Author's Note: Largely inspired by 'House on Mango Street'. In my mind, this isn't set in modern day, but more towards 70s America. Despite this, somehow the grudge left over from the defeat of the Spanish Armada is what caused Nyotalia Spain to be so full of spite at Arthur (in my head). AU, so of course with their human selves that didn't really happen (to them)... Anyway, I'll stop confusing you all now. Hope you enjoy.
Told from the perspective of Alfred F. Jones (America). Father Arthur (England), step-mother Isabel (Nyotalia Spain), mentions of brother Matthew (Canada) and birth mother, Françoise (Nyotalia France).
She didn't speak English.
That was Alfred's first observation of the woman that would be his new mother. Her words were rough, laced with trills and sharp consonants that somehow came out sounding so smooth. She never stopped talking, not allowing for rebuff or even breath. To an 8-year-old who wasn't very fond of his father, it became great fun to watch the two adults bicker in the strange language that would later be labeled as Spanish; Arthur never had the upper hand. And they bickered often.
It made Alfred wonder just why his father had worked so hard to bring Isabel over to the United States, if they never could get along, if she refused to learn English, if he never allowed her to leave the house without him, if all they did was ignore each other.
If she was never happy.
But she was beautiful.
Her skin had color, her hair was dark, and her eyes were green. Her figure was slim, petite, such a small build for someone with so much fight. There was sunshine in her skin, shine in her hair, and light in her eyes. In all his 8-years of existence, Alfred wasn't certain if he had ever met someone so simply attractive. And on those rare, special occasions that a smile worked its way onto her features, Isabel went from beautiful to stunning.
For four months they settled into a routine. Arthur and Isabel awoke first, the former waking Alfred while the latter would start working on breakfast (his father was never allowed to cook), and then they'd sit together and share a very talkative breakfast that no one heard. It would continue with Arthur taking Alfred to school on his way to work, Isabel remaining trapped in her cage to do household chores, and then 8 hours later getting together to repeat breakfast's disaster with dinner's. Finally the day would end with everyone dispersing, Isabel cleaning up, and the rest of the evening doing their best to avoid one another.
Needless to say, it was on the fifth month when the recently-turned 9-year-old caught on as to why the Englishman and Spanish woman had married.
Isabel's belly had gotten larger, but no other limb had increased in size, making her look disproportionate. The routine continued, but now there was less Spanish cursing and more Spanish murmurs. When going about duties, a hand was rested just above the hip, pressing against her lower back to help ease the pain the new weight brought. There were more rests between chores, and perhaps even indecent remarks and demands. (Or at least that's what Arthur had said; Alfred was still very basic in his Spanish).
Being the last one awake had allowed Alfred to miss the morning sickness. Being English speaking had allowed him to miss the foreign complaints. Being ignorant and young had allowed him to write off weird displays and cravings as something just in the mood.
A pregnant belly was something that couldn't be passed off as easily.
As the pregnancy became more apparent, Alfred became more aware. Arthur and Isabel would leave on some afternoons for appointments with an OB-GYN, making sure the baby was developing alright. Exam after exam showed all signs were good, and on the sixth month they even were able to identify the gender; a little boy was going to be joining the family in three months' time.
Alfred was excited to become the 'bestest big brother ever' and even unhappy, mood-swinging Isabel would smile at his enthusiasm. Perhaps with this new attachment they could finally be a real family.
It was during the eighth month that Alfred's hopes were dashed.
The routine had changed a few weeks ago to 'every man for himself' as the lithe frame of Isabel could no longer bear the weight of child and constant pain of cramps, being forced from a cage to a kennel. With winter break finally upon him, the young American had been looking forward to some time with his family only to learn, much to his disappointment, that Arthur had to work for all the holiday except Christmas day itself. To make matters worse, Alfred was given the task of aiding his bed ridden step-mother (as he recently had come to call her), meaning less time having fun and more time working.
It was the third day of it when he walked in on her, out of bed, kneeling before it with her hands clasped and prayer beads dangling from them. The position was awkward, thanks to her acquired belly size, but she managed none-the-less and spoke hurriedly, the glow to her skin looking more sickly than pretty in the current dull lighting.
"…Dios te salve, María. Llena eres de gracia: El Señor es contigo…"
Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.
Remaining at the doorway, Alfred watched from afar as Isabel prayed the rosary. By this point in time he was well aware that his step-mother was a devout Catholic. Though unable to leave the house to attend mass, she instead made due with the radio and television broadcasts, keeping in touch with faith while living in the U.S. Being in a foreign country was no excuse to miss mass, one's soul must be saved regardless of location. Including the infant residing in her, a hand protectively wrapped around the baby bump.
"Por favor, protege a mi bebé. Conducir el demonio de su descendencia."
Please protect my baby. Drive the devil out of his seed.
Personally, Alfred thought Catholics were a little too strict. A frown tugged at his lips; he was worried his step-mother might be placing too much stress on her-self and ultimately harming the baby. Already he could see tears forming in the corner of her green, green eyes, her full lip trembling, a chocked sob desperately wanting to escape her throat by the way it quivered.
"¿Por qué tengo que emborracharme? ¿Por qué tengo que dar a luz al hijo de ese bastardo?"
And now it was Alfred whose lip shook, whose body wanted to just break down and cry. Though such little time had passed, his Spanish had improved. He wishes it hadn't. Quietly, he left the room, not bothering to look at her again until next morning.
It was during that moment he learned that they had not married out of love, but duty. Not for family, but God. The words still ring in his ear.
Why did I have to get drunk? Why do I have to give birth to that bastard's son?
He went back to calling her Isabel.
When the ninth month finally rolled around, it caused the entire household to be up in constant jitters. The stress level was so high that Alfred can't really remember much. There had been a panic when Isabel went in early labor, which ended up with him spending the weekend with his real mother, Françoise, and his brother, Matthew. Having not seen each other since their joint birthday party (poor Matthew's was always mistaken as his), the rest of the concerns were swept away into memories of brotherhood.
It wasn't until he came home a full five days later than intended that his mind remembered just why he had left in the first place.
Arthur had such a wide smile on his face that it reminded the 9-year-old of some mangy cat from one of his father's books that involved a rabbit. (While not one for fairytales like his father, Alfred had remembered the cat because it had the credentials of a ghost, and you could never trust them.) A hairy hand was placed on Isabel's shoulder as she sat in a ruby chair, clutching the baby close to her bosom. Her hair was no longer tangled and loose like it had been for the past month, but restored to its prim bun to keep small inquiring fists from taking bunches and tugging.
"Duérmete mi niño, duérmete mi amor, Duérmete pedazo de mi corazón…" She sang softly, rubbing the infant's back, never letting her love filled gaze leave him. "Que tengo que hacer, lavar tus pañales sentarme a coser…"
Arthur beckoned him over with a wave of his hand, the smile and happiness in his voice taking away from the chiding words; "Come here, Alfred, and meet your little brother, Michael."
Michael, the Archangel. A Catholic name, Hebrew, if not one more common in English. Alfred had a sneaking suspicion naming his new sibling 'who is like God?' was the deal-striker for placating Isabel into a non-Spanish name. (The Spanish woman was proud of her people, and openly denounced any of Arthur's.) It was later that the big brother would learn that Michael also had a middle name, Juan, the Spanish form of John, though easily this could be over-looked. (In Spain, there was no such thing as middle names.)
Knowing better than to test his luck by asking to hold little Michael, Alfred instead walked over and peered close. A smile of his own spread on pale cheeks as the sleeping bundle yawned, curling against his mother even further. Without thinking he hunched over and placed a kiss on his baby brother's cheek, managing to not awaken him before startling both his parents further by hugging their middles.
By the way she sang and he smiled, Alfred knew that this may have started off as duty, but it would end as love.
Isabel sang on.
"Ese niño quiere que lo duerma yo, dormir en mis brazos y en mi corazón."
Sleep, my child, sleep my love, sleep, piece of my heart, for I have things to do. To wash your nappies, sit down to sew... This child wants me to lull him, to sleep in my arms and on my heart.
Michael grew rather quickly, which seemed to startle his big brother. Alfred couldn't remember Matthew getting big so fast, but then again, he and Matthew were only one year apart. Now older than before, he had responsibilities in assisting his new mother with the toddler, which mainly consisted of watching and keeping him entertained as she went about household duties that had slacked during her time off.
With a wild imagination, Alfred kept his brother thoroughly distracted while having fun himself. Yet ever since Michael had learned to walk, ("Mi bebé, niño! Él está dando sus primeros pasos!" "That's a good lad, walk to your crazy moth – dear, hitting me won't solve anything.") to his first words ("Mama! Papa!" "Lo dice con su acento Inglés vil." "Don't worry, he spends more time around you, anyway, he's bound to pick up on it. At least let me have some insertion in my son's life."), he'd been addicted to the television and computer games. Though a fellow appreciator of modern technology, Alfred had too much energy cooped up to do that all day long.
When the pent up urge to move became too unbearable, Alfred would head outside and Isabel would focus on the chores in the room Michael was at, keeping him under her watchful gaze. She would speak to him, short, simple words, going slow in accent, expecting him to be paying attention. No child of hers was going to have English as their first language, after all.
And perhaps that is why it pained her to hear Michael's first sentence.
She should have known television wasn't a good baby-sitter. Or Alfred. Or the computer. Or the occasional stay at day care, or step-brother Matthew's. They were distractions, not teachers, but it was already too late to remind past decisions.
"I love you, Mama."
Tears had swelled in her eyes.
"Te quiero demasiado, mi hijo."
Alfred knew something broke in Isabel when all she got in response was Michael's look of confusion.
End Notes: I'm not very fond of how this one came out. Initially the idea 'child speaks father's language but not the mother's' was going to be placed into a Germany/Italy fic, since I see so many where their offspring live in Germany and speak German, but you see so little Italian present... but that would include a sad Italy, and I needed some spite to make it work, which, as we know, Italy just doesn't really have.
Thus England and Nyotalia Spain. I hope everything was clear in the fic, otherwise if you have any questions, feel free to ask them. (And sorry for including an OC, I tried to keep focus away from him...I know how annoying they can be.)
Thank you, RustyEmoSnail, for being my Spanish translator.
Spanish not translated in the fic;
Mi bebé, niño! Él está dando sus primeros pasos! - My baby boy! He's taking his first steps!
Lo dice con su acento Inglés vil. - He says it with your vile English accent.
Te quiero demasiado, mi hijo. - I love you too, my son.