I'm on a cold table, practically naked. I'm under a cold sheet. My butt's asleep. The paper crinkles when I wiggle. It rips. Now my naked butt is right up against cold, hard plastic. Where other naked butts have been. Chévere.
"I'm so excited to see her!" Teri's feet salsa the floor though she's sittin' down. She wrangles her cell out of her olive-green Old Navy schoolbag. The one that was her brother's before her. "You think they'll let me take a picture of the picture?" She positions the phone in front of me. She's been documenting everything. Fine by me. Means I don't got to do it. But Ter can get a little agitada. Last week, I said hell no to some carajo idea to make a cast of my belly. Like, who would ever want that?
"Baby Angela!" I poke my stomach and make a face for the video. "This is yo mama talkin'." I lower my voice and hum Darth Vader's theme.
Heavenly snorts. She does that sometimes when she laughs. Once, we was all at McD's during that Monopoly game they have, the one where, if you win, you get tickets to the World Series or somethin'. Teri peeled her sticker off real fast—she can never wait—and leaned over, tellin' Yaz to hurry up and peel hers. She was even more excited 'cause the Yankees was in the playoffs. Yaz turns, all calm, like she the queen of Santo Domingo, and says, "What? You wanna know if we gonna be sittin' next to each other?" Heavenly snorted so big, leche came out her nose. We all got sprayed. We was so loud, hooting and slapping the table, they kicked us out. I had McFlurry in my hair for three days. It was on my coat all winter. All 'cause my fancy fashionista friend snorts.
Yaz goes to the machine next to me. It's part brown, part white. Like medio pollo—coffee with milk. It looks like some fancy vacuum cleaner, those ones with all the parts hanging off the sides so rich people can clean their curtains without getting the dog hair from the floor on them. Only this one's made for a giant. Bigger than those Smart cars we always make fun of. Yaz's palms are up, fingers counting one another like she's deciding which nail polish to choose. "?Anjá!" she says. "This thing is huge! Was it this big at your other appointment?"
"I don't think you're supposed to touch that." Teri glances at the door. She's gumming her lips. Like she's tryin' to spread gobs of old lipstick smooth again. She does that when she gets nervous. Which is probably half the day. But not usually when she's with me.
"Doctors always run late. We waited for like half an hour for the last one. Won't hurt for me to take un chinchin of a peekypeek." Yaz picks up something that looks like a wand and jabs the air with it like it's a sword. She steps over the cord so it's between her legs and holds the wand up in front of her crotch. She thrusts like she's onstage with Beyoncé. "?Qué arrecho!"
"Yaz!" Teri's face goes all red. She and Yaz be opposites when it comes to the deed. Not that Yaz is an avión or anything. She just talks like that. Fact is, she only been with one guy more than I have. But that's three more than Ter, who's still making up her mind about the whole thing. Like I said, she be the nervous one.
"Why won't this TV work?" Heavenly, the only one of us tall enough to reach, presses buttons on a monitor hung from the ceiling. Her black skirt is some fake snakeskin. It matches her heeled ankle boots and lace knee-highs. Up top, she's got an off-the-shoulder cable-knit sweater the color of custard caramel. Jo-jo supports Hev's fashion habit. It's nice having an older man with a job to pay for stuff. Especially when Hev shares so much. Hev jabs the TV again. "What's the point in having it here if we can't watch our shows?" Heavenly's got more experience in the man department than all us combined. Not surprising given the Nicki Minaj butt that sits atop those long legs. But while Heavenly shares her stuff, she don't share much of what goes on in her boys' beds. "I'm a doer, not a talker," she says. It ticks Yaz off. Yaz and me, we made a promise when we was twelve to tell each other everything. She was the one crammed in the stall with me when I found out baby Angela existed. We jumped up and down, hugging and screaming 'til the coffee-shop guy banged on the bathroom door. I was gonna trash the place. Stuff the two toilets with paper and squirt soap all over the floor. To get him back for ruining my moment. But Yaz pulled me out by the hand saying we didn't have time 'cause we had to celebrate. It was one of those crazy May days where the sun got confused into thinking it was August. We skipped school and sat on a rock by the Hudson, sucking on pipas, chucking the shells at pigeons and making lists of what we was gonna do different from our parents.
"Now show me the belly!" Yaz is pointing the vaina at me. She does a hip circle like she's JLo this time. At least the plastic stick's not near her crotch no more.
"Here." Teri, not looking at Yaz, folds the sheet down from my stomach. She sits back on the chair, wedges her hands under her legs.
Yaz puts the tip of the vaina on my belly button.
We all hear the knock at the same time the door opens.
Teri lets out a yip. Her phone slips off her lap, clatters to the floor.
"It helps if you turn it on first." A Prince Royce face under blond hair and above a white coat smiles at us like we're little-kid cute.
"Qué papi chulo," Heavenly mutters as Doc Hottie pulls the curtain in front of the doorway. Co?o, she's got that right. He's even hotter than Heavenly's Jo-jo.
Doc Hottie steps around my feet. "Here, let me help you with that." He takes the wand from Yaz, puts it back on the machine. He extends his hand to me. "It's nice to meet you, Ms. Pujols. I'm Dr. Love. I'm one of the doctors who'll be performing your fetal echocardiogram today." He covers my belly with the sheet again. "We're not quite ready yet. I don't want you to get cold."
Huh. Too late for that. I want to complain about the too-cold table and the too-cold sheets, but I like him. And it's not just that he's hot. Bonus! Teddy-bear blond hair, eyes gold like a caffeine-free Coke can with a little bit of Pepsi blue, stubble so I know he doesn't take himself too seriously, glasses so I know he takes this seriously. It's that he called me "Ms." and introduced himself. A lot of peeps think I'm difficult. I'm not. Not really. You want me to show respect? You got to do me one first.
Teri and Yaz stare at Doc like he's a fudge sundae on Friday night. They're following some crazy diet where they only eat sugar on the weekend. Just makes them eat more of it, but they don't listen to me. Heavenly has let off with the TV. Her eyes track Doc as she takes a seat and crosses her legs, straightening her back to show off what she's got that I don't. Comes from having a black mama. My dumbass mama was white. Wasn't 'til I got pregs that anything real showed up on top. Co?o, was Abuela relieved. Bertie was crackin' juiced, even though he'd told me before he didn't care they was so small. Teri and Yaz, their mamas are morenitas, so they filled out just fine.
"Hi there, I'm Dr. Love." He's offering his hand to Yaz. She reaches for it like it's her mama's necklace. The one her papi gave her before he split.
"I'm Yazmeen." She gulps but her grin's still there. "I'm Mari's cousin."
We ain't no cousins. If we was related, we'd be sisters. Yaz is just scared he's gonna throw her out. Teri read something about how only family members should be coming to these appointments.
"My name's Teri." Teri's voice is like a three-year-old scared the doctor's gonna give her a shot. Her fingers barely touch Doc's before she pulls them back. "I'm her cousin, too." Don't know why she's sounding like that. She knows I'd never let those hospital guards lay a hand on her. Or Yaz. Or Heavenly. You want me, you gotta take my girls, too. Don't matter that I'm pregs. My fist still knows how to swing. When Bertie and me first met, he called me la galla, after those fighting cocks back in the DR. Said if he could bet on me, he would, 'cause I always win. I didn't mind the nickname. I always thought it was stupid they only ever let the boy birds fight. That's Dominicans for you. Bertie don't call me that no more. But sometimes, when we in bed, I give him a few cluck-clucks. It always sets him off laughing.
Heavenly's standing again, hands smoothing down her skirt. "Cousin Heavenly." She says her name like it's something you're not supposed to think about in church. Her grip on Doc's hand is solid. Like she's not planning on letting go.
"Pleased to meet you all." Doc doesn't look surprised I have so many cousins. Or that none of them look like me. He flips a switch on the machine. It's like he reached right into me and flipped my squirming stomach over. I grip the small mound of my belly. I squeal and kick my toes. Yaz squeals back. She grabs a piece of Doublemint from her bag and scurries to the other side of the bed so she can see better. She grabs one of my hands and one of Teri's. Pretty soon, we're all giggling. Even Heavenly. It's like we all kids again, squeezed into one of them cages on the Wonder Wheel in Coney Island, waitin' for it to lift off and show us the beach, the ocean, the sky.
Doc Hottie is working the keyboard. He hasn't let off smiling. "You're all excited, I see." Co?o. He even has Prince Royce's dimples.
There's another knock and Doc looks up. "Is it all right if another fellow—another doctor—joins me?"
I shrug. "Sure." The more docs want to look at my baby, the better, far as I'm concerned.
Yaz whispers behind my hair, "Maybe this médico es para mi." She's grinning.
Heavenly aims a glare dead at her. "Then I call him." She points toward Doc Hottie, my doctor, with her chin.
I slap her wrist off my table, bring my thumb to my chest. No way, he's mine, I say with my stare.
"Fine." She sits back, flicks her hands up. Her silver rings catch the light. "You're right. Guess I need to get knocked up first." She scrolls her phone, looking bored again.
A woman doc enters. She's blond, too, but not a real blond like Doc Hottie. She goes to stand behind him. She doesn't even look at us.
"Hey, she's a woman." Teri's chewing her lip again, looking all confused. "You said it was a fellow."
"By 'fellow,' I mean a doctor-in-training, a pediatrician studying to be a cardiologist." Dr. Love finishes typing. He turns to the TV hanging behind him. He finds some hidden button and powers it up. My name and today's date show along the top of the screen. "Ladies, this is Dr. Goldstein. Dr. Goldstein, Ms. Pujols and her cousins."
Goldie head-bobs us then goes back to reading the sheet in her hands. "This is the HLHS rule out?" she asks.
I jut out my jaw. I don't know what she said. I know it was about me. About the baby. Weren't many rules in my house growing up, but not speaking Spanish in front of English speakers was one of them. It just be rude. Even my abuela, who never went to high school, knows that.
Doc Hottie doesn't answer the other doc. It almost looks like he's making a point of not answering her. He takes a seat in front of the machine. He adjusts his chair and the height of the table I'm on. He asks permission to lower the sheet and apologizes for the temperature of the jelly he squirts onto my skin.
Goldie frowns at my belly. "Are we sure she's twenty-one weeks? She doesn't look that far along." I look at Doc Hottie's face. Bertie's mama said the same thing. That I'm too skinny. She calls me canillas—"chicken legs"—or "chata"—flat butt. I hate that woman. She's such a cacata. She didn't even believe us that I was pregnant 'til I peed on a stick in her own bathroom.
Teri pats my leg. Heavenly's nose is still in her phone, but her hand is warming the top of my foot. Yaz squeezes my hand even harder. My girls, they got my back.
"The OB scan confirmed it. She's just thin, Miriam," Doc Hottie says.
I pluck at the edge of the sheet. "Yeah, Abuela—my grandma—she keeps trying to feed me more. I eat a lot, I swear." Abuela cooks me breakfasts of huevos fritos and tocino, salchicha, fruit, and always pan with mantequilla. I don't know what it is with Abuela and bread, but ever since I told her about the baby, she pushes it on me like a dealer. No matter that she hadn't made a meal for me since I started to use deodorant. "I just don't gain." I shrug again.
"You lucky," Yaz says, squeezing my bony hip. "It's 'cause you got that flaquita, blanquita mama."
Yeah, I'm lucky all right. I won the parent lottery. My mama ditched me with Abuela when I was eight. Said it was because of a new job. More like a new boyfriend. Weekly visits turned to monthly. Monthly turned to Christmas. Christmas came, I got a card. Haven't seen her white ass for like five years. At least there's mi papi. I know where he's at. Sing Sing. I write him. Every month. Sometimes he writes me back. I know he loves me. He wouldn't have done what my mama did if he had a choice about it.
I look at my belly. It is little. But it's round. Inside it a baby is growing. Mi bebé. And I can't wait for her to come out.
I pinch Yaz back. She pretends what I did hurt, but then she's all smiles and taking my hand again. She's just trying to make me feel better. It's not like I don't know what men in the Heights are attracted to. It's sure not my skinny booty. Bertie's the exception.
"Tch-tch!!" Heavenly swats at Yaz. "Sit back, mami. I can't see."
The wand sinks into the jelly on my skin. It's different than the one Yaz was playing with. Wider. And not as long. I hold my breath. Yaz and Teri do, too. On the TV, black-and-white speckles grow big and then small. It's quiet. Too quiet.
"I can't hear nothing. How come I can't hear it?" Yaz says real loud.
Doc Hottie adjusts a button. A sound fills the room.
Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.
It's the most beautiful sound I ever heard.
Yaz claps and shrieks. Teri laughs and holds up the phone. Heavenly smiles real big. So big, I see her gold cap, the one she got in DR and is always trying to hide.
"Sorry, we usually keep the volume turned down," Doc Hottie says.
"Why? Why would you do that?" I ask. "Us mamas want to hear our babies."
"Us aunties, too!" crows Yaz.
Doc Hottie nods. He's focused on the screen. Goldie is, too.
"I bet she'll have your eyes, Mar. Big and brown." Yaz grins at me.
"Nuh uh. I want her to have Bertie's eyes. Gray-green." My baby is going to be U-NIQUE. Green eyes are the rarest. So she's going to have those.
"As long as she don't get Bertie's ears." Heavenly smirks. Girl's got a point. Bertie's got big ears.
"Do you know the sex yet?" Doc Hottie's looking back at me.
My face goes warm. Is he stupid or something? The man is looking at a baby inside of me. How does he think it got in there?
He tilts his head since I'm not answering. His gold-blond hair brushes his cheek. Most guys I know have their hair real short. Only way to tame the kink. If Doc lost the glasses, it'd be like he's going for some manso rock-star look. It works for him. Even with the glasses.
"Do you want to know if it is a boy or a girl?" he asks. And suddenly he's not a rock star. He's something more. It's like a hot, kindly lion is staring at me.
Oh. My face goes even warmer. I'm not usually such an idiot. "It's a girl," I say.
"Did Dr. Millar tell you that?" That's my real baby doctor. She's this super nice lady with frizzy hair who's always late. I pegged her around Abuela's age, though the nurses were sayin' she just came back from having her third baby. Reminded me of the Duane Reade bags Toto lugs into the apartment, his contribution to their living arrangement. Even doubled-bagged, I can always see the tampon boxes, pressed up against the toilet paper and Clorox. Those tampons ain't for me no more. The thought of the two of them getting pregs makes me feel like when Teri told us about her brother going to emergency for an ear pain. The doctors found a cucaracha in his ear. Alive. Gross.
The doc's still looking at me. I almost forgot he asked a question.
"Nah," I say. "Doc Millar didn't tell me either way. I just know she's a she."
Something takes shape on the TV. It kicks up bubbles of water, but I don't feel nothing. Is that ... a leg?! Two legs? But there's something else.
"Doc, is that what I think it is?"
"What do you think it is?" He smiles at me. All rock-star hair and nerd glasses.
Heavenly sits forward, frowning at the image. "Does that baby have three legs?"
"Two legs," Doc Hottie says. "And a boy part."
What?!
"A boy part?" I repeat. "You mean that huge thing in between the two long things is a PENIS?!"
Doc Hottie blushes. Doctors aren't supposed to blush. My face goes all warm. Again.
"Oooh, Mari's em-BAR-rassed!" Yaz's silvered fingernails are tripping up my arm. Co?o, this fuckin' white skin of mine. I can barely ever hide what I'm thinking. "And she's embarazada!" Yaz sweeps her hands from below her boobs out and around to her thighs, ballooning an invisible stomach. She roars a laugh.
I elbow Yaz hard. In the boob.
"Ow!" But she's grinning.
"Sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Pujols. But you are having a boy."
"Ay, chichí! A boy! ?Un se?orito!" Yaz shouts. She's pounding the bed. Heavenly lifts her swan-neck arms and gives a whoop-whoop. She takes a pic with her cell and starts texting. Teri's blinking, smiling her cheek-hurting smile.
I stare at the screen. At the penis on the screen. This kid is smart. It's like he knows we're watching. He's showing it off.
My chest swells. A boy. A little man. My arms encircle my belly, sticky gel sliding all over them. Teri takes my fingers, grips them 'til they're numb. There's gel all over her now, too. We're both laughing. I thought I wanted a girl. I wanted someone just like me. Girls love their mamas more than boys do. But boys love their mamas and take care of them. This is better. This is so much better.
A knock and the door opens. A short lady who looks like she loves flan a little too much introduces herself as Dr. Stevenson. She's got floppy gray hair, like one of those dogs whose eyes you can't see. A pair of half glasses pinch her nose. They're I'm-trying-to-be-cool purple even though she's so not. She says she's the attending, whatever that means. Another doc attending to me, I guess. Pudgy Purple goes and stands behind Doc Hottie. She's giving him directions. Goldie moves back. She's looking at the same screen we are. The one hanging from the ceiling. Her face is tilted up, catching the little bit of light in the dark room. That's how I know something is wrong.
Yaz leans over my stomach, gives a peace sign as Teri snaps a pic. Heavenly is reading out boy names from some celebrity baby name list on her phone. Yaz says something about Bertie's ears being cute on a boy. But I'm looking at Goldie.
There is no penis on the screen. It's the heart. I know because it's moving. It's beating. Colors, blue and red, rush through it. Goldie is frowning. She shakes her head, like the screen's disappointed her. What's wrong? Is it the colors? Are they off? I knew we were coming to see heart doctors. But Dr. Millar said this was only a precaution because she couldn't see everything she wanted to. She said the baby was in a difficult position. Everything's going to be fine. Everything has to be fine.
Yaz, Heavenly, and Teri are quiet. They're looking at me. Watching me watch Goldie. Waiting.
Pudgy Purple is murmuring. Telling Doc Hottie to show her this, show her that. Isn't Doc Hottie my doctor? Why is Pudgy Purple even here? Everything was fine 'til she arrived.
Doc takes the wand off me. He smiles, but it's not a real smile. It's a smile Prince Royce would give a fan who's asked for an autograph. He wants to sign it. But he doesn't have a pen. Or he's rushing to another show. Either way, it's not the fan's fault. Either way, it's a pity smile. I should know. I get them all the time.
"Why don't you get dressed, Miss Pujols? You and your friends can join us in the other room." Pudgy Purple is talking. I can't get anything from her face. It's like we're those men Toto watches on TV late at night, the ones who play poker for days without stopping to shower or sleep.
Three white coats file out. The curtain shrieks as Goldie pulls it behind her. The door thuds shut.
"?Qué fue eso?" Yaz exclaims, hands on hips. She looks as if one of the men at the bodega insulted her culo. She rips off a piece of paper from under me and pushes her gum into it with her tongue. She crushes it in her fist and flings it to the trash. Her sass is her shield. Heavenly's cell is up by her face again. Her nails click, click, click on the screen. Teri's fingers worm together. She's looking at the machine, like she's just now seeing it resembles a giant vacuum.
"You didn't get a picture," Teri says. "They didn't ask if you wanted a picture."
I slide off the table. I walk into the bathroom, leaving the sheet behind. I could care less if they see my skinny, white, naked ass.
"Wait." Teri scratches in her bag. A tissue, a tampon, and three pennies fall out. "Here." She thrusts a wrinkled photo at me. It's black. But a tiny, bright shape, like a bean, is in the center. Baby Angela, June 30, ten weeks.
She kept it. From all those months ago. Of course she did.
My heart is the drum of feet on our rickety fire escape. I tell myself I could be wrong. About Goldie's face. About Doc's smile. Sometimes it's hard to believe the things you say to keep yourself together.
I shake my head at Teri. My neck feels hot. It's the one place the sun always tries to burn me. "You think I want a picture of my son with a girl's name on it?" I flick it away, giving her my fierce, don't-mess-with-me grin. My lip itches like crazy, but I won't touch it. I show them my bare ass and shut myself in the bathroom.
"The fetus has a birth defect called hypoplastic left heart syndrome. Half of the heart is missing."
Those are the last words I hear. I pretend to listen. I'm good at that. But what more do they need to say? How can a baby live like that? With half a heart?
We're at a huge table. The three white coats and the four of us. They asked if the baby's father could come, but I shook my head at them. I'm not calling Bertie for this. He'd understand even less than me.
Pudgy Purple is doing most of the talking. Teri is sniffling in the corner, that tissue that fell on the exam-room floor now wadded in her hand. Heavenly keeps tapping at her phone. Like she's texting. Goldie keeps giving her ice-pick looks. But Heavenly's taking notes. That's what she does when it gets all coco-loco. She gets all cool and businesslike. Like she's one of the girls working in Jo-jo's office. Yaz is holding my hand under the table. She has her listening face on, too. When she squeezes my fingers, sound gushes through the pretend cotton over my ears. Words I know like risk and death. Words I don't know like catheterization and transplant and neurodevelopmental deficits. I put more pretend cotton over my ears.
Pudgy Purple says something that makes Teri bawl. Yaz is breathing fast, sideways looking at me. Her grip is so tight I can't feel my fingers.
"We'll give you a few moments to think about everything." Pudgy Purple stands, comes to my side of the table. Her hand touches my shoulder. It must weigh no more than a feather, 'cause I can't feel it.
"Are you sure there isn't anyone else you would like to call? Someone else you want to be with you?" she says.
My gaze is a knife. I would stab her with it if I could.
It's my age. She thinks a fifteen-year-old can't handle this without a proper grown-up. But she don't know the grown-ups in my life. She thinks I'm stupid and got pregnant by mistake. But she don't know me.
I wanted this baby. He's no mistake. I love him. And he loves me.
"Maybe her grandma?" Yaz's voice has never been so quiet. "She's at work, but I got her number." Yaz takes out her phone.
Pudgy Purple looks at me. Her card-playing face doesn't react to the boiling water spitting from my eyes. "Would you like me to contact your grandmother, Miss Pujols? Ask her to come in so we can all talk together?"
"No." Vipers, bullets, poison. I'm throwing everything in my head at her. But she don't see it. She don't feel it. "Like Yaz said, Abuela be at work. She don't like interruptions."
Pudgy Purple leaves. Goldie follows her, shaking her head at us. I glare at her, too. My hands coil like whips in my lap.
You want a piece of me? Come on, let's go.
I wait for that chopa doctor to say something. Anything. But the door closes.
"Mari?" Teri has stopped sniveling. She reaches over and pats my arm. "Todo 'ta bien." She starts crying again. "Todo 'ta bien." She doesn't even believe her own lies. Like I didn't believe mine.
Doc Hottie is still here. He hasn't said nothing for a while. I don't look at him. I don't want those blue lion eyes to disappoint me, too.
He rolls his chair around to my side of the table. He slides white paper in front of me. He takes a box of crayons out of his pocket.
From Goldie and Pudgy Purple, I expected it. Lady docs judge. Because they're women and that's what us women do. But him? He's leaving me with paper and crayons? So I can scribble? Like a little kid?
"How about I draw you a picture of your baby's heart?" he says. His massive hand pins the paper, rotates it toward him. "Dr. Stevenson did an amazing job explaining everything. But you know what they say about a picture."
He draws a heart. Like a Valentine heart. Who's he kidding? I laugh. I cackle at him like I'm a mad bruja. Yaz puts her arm around my shoulder. Heavenly comes closer. She switches her phone to video to record what Doc does and says.
Doc draws one heart first. A normal heart. He fills it with blue and red blood. Blue for the right side, red for the left. Below it, he draws something else. Half a heart. There's no red in it. Only blue. And purple. His voice is deep and steady. His words are slow and simple. He keeps going. Even when tears sting my eyes. He's not making fun of me. He's showing me he thinks I can understand this.
When he's done, five different hearts are on two sheets of paper. Normal and HLHS—that's what my baby's problem is called. On the other sheet is the way my baby's heart will look after the three different surgeries he will need to survive. His heart will never look normal. I get that. But the doctors will try to make it so the blood goes where it needs to. After the last surgery, both blue and red blood are there. But his heart will still be only half of what it should be.
I'm nodding, showing Doc I understand. But all I'm thinking is: How's my baby going to love me with only half a heart?
Doc stands. He moves his arm and his fingers cover mine. I'm clutching the first sheet of paper.
"Mari, I'm sorry. Truly, I am."
He leaves me alone with my girls, a broken baby inside me and paper hearts in my hands.
The apartment door opens, jingling with all twelve of Abuela's keys. It's minutes to ten. Her usual time. Toto's boots and construction hat have been at the door since eight, when I got home after crashing at Heavenly's. I didn't want to see Bertie. Not yet. Toto's in Abuela's room, doing whatever he does back there. He knows enough not to come near me. It took near three years, but Toto and me, we know how to get along. We keep our distance.
Abuela's making a sandwich when I come into the kitchen.
"You hungry?" She pushes a plate at me. Cheese, ham, salami, and pickles on buttered toast. I'm still not used to this. She's paid more attention to me in the past few months than she has in the past six years. I know it's all about the baby. But I don't care. It's nice to feel wanted.
"No. No standing while eating." She clicks her tongue. "You sit. Come, la sala." She waits for me to put the sandwich back down and picks up the plate. I take the five steps to the couch, slump down on it. Abuela goes back to the kitchen, returns with a glass of milk and her sandwich.
"Leche is good for the baby. Drink." She sits next to me. Starts to eat. The TV is on. One of her telenovelas. Do not mess with Abuela and her soap operas. Once, Toto recorded a soccer game over one by accident. She almost threw him out. The time I caught him in my room—going through my stuff—she didn't even make him apologize. Yaz said they were probably in on it together, looking to see if I was doin' drugs. I said they oughta know drugs wasn't why I act the way I do. They got nobody other than themselves to blame for that.
I stare at the TV. I wait for the man and woman who are pointing guns at each other to start making out before I speak.
"Had an appointment today. For the baby."
"?Veldá? Good. The baby, she needs to see the doctors."
"It's a he. A boy."
Abuela puts her sandwich down and looks at me. "?Un varoncito?"
Is she mad or happy? I hold my breath, waiting.
"?Ay, mi amor!" Her hug knocks me into Gato, who yowls and jumps off the sofa. "?Un principe! Ay, que bueno. Teo! Teo!" she shouts to the back. "You tell him?"
I shake my head. Since when do I speak to Toto?
Toto's hairy head sticks out her door. "?Qué pasó?" Abuela tells him it's a boy. He gives me a thumbs-up and goes back to his fútbol. Gato is slinking by, but Abuela scoops him up and asks him how he's going to like a little nephew. She moves his front legs as she pretend-answers for him. Despite his turned-back ears, the cat is looking forward to it. Abuela takes another bite of her sandwich, feeds the cat a piece of salami, and looks for the phone.
"Ay, I need to call Yael and Cila. And Rosa. I will be the first great-grandmother with un nenito! You know Cila, her daughter's son, he has the two kids—different mothers. But they both girls. And only one in Nueva York. The other in DR. But this ... ?Ay, Mari! Is so wonderful to have a baby. Especially now. Es como agua de mayo." It's one of those old-people sayings that doesn't make sense. "Water in May." No matter that I tell her it's April showers here. She says it like her mother and her abuela—who, she always points out, came from Spain—used to. She said it when I told her I was pregnant. She's thinking about how bad things used to be. Between us. Never talking. Only yelling. Slamming doors. The occasional broken plate or glass. And then one Sunday, after church when the priest had talked about some woman named Ruth and gone on about how children should stay with their mothers, I demanded to know where my mama was. Abuela had to know. She was keeping it from me. Abuela laughed. Said she wished she knew. Said she wouldn't have to put up with my ugly mouth no more if she did. I got so mad, I smashed all the photos in Abuela's living room. The ones of her family. Of people I never met. Thought she was gonna hit me. But she just dragged me, kicking and hollering, to my room. Locked me in. And then nothing. A year when Abuela and Toto pretended I didn't exist. A year when, at least once a week, I looked down at my nail-bitten hands to make sure I wasn't actually invisible. Hitting would've been better.
Angelo is like rainwater in May. He's what we needed when we needed it most.
"Think of all the beautiful blue he will wear." Abuela puts down her sandwich. She spreads her hands, as if I'm not going to believe what she's going to say next. "Your papi, he had this one outfit, so cute. I think I have in Santo Domingo. This weekend, I call Marco and ask him to look."
Marco. Her brother. My great-uncle. I've never even spoken to him, though they talk on the phone at least every other week. Abuela's always made it clear I belong more to the mama who dumped me, than to Papi, who's her son. That changed, too, when I told her I was pregnant. Abuela said she'd save up, and when the baby was born, she'd take us both to Santo Domingo to meet Marco's family.
Abuela finishes her sandwich, humming, laughing at her soap. I don't know how to tell her the rest. I've never seen Abuela this happy. Ever. And she's happy at something that's 'cause of me. I call Gato over with my fingers. He stares at me from the kitchen, wraps his tail around his feet. He doesn't move. He's a smart cat. He doesn't want any part of this.
I don't want to do it. But she needs to know. He's her family, too, right?
"Um, there's more," I say. "The doctor said there's a problem."
"?Cómo? Problem? What kind of problem?"
"With his heart."
Her face goes real still. "But they can fix it, ?sí?"
I nod. "With surgery." I swallow hard.
Abuela's eyes are pointed at me, but she's not seeing me. She's watching something in her head. She puckers her lips, bringing out the wrinkles that always fill with lipstick and make her mouth look like it's sprouted tiny red feathers. They smooth out as she runs her tongue over her teeth. She lets out her breath and blinks. She swats the air with her hand, her smile coming back. "The doctors these days, they amazing. I saw on Dr. Oz, baby with whole new liver. Yellow as mantequilla before, but now white and perfect." She reaches over, puts her hand to my belly. "They will fix his little heart. And we will pray. I tell Padre Andrés, and he will pray. Maybe even una misa especial." She gives my belly one final rub and pats it. "Todo 'ta bien. En Dios lo creo. Have faith in God, Mari. Have faith."
She marches to the kitchen before I can say anything else. I don't usually go along with what Abuela says. But tonight, I do. Because I want to believe it, too.
The TV's still going, but she turns the kitchen radio on. Abuela sings that bilirrubina merengue song as she washes the dishes. Hers and mine. I'm not allowed to clean anymore. On account of my condition.
So what are you going to do?" Yaz holds the door to the bodega for me.
"About what?" We haven't talked about it since yesterday. No texts, no calls, no nothing. I'm pissed. That she left me hanging like that. She didn't even bring it up at school.
Yaz looks at Heavenly. Heavenly rolls her eyes. Pitbull chants "I know you want me ..." from her back pocket. Hev whips out her cell and squints at the screen. Don't know when that girl's gonna get her eyes checked like I told her. She slides the phone into her jeans and glances out the window. She turns back to Yaz, pouts those big lips of hers and lifts a fur-vest-clad shoulder at me. So now they both gonna sass me?
I grab a bag of Doritos and a Coke. It's hot out. Summer's not giving up without a fight. The cold can feels good in my sweaty hand. I imagine the baby inside me, jumping, rolling, twirling. My little man wants a Coke, too. But then I remember I'm not supposed to have soda. Teri read that in a book. I open the freezer door and put the can back. I take an apple juice instead.
"It's not good for you," I say to my belly.
The chips are open before I pay. "Co?o am I hungry," I tell Bodega Man. I show off the inside of my mouth as I chew. These Doritos be mine now.
Yaz slaps a pack of gum on the counter. She snaps a bubble at Bodega Man and turns to me. "Have you told him yet?"
"Who?"
Yaz blows another bubble. She pops it with her pinkie nail. Yellow with blue stripes today. She's watching me like she's trying to figure me out. "Who?" she repeats. "?Qué carajo es ésto? Your man, that's who." She nods toward the door. "Here he comes by the way."
"Three twenty-five." Bodega Man wants his money.
I dig in my pockets. I toss two rumpled singles at him. "Sorry. All I got." I open the juice and glug it down before he can snatch it away. I wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve and put my hand on my stomach. "Anda el diablo, this baby be thirsty. And hungry." I grab another handful of chips.
Bertie ambles toward me, hands hanging from his back pockets. "Ey, mami. ?Qué lo qué?" He nods at me, his lips pursing in an air-kiss. He nods at Bodega Man and leans in front of me to fist-bump him once, twice, three times. They touch elbows as he pulls back. "Oyé, chan. ?En qué vaina tu 'ta?" Bertie takes off his cap, punches it out, and puts it on backward.
Didn't know Bertie and Bodega Man were close. Doesn't surprise me. Bertie knows everybody.
"Aquí, manito, todo manso. Pero ... Bert. This your girl?"
Bertie slides next to me. He's taller than I am, but he's just as skinny. He wraps his arm around my neck. He tweaks my nose and kisses my hair. I love it when he does that. Shows the other guys I belong to him.
"Manin, this my baby. And my baby's mama. Ain't that right?" He makes a kissing sound. I turn and kiss him, pushing chip bits into his mouth. He pulls back. "Yo, babe. That's gross." But he's smiling. He comes back, legs wide. His hands grab my butt as he leans me back, kisses me deep. "Oooh," he sighs, straightening. "I love that." He squeezes my nalgas again. "And I love this." His hand comes round to the front of my shirt. He bends his knees, looks into my eyes. "I hear you have some news for me?"
What?! What did he hear? I look around for Heavenly, glad I don't got scissors or anything else sharp, else I'd chop off her lemon-bleached rocker locks. I bet she's the boca agua. Yaz would never betray me. Teri hardly ever talks to boys, let alone cute ones. She only ever looks at her feet, her tongue and lips sticking together whenever Bertie comes round.
Yaz points to the door with her thumb. She knows what I'm thinking without me having to say nothing. "Jo-jo picked her up already. Date time. Did you know he has a new ride?"
I could care less about what car that parejero has. Jo-jo is so full of himself. I can't believe I let Bertie introduce his cousin's friend to Heavenly. Bet Jo-jo's the one who told Bertie.
"Beto, Beto." Bodega Man snaps his fingers at us. "She needs to pay up, manin. She don't got enough, manin."
Bertie takes his time looking away from me. He gives Bodega Man his lazy smile. He fishes in his pockets and comes up with only two dimes. "óyeme, chan," he says, shrugging. "What can I do? You heard her. The baby's hungry. Hey, you going to that can tomorrow night? How 'bout I hook you up? Skinner's gonna be there." He waits while Bodega Man considers it. When Bodega Man smiles, Bertie smiles back. "?Tu 'ta cloro?"
Guess what kinda car Skinner drives? I hate that maldito hijo de la porra. I hate that Bertie hangs with him. Told him that after the baby's born, he can't no more. Bertie's dumb enough to fall for Skinner's lines. He's always defending him. But he's smart enough to make sure Skinner and I never be in the same room. 'Cause if that happened, my fist would find Skinner's face real fast. Don't care if Skinner's name gets Bodega Man off my back.
Bertie's arm is round my neck again. He leads me to the door.
"Mar, you forgot this." Yaz takes my hand, slides the gum into it. She stares at me. Tell him.
I stare back and waggle my chin at her. Looks like someone already told him. She knows me like I know her. So she knows that's what I want to say.
Yaz frowns, shakes her head. He doesn't know. Not everything.
We're halfway out the door and Bertie's already shouting "Yo! ?Chan! ?Tu 'ta cache-cache!" at some blue-capped bro. His fist is up in salute. My mayor of the Heights. He ruffles my hair, kisses my cheek. Elvis Crespo pumps through the sun-roof of a passing car. Bertie spins to face me, slides a finger through my belt loop. He does a few steps of merengue right there on the concrete. His other hand is out, palm open, beating the air. He's grinning.
Yaz is right. He doesn't know. He can't. He wouldn't be acting so normal if he did.
I shove open the door to my place. We kick our shoes onto the shaggy brown carpet that smells of breakfast eggs and bacon. No one's home. Bertie pulls me to my room, lifts off my shirt, undoes his pants. He drops to his knees, kisses my belly all over like he always does. I love this about Bertie. That he's sweet. That he treats me right.
I stop him when he gets to my underwear.
"We need to talk."
He looks up at me. His gray-green eyes are dazed. "You breaking up with me?"
"No." He can be such an idiot. My hand moves to my stomach and his gaze drops. "It's the baby," I say.
Bertie stands. He sits on the bed. His mouth hangs open in that way that makes him look like he's twelve.
I sit next to him. I don't know what to say. I don't do candy-coated porquería so I just say what's true. "The baby has a heart problem."
Bertie says nothing at first. He takes my hand, weighs it in his. "I thought you was gonna tell me it was a boy. I didn't hear nothing about a heart problem."
I nod. I hold on to his hand real tight. "It is a boy. A boy with a heart problem."
Bertie looks away. He brings his fist to his mouth. He lets go of me and covers his face with his hands. There's a terrific crash above, like a casserole falling off a counter. The glass that sits on my nightstand rattles. The sip or two of dusty water in it shivers. Muffled shouts and the pound of feet rain above us. Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez, our upstairs neighbors, are the oldest people I know. But they fight like telenovela stars.
Bertie still has his head in his hands.
"You okay?" I nudge him with my elbow.
He looks at me. His eyes are red. I don't think it's because he's been smoking. "?Veldá? It's a boy, huh? Diache. That's great." He tries to smile. He takes a breath but starts to cough. He stands, moves away from me, coughing so hard he's choking. He does up his pants, shifts them back down so his boxers show. His hands hang on his hips. His head hangs on his neck. "What are you going to do, Mari?" He doesn't look at me.
What am I going to do? "What do you mean?" My voice is a knife sharpening. How is this all on me?
Bertie turns. "Is he going to live? Did the doctors say he's going to be normal?"
I grab my shirt. I yank it on. I go to my closet and get out a sweater. One that goes all the way to my knees.
I cross my arms and stare at my nightstand, past the dirty water glass. My kitten-a-day calendar, the one Bertie got me for my birthday, stares back at me. I wish I could tape the kittens from the last three days back up. White fluffy furball tangled in yarn. Orange-and-black paws sticking out from under sheets. Tabby clinging to tree bark. I wish I could go back. To before. When all I knew was the cackle of Yaz's laugh and the minty smell of her gum. Teri's shy smile when a cute boy comes near or her pretend stern one when she passes me a note reminding me of homework I'll probably never do. Heavenly rolling her eyes as I come out of her bathroom for dinner with her and her mama, wearing Heavenly's too-big bra on my head like a pair of horns. Bertie's warm hands sliding over my hips as he whispers for me to kiss him suavemente. My warm belly growing round with a baby whose heart is whole. But I can't go back. I threw those pages of kittens away.
"Mari, ?qué dijeron?" Bertie asks. "What did they say?"
Why is he making me talk about it? Why can't he be like Abuela and tell me everything's going to be fine? That God or the doctors or whoever will take care of it? Why can't he just hold me?
Co?o. "They say they don't know, okay! They say it's really serious and he could die. Is that what you want to hear? That you put a baby inside me that's so junked he might not even make it? Thank you, Bertie. Thank you for that. ?Qué bolsu!" I make a rude gesture. "What a man you are!"
He looks at me. His mouth is open again. "Mari, por favor, no te pongas brava conmigo. Don't be like that."
"Maybe Skinner or Linner or whatever his name is can get you out of this. Maybe you have some friend who knows someone who knows someone else who can buy or sell something that will get me my healthy baby back! Remember the one we talked about? A baby that would love me—love us—forever?"
"Chula, baby, don't do this." Bertie still looks so confused.
I slap the calendar off the table. It smacks the wall and lands on top of my bag. My hands are fists. "Don't you call me 'chula'." I want to hit him. I want to hit him so bad. It's not his fault, but he can't fix it. And I hate him for it.
I open the door, hold it for him. "Get out, Bertie. Go!"
He does what I say. Gracias a Dios, he leaves. I grab hold of the picture of a black kitten lapping milk. I rip it to teeny, tiny pieces. I go after the next one. And the next. Until my room is covered with torn-up kitten paws, kitten tails, kitten bellies. Until the entire kitten year is gone. I pace, crushing paper bits, until my feet hurt. I sit on the bed and pick lint and cat hairs off my sweater until I hear Toto dropping his boots by the door. I don't know what else to do and I can't stand it no more. I pick up my phone and text Yaz.
Yaz is lying on her bed, hands under her chin. Her nails throw purple shadows onto her cheeks, though they're painted a royal, shimmering blue. The color reminds me of an ad I saw on the side of a bus once. For some show called Supergirl. Co?o. As if I'd ever watch some skinny, blond puta running around pretending to be Superman. Abuela's telenovelas be more realistic than that.
Yaz's room smells of paint remover. Little bottles of nail polish line the top of her dresser. On one side, cotton squares stained yellow and blue clump together like they're cold. Yaz rolls over. She stretches out a hand and examines her nails. She knows I been staring at them. There are tiny red hearts painted on each one. Don't know how Yaz does that. I seen her do it, with a brush as thin as an eyelash. How she keeps her hand so steady is what I don't get. If it were me, my nails would have red splotches all over them. Like they'd gotten into a fight and got all bloody.
"I'll do them for you if you promise to stop biting them."
I loosen my thumbnail from my teeth, slide my hand under my butt. Yaz has offered before. When we both started eighth grade, she and her abuela got me some polish that tasted like fo. Just taught me to peel it off before I put it near my mouth.
I rest my head against the wall and look up at the stickers covering the ceiling. Chewed nails seems like a really good problem right about now.
Yaz scooches forward on the bed 'til her head is hanging off it. She makes a pout, turning her face into a puppy dog's. "You told your papi yet?" she asks.
She's talking about the letters. The ones I write to him in prison. Abuela says my papi don't like visitors. A prison's not a place for a girl anyway. But every month, we send him something. Sometimes, I slip in extras. A ripped ad from a magazine showing a sunset over a beach. Ticket stubs from Yankee Stadium—not mine, just ones I found on the ground. A strip of blue flannel from the bottom of a Salvation Army bin that I got for free and that I imagine him wearing around his wrist or woven through his fingers. Abuela says blue is Papi's favorite color. But always, ever since I been stayin' with Abuela, even if we fighting, I write that letter, put it in the envelope Abuela leaves on the kitchen counter. I don't say much. Just enough so Papi knows I don't forget him.
I shake my head to Yaz's question. "Don't want to bother him," I say. He don't need to know about my problems. He got enough to be depressed about without me bringing him down.
I'm staring up at the words You're a star! written in bubbly letters. It was one of the last stickers we put up so it's not covered by any others. Underneath, dous! peaks from one side, while ific! peeks from the other. The feet of either Pluto or Goofy come out the top. They look like ears, or antennae, rising from the star. When we was younger, Yaz and I collected what we got from school, the doctor, dentist, social worker, case worker—anyone who gave a kid a sticker to keep them quiet—and put it up on Yaz's ceiling. We'd move her bed around the room, jump up and down on the mattress, peeled stickers balancing on our fingers, thumbs out to press them in. Her abuela never cared. She thought it was cute. Yaz loved the idea we were decorating. How she sleeps with all those My Little Ponies looking down at her is beyond me. I used to try to stick Shrek or Snow White over those freaky horse faces. But Yaz said she liked the ponies. When we switched to inspirational quotes, she made me promise to leave the ponies above her bed alone. We used to tape up a piece of construction paper to hide the ponies on nights I slept over. 'Til the summer Yaz swiped one of those eye patches from first class on her return flight from DR. Now when I'm at Yaz's, I put on the eye patch like a manso pirate, stretch out on her bed, and pretend I'm in first class. Compared to Yaz's, sleeping at Abuela's is like the last row of economy. You feel every bump of turbulence. And you're right up against the bathrooms, so you smell you-know-what the whole ride.
Yaz is watching me look at all the stickers. I wonder if she knows which one I'm searching for. Jasmine, from Aladdin. Yaz wore that costume three years in a row. When was the last time we played that guessing game? Beginning of the summer, maybe.
"So Carmen's cool, huh?"
Carmen's my abuela. I told Yaz what she said. After I told her what went down with me and Bertie.
"As long as she gets herself a nieto, she be good," I answer.
"But you told her everything, right? About the heart?"
I give Yaz a rotten-lemon look. "I told her there's a problem with his heart. She didn't want to know more. You know her, she makes her decision and that's it. No going back. She's got her faith."
Yaz snorts. "Faith in her rightness."
"More like faith in Dr. Oz. I was half expecting her to demand Dr. Oz do the surgery."
"He is a heart surgeon." Yaz blows on a nail, touches it, then runs her hand through her hair. "Wonder if Carmen knows that."
"If it's written in People magazine, she's gotta." Besides her telenovelas, ain't nothing Abuela loves more than her celebrity magazines. "Poor Padre Andrés." I tsk. He's the priest at Encarnación. "Don't think he knows Carmen's got more faith in Dr. Oz than him." Yup. She's got faith in everyone except me.
Yaz's laughter dies away. She rubs the back of her hand across her mouth. She's not wearing lip gloss today. Guess she forgot. She's watching me again.
"Carmen knows about the surgery then."
Why would Yaz think I would keep that to myself? "'Course she knows," I snap.
Yaz lifts her hands, as if I'm holding a gun and she don't want me to shoot. I slide my eyes away from her and scowl out the window. It's seven and it's already dark. Every fall, that's what I hate most. Not the cold. Not the bare trees. I hate that the sun pulls away. As if I've done something wrong.
My stomach growls. Yaz hears it. Wonder if she's going to suggest going to the park. I don't feel like dancing tonight. Don't feel like seeing Bertie. But I don't smell nothing cooking. Don't know if Yaz's abuela's even here.
Something hits me on the side of my head. I think it's a sock, but it's the black eye patch. It's Yaz's way of asking if I'll stay the night.
"We've got leftovers. Arroz con pollo," she says, lifting one eyebrow. Used to drive me crazy that she could do that and I couldn't. We spent hours in front of the mirror with her coaching me. But my eyebrows are a pair. Stuck together.
My stomach grumbles again.
I stretch out my arms and hiss in a breath. "Didn't bring no clean underwear." There's school tomorrow.
Yaz reaches into one of the drawers. The room's so small, she doesn't need to get off the bed. A pair of panties smacks me in the face. They're cotton. With co?o ponies on them.
"You know you always welcome to my undies. Long as you still fit in them!" Yaz rolls back on the bed cackling. Her feet scissor the air. She blows a bubble with her mint gum. Another something only she can do.
I ball the underwear in my fist. I think of hurling them back at her. But I don't want to get up from my spot on the rug. I'm glad Yaz knows me so well. I'm glad she hasn't asked me more about Bertie. More than what I told her. Which is that we had a fight. And I threw him out. I'm glad she knows I want to spend the night so I don't have to ask.
There's a pop as Yaz's bubble bursts. She clears her throat. She's looking down at her nails again, wiping them off one by one as if lint's got on them.
"Ever think of finding YKW?" she says.
YKW. You Know Who. It's our code. For my mama. I don't like to say her name.
"If you told her what's going on, maybe she'd come back? Maybe she could help?"
I take my time bringing my eyes down from the ceiling. I wait until I find Jasmine. She's in the corner near the old water leak, next to half of a yellow bird I think is called Tweety.
My mama's not like Yaz's. Yaz's mami is in the DR, working in one of those all-inclusive resorts. She's the concierge or something fancy like that. Yaz sees her every year. Sometimes more than once. Her mami actually comes to New York to visit. And she buys her things. And sends them money. How do you think they can afford the after-school with the nuns? If Yaz were ever in trouble, her mami'd be on the first plane back.
But my mama? She ain't coming back. I don't want her to. Not for this. She can rot in whatever little piece of hell she's hidden herself in. And she's hid herself good. 'Cause not even Abuela could find her. And Abuela wanted to. Real bad. She told me so. Remember?
I don't have to say nothing. Yaz nods. Turns onto her back. She spits out her gum. Reaches for a new piece. She lifts her chin 'til she sees me upside down.
"I know you gotta eat. But first," she points to the ceiling, "guess who I'm looking for?"
