American Chica_ Two Worlds, One Childhood - Marie Arana [130]
I laughed at that. It had never occurred to me that New York could be anything but enchanting just as it was. I loved its gray glass, its whirligig humanity, its surly ruckus. I’d been commuting to the city since before my twelfth birthday. At first I’d go from school to the train to the Hoboken tubes, to Thirty-third Street and then take a bus up Eighth Avenue. Eventually I took the bus all the way from New Jersey to Port Authority, which was the simpler way to go, and then I’d walk uptown, swinging my ballet bag over one shoulder. I had begged Mother to let me study ballet and voice in New York. It was not her idea. But when she saw how resourceful I was in calling up studios, inquiring about fees, scheduling auditions, she supported me. The first few times, she went with me, but when she saw that I was the one doing the navigating, she decided I could commute alone. New York may well have looked daunting to my grandmother, but it was a city that knew my feet. I said so. She threw me a wary glance.
We took a table in a bustling coffee shop. After the waiter had listened to our order, after I had translated all her desires, Abuelita turned to me and unfurled a napkin into her lap. One of her well-defined eyebrows was arched high, in the direction of the waiter. “Así que eres coqueta, Marisi,” she said. So, I see you’re a flirt.
I was nothing of the kind, I insisted. I had simply read food off a menu to the man.
“You smiled,” she said.
“Sí. I was polite. I smiled. That’s what people—”
“Young ladies do not smile at waiters,” she said with finality. “Someone should be teaching you that.”
There was no point arguing it with her. I let the subject go.
“Vicki is at university,” she started, placing her wrists on the table carefully. “Quién sabe where Georgie is. Your father is off on some project. And your mother and I, for some reason, can’t have a civil conversation. I want this time alone with you, Marisi,” she said. “I have something to say.” Her face churned briefly, then sank with gravity. She looked up, swallowing me with her eyes.
“This has nothing to do with how I feel about your mother,” she began, uttering words I cannot forget. “It has nothing to do with how she feels about me. It has little to do with our discomforts, one way or the other. It has everything to do with love.” She stopped there, allowing the waiter to plink plates on the table, defying me to smile my gratitude, holding me with her gaze.
“Love,” she said it again, once he was gone. El amor. “You know by now, mi’jita, how different some countries can be. The ways we live, the things we do, what we believe. But there’s one thing that stays the same. That one thing, Marisi, is love.”
I wagged my head like a perfect little jackass, thinking she was referring to her fondness for me, ready to tell her that I loved her, too. “I’m speaking, of course,” she said, “about your mother and father.
“How long,” she asked, “has it been since you’ve seen him, Marisi?” It had been months since I’d seen Papi; I didn’t know how many. “That is precisely what I mean,” she said. “Not because he doesn’t love you, you know. This is not between you and him. I’m talking about something else.”
She paused, set down her fork, and continued. “Please don’t say to me that your mother is not with your father because that is how married people in this country behave. Even I know a few things about the yanquis. If they’re in love, they’re together. They make it a point to be together. Punto. That is all. For years I’ve tried to understand this about your mother, until I realized there was nothing to understand. Love does not slice differently depending on nationality. It’s always one and the same.”
I had nothing to say. I chewed on my toast, wondering where this conversation would go. She launched ahead without any encouragement from me. “We have something in common, your mother and I. When I married your grandfather, I