things easy on her, either. Gradually, after a few months, our exchanges became less heated, huffs softened to a whimper, and the ache in her jaw and tendons released as she unclenched fists and teeth. Just like when she was my little nina. I'm sure she would have stomped around too, if she could have.
But as we got closer to move-in day, tempers flared again, fists and jaws clenched once more, and her brow furrowed and furrowed and furrowed until I worried it would stay that way. (Come on, every parent has to use that joke once in a while.)
Now, in the middle of...what is this place? Humboldt Hall. Now in the middle of Humboldt Hall, I'm clicking and clacking and wearing these Louboutin's out because my daughter wants to start up this fight again.
She doesn't do much "delicately," but I'd call the way she's sitting at her desk chair "delicate." That's only in the sense that a true comfy slouch would do her in completely and set her back weeks. So, she's delicately sitting at her generic dorm room desk with that box she grabbed from the car before I could stop her and she looks completely broken already.
"Mija, baby, what are you doing?" I don't have much fight left in me. It's been six months. I'm tired. Not more tired than her. But still, tired.
She doesn't answer and I can see her nostrils flaring like she wants to get up and go get another box, but I'm standing in her way. Her mother, always in the way.
"This room won't do," I blurt, before fully forming the thought.
Even by Santana's standards, it won't do. We came prepared to replace a few things that we just knew wouldn't work. I just didn't expect so much of the room not to work. The mattress will have to be replaced. Too rigid. That desk chair that she can barely sit in will have to be replaced. Maybe something on wheels to help her get around a little bit better. Definitely something with some more cushions. (Not to mention it's ugly as sin, but that's probably of no matter to her.)
At least she should be able to get around in this place. She wouldn't do it, but I made sure to place a call to the Housing Office in June to get her into a first floor room. Stairs and Santana have not been a good combination in Lima. For the first few months, she lived on a cot in the living room. A comfy cot, but a cot nonetheless. A cot was far superior to climbing flights of stairs up and down for the bathroom, for breakfast, for a nap, for lunch, and on and on. That was a quick lesson learned.
"When do the movers come?" I hear her sigh and nearly erase the mental list I'm making of the things we'll need to order or pick up before I leave town.
"Any minute. Your father set it up. Soon as they get here we'll go out for lunch and get out of their way. Ok, mija?" And like magic my phone rings. Ronaldo works magic.
/
I think she wants to be at this dining hall just as much as I do. Even in college I didn't eat in a dining hall. I settle her in with a tray of things she's picked out on our walk back to the tables and booths. Typical Santana: spaghetti with meat sauce, french fries, and a few slices of roast beef (from a carving station! Can you believe it? A carving station in a dining hall?). Not a green thing on her plate.
On my return, I head directly to the salad bar. She's got an ungodly metabolism and must produce a gallon of sweat on an off-day. At just shy of fifty for the third year running, I can't afford to eat the crap she eats. And if I'm going to, that crap is going to be gourmet crap from the finest crappery in Manhattan. A dining hall can't screw up a salad though.
She's halfway through her spaghetti by the time I get back.
"Good?"
"Doesn't matter, really."
There have been so many responses like this over the past six months. Responses that make me think maybe we should take her to see someone. Responses that make me wonder if she still has hope. Responses that remind me of her tear-filled eyes hidden under bushy bangs the day she came home from sixth grade and saw her father and me sitting on the couch waiting so that we could tell her about her abuela.
"Well I'm sure those french fries will be good. Deep fried and oh-so-delicious." I give her a little wink when she looks up at me and she can't help but give me back a shy smile in return, even if it is just to appease me.
"You gonna talk to coach soon?"
"Yeah, this afternoon. She said to call her when we got in."
"Did you call her? I didn't see you on the phone." It's almost an accusation. I fight to keep that tone out of my voice, but it's de rigueur these days with her.
"Relax, mom. I texted her," she fights back.
"Don't tell your mother to relax, Santana." I can't help it. I really can't. "I've lived too long on this Earth to have my children tell me what I can and can't feel. Don't ever tell your mother to relax."
I can see her lip quiver, like she wants to whine Relaaaax again. Maybe she's finally learned because she just takes another stab at the spaghetti and whips it around her fork until there's a tiny spray of sauce on her t-shirt that she doesn't even notice. Dios, mi hija.
Across the cafeteria, I see a familiar face - Quinn Fabray. Quinn's known my Santana since her freshman year, when they started playing basketball together. From what I gather, Quinn's not terribly good at it. (My gathering technique mainly includes watching games. Since Quinn never plays, I can only assume she's not very good.) But she's been a good friend to Santana. Even visited in Lima a few times in the last six months. The only teammate to visit Lima in the last six months, actually.
"What's up, Santana? Hi, Mrs. Lopez." Such a pretty girl with those gorgeous hazel eyes.
Santana just jerks her head up in some sort of young person's nod that must mean "How are you" or something. Frankly, it looks ridiculous, but that is certainly not the fight I'm going to put up this afternoon.
"Quinn, it's lovely to see you. Come sit down, please. I'm going to excuse myself to the restroom for a moment."
"Oh no, I don't mean to intrude, really. I just wanted to come say hi." This girl has always been so polite. I wish she'd rub off on Santana in that way.
"I insist, Quinn. I'll be right back, just a little powder room break." I nearly leave my Michael Kors buried in the seam of the booth, god forbid. A girl can't freshen up without her purse.
I want to give them plenty of privacy, so I sit down in the bathroom and pull out my phone to see if Ronaldo has texted. I don't think Santana has ever said anything about Quinn being a...romantic interest. I think something like that would stick in my mind. She is the only girl that Santana has brought home through all of college, though. Maybe she's not ready to tell us yet or something.
She only came out to us in her sophomore year, a little over a year ago. It was one of those things that a parent like me dreads, but not because I'm a terrible homophobe or something. I suppose things are changing, but I didn't know anyone who was a gay or a lesbian until maybe ten years ago. I certainly didn't know any in college. Ronaldo reminded me once that I probably knew one or two but they just didn't tell me. Either way, I would imagine I didn't know any or they didn't tell me because it was a frightening time. It was practically illegal and in some states during that time it was definitely illegal. I suppose it surprised me and it made me worry for her. But for someone who both loves and fights fiercely, I only love my daughter more and will only fight harder for her.
I wouldn't mind Santana taking up with Quinn. She's a beautiful little girl. A little WASPy for my taste, but those are the types of kids Santana grew up around. No barrio in Lima, Ohio. Talented. Maybe not terribly talented in basketball, but good enough to sit on the bench and practice aside Santana. Definitely smart as a whip. When she visited in...what was it, May or June, sometime in there...she always had a book in hand. Les Miserables written en francais was pretty impressive. I had to show off my own French major skills for her. Take her down a few levels. But she kept up pretty well for the first ten minutes or so before she had to cut me off in English and praise me. A lady loves her compliments.
No, I wouldn't mind if Santana ended up with Quinn. Might do her some good. A mother's curiosity - that does no good. But I can't help but want to sneak back out to a corner of the dining hall and spy on their conversation. I've got myself all worked up thinking about Santana's secret affair with Quinn that I'm hoping isn't just a figment of my imagination the more I dwell on it.
Quinn has pulled up a chair to sit at the edge of the booth. Her back is to me, so I can't read her expression. Santana's fidgeting. Probably time for her to move around a little. Stretch out. We've been here...Dios...almost an hour. The movers said they'd be done in an hour and a half.
Patience was never one of my virtues. In my two minutes of spying I've managed to notice Quinn's back, Santana's fidgeting, and the dwindling time as I make my way back to the booth.
"So coach visited yet?"
I pull my phone from my pocket so that I can seem uninterested in their conversation. That should keep them going.
"No, this afternoon." Santana still has that ridiculous spaghetti stain on her shirt.
"What do you think you guys will talk about?"
"Guess the season. When she called last week we talked a little bit about strategies. You know she wants to use Chang as the replacement shooting guard? Unless Chang has learned to release her jump shot at the top, she's gonna get stuffed nine times outta ten."
"Eh, I think that extra playing time after...you know...I think that helped. She scored her season high at the end of the season. I think it was something like 25 points."
"Against who though?" Santana says, and I can hear that devious smirk behind her comment. She's her mother's daughter, too.
"Whatever." It sounds like Quinn's smiling, too. "What else you talk about?"
"Just other basketball stuff - my role when I'm back, you know."
"Your role?" Quinn asks with a hint of incredulousness in her voice. My ears perk up at this, too. Santana couldn't walk four months ago. Literally, couldn't walk.
"Yeah." The tone in Quinn's voice just rolls off her back. "Thinking I should be back by mid-year. Maybe not starting right away, but definitely by playoffs. Just up to the team to get us into the playoffs."
"I don't mean to be a downer, but is that do-able?" Good Quinn. Exactly my thoughts, too. I keep my eyes on the screen and remind myself to stay out of it.
"Well she mentioned this recovery plan that she's set up. She said over the phone before I left that she's lined up a doctor for me to work with. Some Dr. Shuester guy. Apparently he's at the hospital, not at SportsMed. I'd never heard of him either." And every-so-often, in moments like this, I'm reminded of why Ronaldo convinced me not to take Santana to see a therapist. The life is back in her movements and speech and hope has sprung and my baby is my baby. A little extra color even pops into her cheeks.
"Yeah, I've never heard of him. Sounds promising that he's at the hospital though. It's pretty state-of-the-art over there. I did my internship there last year." I want to look up and see if Quinn's got some special glint in her eye that's just for my Santana, but that would ruin everything. This never would have happened two or three years ago. I would never be allowed to sit and just listen in to my child's conversation with a friend or a potential lover.
"I remember, yeah. If it's not too much, think you might be able to drive me to some of the sessions?" Shut. It. Down. Did my daughter just ask for someone's help? I need to check my pulse. Or stand up to feel if the Earth is still spinning. My daughter, Santana Lopez, just asked for someone's help. Maybe she will survive this year in college. Now, I'm fighting even harder not to cry. They'd definitely stop talking if they saw me crying.
"Of course. I'm not too far away. I got that one bedroom just off of Birch Street that I was looking at last year."
"Yeah I remember you texted me some pictures of the place. I'm super jealous, Quinn. You're gonna have so much fun there." There's sadness just below the surface of her voice and I wonder if Quinn hears it yet.
"You are, too, S. You can come over any time. We can go out...and grab dinner on Main Street." I wonder if that pause has anything to do with dating? Maybe the rest of the sentence was supposed to be "on a date"?
"I just wish that I was living down there with you, too." That sounds a little fresh to me. Even Ronaldo and I didn't live together in college. I wonder if I need to have a talk with her about dating etiquette.
"Anytime you want to come over, just come over." I'm ready to see Santana reach across the table and grab Quinn's hand. Maybe stroke her fingers across her palm like Ronaldo used to do for me. (I guess he still does it sometimes, but there's nothing like the beginning of a relationship.) I'm too vested in this already.
"Yeah, ok, I will." She turns to me. Caught red-handed? I scrunch my eyebrows a little, making a more conscious effort to stare busily at my phone. "Mom, think the movers are done yet?"
"Probably," I return, glancing at my watch. Quinn pushes her chair back from the table to stand.
"Whenever you need a ride, S, just call me, ok? Better and faster than the bus, I promise." She winks at Santana and I want to look over at my baby and grab her hand and tell her to hold on to this one, but I know she'd snap at me and call me all sorts of names.
"Mrs. Lopez, it was nice seeing you." So polite.
"You too, Quinn. Have a good school year."
She smiles at us before she turns to go.
"Quinn's nice."
"You've said that before, mom," Santana just sort of breathes out as she pulls herself up from the table. We pause there for a moment as Santana fully stretches her leg and grabs the cane from its position against the wall.
"I know, I'm just saying." A reminder that a girl's nice is maybe all she needs. I don't know. She's never brought anyone home and I wouldn't mind having an extra mouth to feed now that the boys are out of the house. Lord knows they're not bringing anyone home anytime soon, or they better not.
"We're not dating, mom. She's just a friend."
"Well sometimes friends become more."
"And sometimes they don't. Drop it." That's that.
/
"This is the last of it Mrs. Lopez," he says. 'The last of it' is the shower chair. Santana didn't want to bring it. It had been our worst fight in the last two months. She wouldn't say why, but I knew. Her abuela had had a shower chair when she was at the home. It meant helplessness. It meant the unrelenting despair of the past six months. It meant bone crushing pain. But we wouldn't let her leave it at home. That would be too risky for a girl with her injury living by herself. Ronaldo was by my side for this one. It was one of those times that Dr. Lopez played the role of father for his little girl instead of physician. The chair went on the 'to pack' list and Santana didn't speak to us for a week.
We unpack most of the boxes silently. She gives me a few directions about what things to place where. I see her get around more than I've seen her move in the last week put together. I want to say something. I want to tell her to sit down and let me do it. Just this once, let her mother just do something for her. But I don't want to fight before I leave.
Her basketball posters and pictures hang above her bed. A stack of books is on the bookshelf that's been pulled between her bed and her desk. The mini-fridge is stocked with some type of orange sports drink that she claims has something called 'electrolytes.' And I'm sad because it's my time to go.
I'm not sad, I'm terrified.
I've seen her every day for the last six months. I've cared for her when she couldn't care for herself. I've listened to her cry late at night and I've run my fingers through her hair and massaged her scalp, just like when she was a baby. And I'm crying now because who will do that when I'm gone and she's all alone in this room? I don't want to leave her alone.
I'm more scared to leave her than I was when when we were doing this at eighteen and she was crying because she didn't know how to get to her first class. I'm more scared than I was when she was born. My first baby. All messy black hair and shrill screams that could only be soothed with "Duermete, Nino Lindo" and a little breast milk. Mi hermosa hija.
"Mom, I'll be ok." Her voice is soft like she's not sure and she's looking at me with those dark brown eyes that her father gave to all of our children.
"I know, baby," I say through the tears. But I don't know. I hate lying to her, but this feels like one of those times that I have to for both our sakes. I curse Ronaldo because he left me to do this all alone. Always work with Ronaldo. And now I have to make the three hour drive home alone through tears and prayers.
"I'll call you. Every night." I can't believe it. It actually makes me want to laugh. Santana has probably called home fewer than ten times in the last three years of college. 'Every night' feels like a gift from heaven.
"Every night nina?" Milk it.
She leans in to me and I never want to let go. "Every night," she whispers against my chest and I feel her breathe heavy and deep.
"I love you so much, Santana. You are so strong." Just like her father.
"Mom, don't." She says through a sob. Maybe too strong. Just like her father. I breathe her in and say a prayer.
