"Make your family proud," said Mirabel, hand on the door knob of her room. The sun through the curtains reflected on the wall, shifting in the breeze like the ebb of a wave. She could hear the family awakening around her- bumps in each room, muted conversation in the halls. She was due at breakfast, then the village, then chores, then home again.
Her hand rested on the door, refusing to move. Dread twisted in her chest, indiscriminately dimming the commonplace joy of the morning. It was this moment in her daily routine that decided if she'd be working or finding a place to cry.
"Make your family proud," said Mirabel again. This time she wrenched the door open.
Abuela's old door was across from hers in the courtyard- the first thing Mirabel saw every morning. No one had decided what to do with her room yet, even months on.
She floated through Calentado breakfast. Not a bad showing today. Julieta, Isabela, most of Pepa's side except Camilo and Dolores. Varying excuses for each empty chair at meals. Mirabel didn't have it in her to keep track and find reasons they should come. Especially since she was guilty of it too, sometimes. She downed a cup of coffee in one sip, wincing as she drained it and got a mouth full of grounds.
Mirabel saluted a farewell to her family without turning her head. She'd get emotional at even trivial goodbyes, and she had a lot of work to do. She pulled a sheet of parchment paper out of her mochila- missing the times when she used to keep sketchbooks and embroidery projects in there instead. These days it was lists of names and tasks.
"Okay, Madam Guzman and Señor Perez," Mirabel declared, rummaging within herself for crumbs of enthusiasm. She brought the paper up to her nose. Abuela's stationary still smelled like rose and sandalwood. Mirabel had the box of it in her room.
Abuela had given Mirabel more responsibilities in the past years. In retrospect, trying to prepare Mirabel for this time when she was gone. She had devised the paper for Mirabel- a to-do list of various responsibilities, people to speak to, things to not forget. Abuela would mark it up at the end of the day and rewrite it with notes for the day after. Mirabel hadn't felt herself up to Abuela's comprehensive task managing before- preferred to act moment by moment. And she had no idea how Abuela did it without the paper.
But she kept it up. It was as if the vengeful ghost of Abuela would appear and chastise her if she didn't.
Mirabel sometimes thought she saw her- Abuela. The places she should be, in the corner of her eye. Sitting in her favorite chair, stooping to light a candle in front of an icon at church, sipping coffee with a group of other abuelitas. She wondered if it would be worse if it never went away, or disappeared forever. Abuela had been kind, but never nice.
Mirabel strode off towards the village. She wished she could let this particular decades old, never ending feud fade into memory. But Abuela didn't want to forget anything.
One conversation later, she left with a promise to reconvene yet again. Pointless, thought Mirabel. And then she felt incredibly guilty. Mirabel set off to the next item on her list.
Señoras Rodriguez and Garcia, the east side of the village.
She rounded the last corner and the two older women were waiting for her at the top of the street. Both of them had shawls wrapped tightly around their shoulders, and struck Mirabel as two owls perched together on a branch.
Then after it was the next conversation- by the levy at the river. She was already so tired.
And the next- Casa Enriquez. The big spanish-style house with the cobblestone path. How could she already be so tired?
Mirabel couldn't get through the list as quickly as Abuela. People liked to muse and chat, go back and forth on each prospective solution. Mirabel spared a look at the sun. Two o'clock, three o'clock perhaps.
And then, finally, she was done. Mirabel gratefully folded the parchment paper and put it back in her bag. There was still relief in crossing off everything Abuela would have wanted her to do, and having her day back to herself.
She clipped through the village streets- stopping only to wave at the children and pets. The first of the rains had washed the clouds and mists from around the mountains surrounding the village. The air was so clear that it felt like she could see individual palms and flower bushes on their ridges. She began to whistle as she walked- and then awareness hit her all at once like being doused with a wave of ice water.
Abuela's verse of "the Family Madrigal."
Still wasn't sure if she should rewrite it, so she just stopped whistling. She lowered her gaze to the ground, watching step by step carry her over the cobbles at the center of the village.
The worst part of it wasn't just the loss of Abuela herself, and Mirabel felt horrible guilt whenever she remembered it. It was the song- each of the brilliant stars. She imagined she could see them flickering out and taking their verse with them, voices leaving the chorus.
There was a math she could do- taking Abuela's age and those of her loved ones and unearth tragedy after tragedy hinging on that single point. Birthdays where her favorite people weren't singing, dances she'd never dance again, milestones on the Easter procession with people dropping off every time. She tried not to think about it, even as it clawed into the corners of her ordinary life and superimposed itself over every happy memory.
"Mirabel?"
At the sound of her own name, she blinked- taking in her surroundings for the first time in a while. The danger of letting herself do the math. She was in the middle of the village, a street framed on both ends by stucco facades and multicolored window trim.
Señor Rendon speaking. No doubt some questions about the irrigation line his family were putting in. The man began his question and of course it was. So much of the executive work Abuela did was linking people to each other over and over again.
"Ask Señor Guzman-" Mirabel said when he had finished speaking, though she knew the answer almost immediately. She explained it again. The man thanked her and ambled off.
Now, what was she doing? Mirabel realized she had a basket- she had picked up a delivery of pan dulce to Casita. Right, the last thing on the list. Mirabel re-oriented her path towards her home and began walking again.
The pan dulce from the bakery was never as good as Julieta's, but she had so much more to do lately- just like Mirabel. The last time she had made any non-healing, just for fun sweets was before Abuela's death. Mirabel knew she was being dramatic, but she would have savored them more if she knew at the time.
"Hey! Hey, wait!"
Mirabel blinked. She was already at the edge of the lawn dividing the Casa Madrigal from the village. One of the young ones- Cecilia. She kept thinking of them as little children even though they had to be at least twelve.
"Yes?" said Mirabel, trying to give her full attention.
"I-" Cecilia began, and then cut herself off. "Juancho, Alejandra, and I wanted to know if we could still climb the tree in the back of Casita?"
"Yes, why not?" Of course they could climb the tree. Cecilia flushed.
"It's just nobody's climbed it in a bit, and I thought there might be a reason. Never mind!"
The girl booked it towards the village, orange skirts flaring out behind her.
Oh well. Cecilia did have a point that the house was awfully… still.
There used to always be projects undertaken by Abuela or requested by the people of the village. But the Casa Madrigal was given a respectful berth. No signs of life save flowers left at the doorstep by the children of the village. Would it ever be like before?
Mirabel tightened her grip on the basket she was holding, until it almost seemed like it would break. Enough of that.
She trotted by her father and Tio Felix, trapped in endless deliberation in the courtyard of Casita. They were struggling to decide what to do next for Casita because it used to be Abuela who knew.
Mirabel's family was falling apart again, but she couldn't bring herself to do anything about it. Except, perhaps, by keeping her own worries from bleeding out to hurt them. The shadow of Abuela's mistakes. She glanced behind her to the window of Abuela's room- no ghost this time.
Abuela would be so disappointed if she were here. After all, she had suffered the loss of Pedro and then built the whole village from the ground, raising three magical children by herself.
Days passed slowly, and yet sometimes a week had gone by and she couldn't remember it clearly.
And for some reason, Bruno was always around.
"Sorry, pass me a clip?"
Mirabel blinked. They must be… hanging laundry to dry. Bruno's voice was muffled as he clamped his chin to his chest, trying to keep a sheet from touching the grass and staining.
Mirabel suppressed a smile at the position he had contorted himself into and pushed the basket of clips down along the line. Just a few inches to his hand. Bruno muttered to himself as he re-arranged the offending sheet, eyes crossed as he awkwardly aligned the corners.
Bruno wasn't particularly subtle about checking in on her, though he was never so obvious as the first time. Instead he appeared at her elbow like an afternoon shadow every few days and would stammer out a hastily reasoned excuse for being there if she so much as raised an eyebrow. Mirabel tried not to. If she wasn't so miserable it would have been sweet.
Before this, Mirabel would have drunk in the attention. Bruno was still something of an uncommon figure to the family. Before Abuela died, he had reliably showed up to meals and important occasions, gladly explained the latest telenovelas to those who would listen. But he also spent plenty of time alone in his room, or wherever it was he got to.
Monopolizing him now was a treat. She could never say it aloud, but she privately considered Bruno her person. She had brought him back to the family, back to life in the Encanto. She accepted responsibility for anything that happened to him, and absorbed the reflected glow of his happiness. She tried to keep her own worries from spilling over to him.
Mirabel tugged the edge of the ruana she was pinning the line to check it was fastened, and then ducked down to help Bruno with the sheet.
"Two person job," Mirabel told him, hoping it didn't come out too terse. The spring of nicety and humor that used to bubble up from her had gone dry.
"I was optimistic until about half way through…" Bruno's voice was filled with apology. He finally managed to tack his corner in place and the sheet bowed out in the wind between the two.
Mirabel sensed that he was being present in the way he could. Ready with a wry observation, an awkward distraction, an inexpert hand to lend to her chores. So was everyone in the family, probably- Mirabel with her list of Abuela's busy work.
But all the light talk, even from Bruno, seemed like a farce. The absolute last thing they should be doing on a ship that was rapidly sinking. They were complacent! They had so little time to say everything they needed to.
Their birthdays were coming up- Julieta, Pepa and Bruno. The math. If Bruno only let her hug him under duress on each birthday, she could write down a plausible number for how many times she would for the rest of her life. It wouldn't be enough, she thought, and she felt selfish for doing so.
She must have sighed aloud. Bruno turned to face her- the two were now seated on the bridge at the edge of the village, looking out over the river now that the laundry was hung. The wind stole into his curls as he evaluated her expression. She loved the guilelessness of the action on him, the small wrinkle between his eyebrows and tilt of his head. Still sad, Bruno. Just like the last time you checked.
She made poor company.
Bruno produced a rat from his ruana and began narrating a lively anecdote from a telenovela, clearly to cheer her. She didn't want to be cheered. But everyone had their ways of coping, and Bruno was going to bring about a conversational atmosphere if it killed them both. Mirabel wondered what he'd do if she broke down into the sobbing clinging mess that was always latent within her. She wondered how long she could pretend.
Bruno held out the rat in front of him as a stand-in for the prima donna of the story - Helena, she believed, white with black spots and small for an adult rat. Mirabel held out her hand, and Bruno flinched more than the rat she was attempting to pet. She tactically switched to a single index finger. Helena sniffed it to make sure Mirabel wasn't hiding any treats. None found, the rat turned around to climb up Bruno's sleeve.
Mirabel didn't blame him for the invisible circle he drew around himself, a barrier he had demarcated at some point which solidified into a personal taboo. Do not touch. But Mirabel loved the way Bruno was with his rats too- entirely at ease as they clawed up his ruana, eyes glowing when he put his hand out and they clambered on to be held. The open affection gentled Bruno's face, vanishing lines of care and smoothing out the defensive way he held his face. Maybe Mirabel was a bit jealous.
Bruno was able to dote on his rats, and accept that they loved him back without any judgment. With humans, it had to be more complicated. He was wary of conditions- from Abuela, the rest of his family. Perhaps, the greater the sentiment, the more likely Bruno would be unequal to it. So Mirabel hid what she felt.
She stood abruptly, sending Helena skittering into Bruno's ruana.
"Time to go?" Bruno leapt to his feet, confused.
"Probably going to rain again," she shrugged.
Mirabel was going to miss him most of all, and he didn't even know.