Page 70 of Mirror Image

She shrugs as she picks up the pitcher of sangria and tops up my glass before doing the same for herself. “Maybe. Depends.”

“On what?”

When she sets the pitcher back down, her dark eyes find mine, and I see Lita there in her features. The long lashes, the slightly sleepy lids, the delicate nose, and the full rosy lips—Stef has always been the one who most resembles our grandmother.

“On how this trip goes for you. I want to be available if you need someone to decompress with while you’re here.”

Decompress.

I recognize one of my husband’s favorite buzzwords.

“When did you talk to Gabe?” I ask.

To her credit, my cousin doesn’t deny the accusation. “We exchanged texts this afternoon. I wanted to ask his advice about something.”

I quirk an eyebrow, my interest piqued. My husband didn’t mention this when I spoke to him a couple of hours ago. “Oh? About what?”

She shifts a little uncomfortably. “There’s something I wasn’t sure I should tell you. So . . . I asked him.”

“Huh. And what did he say?”

“He said you’re a big girl, and you don’t need protecting.”

My God, I love my husband. “He’s right. So what is it that’s got you so reluctant? I mean, I think we’ve just about covered it all since I got to town—my work, my marriage, Jess, los abuelitos . . .”

I stop short because suddenly I know the answer.

“Lorena,” my cousin says, confirming my suspicion.

I sit up straight, nearly spilling the amazing sangria all over my favorite white blouse. It’s been so long since I’ve heard the woman’s name spoken aloud that it’s like taking a bucket of ice over the head—it’ll leave you stunned, speechless, and furious all at the same time.

My mother was barely sixteen when she gave birth to me and Jessica—a baby having babies, really. Always boy crazy, she’d gotten knocked up by a much-older waiter at Cuba Libre who skipped town before Lito could turn him into gator chow. Lucky for her, my grandparents—while initially shocked, angry, and disappointed by turns—were all about having multiple generations under one roof. And it didn’t hurt that Jess and I were unbelievably adorable. Muñecas, Lita called us. Dolls. But just because we looked like toys didn’t mean we were toys, as our mother found out soon enough.

It didn’t take long for her to grow tired of staying home with two crying, colicky babies while all her friends were making plans for homecoming dances, movie dates, and weekend parties. The more she felt she was missing out on, the more she left our daily care to Lito and Lita, as if we were a couple of goldfish that she could fob off on them to feed occasionally. My grandparents believed that it was around this time that she found her way to a drug habit. She came home later and later, occasionally disappearing for days on end. Until one day she disappeared for good. I have very few memories of her—just a few hazy images that may or may not be a product of my imagination. Not that it matters. Lorena was never real to me.

“What—what about her?” I ask now.

“My father called to tell me the police had been in touch—the Alabama police. She was . . . your mother—Lorena, I mean—she’s . . . she’s dead, Jenn.”

I stare at her, trying to wrap my head around the words. “What?”

“She died. It was an overdose.”

“I don’t understand . . . How did they know to call your father?”

There’s a beat of silence in which I’m certain she’s debating whether or not to tell me the truth.

“She had his number in her phone.”

“In her . . .” I press the heel of my left hand to my forehead, as if it will somehow open my mind to the understanding it’s so desperately clawing to get at right now. “His number was in her phone? So . . . they were in touch, then?” I ask, hearing my own voice grow more brittle.

She nods once, solemnly. “I guess, yeah. Not often, but from time to time. Usually when she needed money. I didn’t know about it before . . . this.” My cousin shifts uncomfortably. “Dad said she looked really tired and beat down, like someone who’s had a tough life.”

“Looked?” I practically shriek. “Looked? Are you saying he actually saw her?”

Stef looks away toward the Miami skyline, then back at me. “He did. He took her to rehab about nine months ago. But . . . obviously, it didn’t take.”

I knock back the rest of my drink so fast that I choke in the process, grabbing a handful of napkins and spluttering into them.