Double Exposed

The eighth-floor hallway looked the same, but it didn’t.

The walls were the same beige brick with black mortar that led to Abuela’s apartment door. Off to the right was a small patch of wall before the corner that Dani used to slide in front of sideways so Abuela would open the door and only see her mother. They’d both play along and wonder where Dani went, like this didn’t happen every time there was a family gathering.

When she was ready to be found, she’d burst forward in front of the doorway with her arms wide and fingers splayed. “It’s me, Wela!” she laughed so loud it bounced down the hallway so Doña Migdalia could hear. That was then.

This afternoon, Dani stood there up against the old tan brick. The little hiding spot was barely big enough to cover the width of her calf, much less her thighs and chest that grew into ample slopes.

“This is stupid,” she whispered.

It had been twelve years since her mother lost custody. Twelve years of whys and hows that lived in diaries under a twin mattress she had long outgrown. Dani was eighteen now and no longer bound by court orders of protection that kept Jennifer away. She hooked her finger on the brass knocker just under the peephole and gave it a strong echoing rap against the hollow metal door.

There was a heavy thunk from the deadbolt, followed by a sharp snap from a lower lock before the door pulled open. There she was, standing shorter than Dani remembered. The earlier memories were foggy around the edges like they were clipped from a dream and old enough to dampen the other senses. Dani couldn’t recall the exact rasp of her mother’s voice or the smell of her perfume. The surviving memories were like the only photo with her mother she had–blurred and double exposed.

One memory kept her up at night. Light beamed around her mother’s towering silhouette as she squeezed Dani’s hands and let go. Was it a sunny goodbye from the first day of school or a fluorescent farewell at the family courthouse?

Jennifer was no longer that towering silhouette flattened by time. For the first time ever, she had to look up to meet her daughter's wonderstruck eyes.

“Daniela,” she said with her arms out and fingers splayed. “You came back.”

Dani imagined this moment since the social worker said she was going to live with her father. She said the goal of the system was to reunite families, but her father was the loophole. They put her in the back seat of his car, slammed the door shut, and washed their hands of the little mama’s girl so they could move on to the next case.

“Hi Mommy,” Dani said. She was stiff for a second before she let herself fall into Jennifer's arms.

On the first inhale, the present evaporated and Dani remembered. Jennifer smelled like the minty menthol of Newports. They were the same ones she found in her mother’s purse and crushed to pieces because the cartoons on TV reminded her every day that smoking kills. Dani always hated it–always too sensitive that the smoke made her sick. That afternoon, she happily inhaled.

“Come in. We have so much catching up to do,” Jennifer said as she dropped her arms and stepped out of the way.

Dani stepped into the old projects apartment that once belonged to her abuelos, but they were long gone. The furniture in the living room was the same, but the blues in the fabric were a little less bright. A delightful aroma of garlic and sofrito from the kitchen drew her in deeper.

“Look at you. You’ve grown so much,” Jennifer said.

Her daughter looked down like she was suddenly aware of her body. Jennifer was always the one with the majestic ass that left men on the street stumbling. Time didn’t blur out those, “Ay yo, Ma!” calls that made younger Dani tighten her hold on her mother who never flinched.

Now, Jennifer was looking at Dani with a mixture of pride and amusement.

“You’ve got more tetas than me.”

Jennifer laughed and Dani let out a stilted version of her own, but her arms crossed over her chest without thinking.

“This is weird,” Dani said. After more than half a lifetime separated, there she was. She was a little bit older, but the same, nonetheless. After years apart, it was both not enough and bordering on too much. Dani looked around the room like she needed a reprieve from the sight of her mother.

The walls were still covered with old communion photos of the cousins who stayed. Each of them knelt in front of a heavenly backdrop of Jesus in the same puffy white dress with extra layers of crinoline that made them look like child brides. Dani could practically smell the hairspray that must have been doused on them to get their thick hair shellacked back into those crunchy salon curls.

“I made your favorite. Is lasagna still your favorite?” Jennifer asked as she rubbed her thin hands against the thighs of her jeans.

Dani looked back, eyes widened.

“Sort of. I’ve never been able to make it taste as good as yours,” she said and followed her to the kitchen.

There was the same old table, big enough to sit eight. A distant memory exposed over the view with extra metal chairs pulled up in between the old wooden ones as cousins squeezed ketchup onto their pasteles on Nochebuena. Now, it was quiet and empty with barely dried washcloth streaks across the glossed wood.

Jennifer grabbed a pair of potholders that had seen better days, with faint brown spots where they must have gotten too close to the burner. She bent over and pulled out the glass casserole dish that was still bubbling with extra mozzarella cheese broiled to perfection.

“Remember when I used to help you make this?” Dani asked as she stepped closer to take in the salty smell of the cheese that filled her mouth enough to swallow. “I’d grate the cheese and steal pieces when you weren’t looking.”

Jennifer grabbed a flat plate and started cutting into the lasagna with a long knife. She smiled at her daughter’s memory.

“I mostly remember this taking so long, I’d have to wake you up for dinner when it was ready.”

She handed her daughter a corner piece with a thick slice of garlic bread made from a crispy loaf of pan sobao.

Dani took a seat near the corner of the table and leaned back, watching her mother grab a washcloth and wipe down the counters.

“Eat. Don’t wait for me,” she said and made a gesture away from her body with her hands.

Dani went for her fork but grabbed her purse instead. “Just need some Lactaid.”

“For what?” Jennifer huffed and leaned against the chair next to her daughter.

“I get stomach aches,” said Dani.

“So, you don’t go to town on those Mr. Softee cones anymore?”

Dani smiled at the memory of the jingle that welcomed in a New York spring.

“Mostly because they’re not a dollar anymore,” she said.

In the time it took Dani to explain and pop a pill, Jennifer had wiped down the refrigerator and stove top.

“I was really glad you found me on Instagram, you know. Do you know how many Jennifer Riveras are in The Bronx? I don’t know why I didn’t think to check here,” Dani said as she dragged her fork over the crispy edge of the lasagna slice she still hadn’t tasted.

Jennifer stilled and looked back. “You were looking for me?”

Dani twisted her fork between her fingers. She mostly looked late at night after arguments with her father or when vendors on the street started selling pink and white floral arrangements every May. “Yeah. Sometimes,” she said.

Jennifer wrapped her arms around Dani’s shoulders from behind and gave her a squeeze. “And now you’re back.”

Dani stilled, then leaned back against her mother’s chest, hoping it would fix the hollow feeling in her own. There were faint memories of cuddles in her mother’s bed in front of the TV that resurfaced when she let herself go back there. She leaned into her mother’s arms as if it would feel the same. They were like old puzzle pieces warped by spilled water and time–the image was perfect, but the pieces resisted.

“I never went anywhere,” Dani mumbled.

Jennifer sat in the chair next to her and leaned her face on her hand. She still had her fingers covered in old rings.

“So. Tell me things. Like…do you have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“That’s okay. With that chest, it won’t be long.”

Dani pressed her lips together and exhaled through her nose.

“We got so much girl talk to catch up on!” Jennifer said and reached for her daughter’s hands. “What was your first time like?”

“Oh, well–”

“Do you shave down there?” she asked, her eyes dropping to Dani’s lower half.

Dani leaned back, her hands still in her mother’s hold. “Mommy…”

“Ay, don’t be embarrassed. You have to do it. The more you do it, the thinner it grows in later. Your husband will thank you.”

Jennifer’s eyes were so bright with what Dani could only describe as hope as she looked over the young woman before her.

Dani blinked twice and pulled her hands away. “Can we not talk about stuff like that?”

“I’m just trying to get to know my daughter,” Jennifer said with her hands gesturing to her. She always had this strong Bronx accent that came from never leaving. It made the word sound like ‘daw-tuh.’

“Do you remember how we’d go to the movies together and sneak in all the snacks from the corner store? The ones you’d steal in your snowsuit like it was an Olympic sport? I’d laugh because you pulled out bags of chips, Milanos, sour straws, those little donuts, and the sodas like you were a clown. Like it was nothing.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Jennifer said, though she didn’t smile.

Dani’s shoulders sank a little lower.

“I think about the old times a lot. The before,” Dani said as she watched her mother get up and grab her purse from the counter. She pulled out a white and green box and grabbed a cigarette that looked like it had already been pre-lit and put out another time.

“You know, my girlfriends at church told me I should still get you presents when your birthday and Christmas came around,” Jennifer said as she dragged her thumb down on the purple BIC lighter. It took three attempts to draw fire and light up.

Dani pulled herself up over the back of the chair and smiled even though the smoke made her throat itch and her temples feel pinched.

Jennifer took a long drag with the cigarette between her fingertips. “Didn’t see the point. What the hell would you do with a Barbie doll at eighteen?”

“I don’t know, but it would have been nice,” Dani said with one shoulder shrugged. “Do you remember when you set up my barbies outside the camper to make it look like they had a party when I was at Dad’s for the weekend? Do you remember–”

“Daniela, enough.”

Dani cleared her throat and exhaled hard through the haze. “Can you at least open the window?” she said, her voice rising higher than the cloud of smoke. “...and I still prefer Dani.”

“Daniela is the name of a woman,” Jennifer said. She crossed over to the kitchen window and pulled it open, sticking her arm out over the child safety bars. “Happy now?”

She didn’t answer.

“You don’t have to think about the past anymore, Daniela. I get why you kept the memories alive, but we have to move on. We have the whole future together to make new memories. Look at you. You’ve blossomed into this beautiful young woman.”

Dani looked down at her chest. She was no stranger to them. They started growing in the third grade and her father didn’t know the first thing about buying bras. The straps dug into her shoulders a little tighter than usual and she wondered if it would still feel this way if she had a mother around to learn about these things.

“You keep calling me that, but I walked in the door and felt six again. Like when they took me away.”

Jennifer raised a brow. “You’re eighteen, nena.”

Dani huffed.

“I think you should come with me to my church,” Jennifer said.

“I went to Catholic school my whole life. I don’t need church.”

Jennifer looked at the wall like she could see through it. She tapped the cigarette so the ash fell down the eight stories below.

“I was so lost when they took you. But my pastor told me that it didn’t all have to be for nothing if I repented. So, I did.”

“Did you, though?” Dani asked, her eyes narrowed thin. “Because I haven’t heard any apologies about what happened.”

Jennifer tossed the last of the cigarette out the window, the end still burning. “Jesus forgave me. Why can’t you?” she said as she slammed the window shut. “Living in the past will only eat you from the inside.”

“What’s eating at me is that I can’t stop wondering what made you think it was a good idea to bring a six-year-old with you to Rikers to smuggle drugs to your boyfriend,” Dani said, breathing a heavy breath like the words freed up precious space in her ribs.

“Is that what your father told you?” she asked.

“He didn’t have to. I remember it,” Dani said. “I sat in an interrogation room for half a day before dad came to get me.”

“Just stop.” Jennifer pinched the bridge of her nose and rubbed the skin there. “This isn’t healthy. If you just let it go, there’s so much happiness here for you. You have sisters who are so excited to know you,” she said, like it was the greatest surprise.

Dani’s legs itched, calves tightening until one ankle started to bounce. The quick tap of her tennis shoe on the linoleum pattered through the room until she finally stood.

“I never wanted more family. I just wanted you.” Dani’s jaw locked, her lips pressed together to stop the quivering. It was no use.

“Don’t be so selfish,” Jennifer said. She looked out the window and the sun glinted off the cross on her chest. It never existed in the memories, but here it was fastened tight around her neck.

Dani nodded slowly and her arms dropped back to her sides.

“I lost my virginity to another girl,” she said and a smile crept up.

Jennifer didn’t have an immediate comment. Her shoulders stiffened and she shifted her jaw to the side.

“I’ve been with women, too. Girls experiment. It doesn’t count,” she finally said.

“I wasn’t experimenting,” Dani said with her voice low. “It wasn’t a sleepover where we were practicing for boys. I knew exactly what I was doing when I fucked her.”

Dani spun the barrel with that comment; the white of Jennifer’s face told her the chamber wasn’t empty.

“Is this what happens when you grow up without your mother? You become a lesbian puta who just–”

Dani scoffed. “Don’t worry, Ma. I fuck guys, too.”

Jennifer’s lips parted like her brain was malfunctioning. Dani half-expected her mother’s ears to start venting steam, like the plumes escaping manhole covers in the winter.

“What happened to my sweet little girl?” her mother asked.

“Oh, now you want your little girl back.”

“How did you get so malcriada? So sinful?”

Dani pursed her lips together and shrugged. “Sounds like I got it from my mother.”

Jennifer grabbed the knife and squeezed the handle as she cut into the lasagna. As she worked on plating it, the kitchen was only filled with the scraping sounds of a spatula against a glass plate. She brought her plate next to Dani’s.

“I don’t even know you, do I?” Jennifer asked.

Dani grabbed the chair back and looked down at her mother. The vision of her tired eyes was crisp. The line between her brows was hardened enough to look like a scar. There were no memories double-exposed over her as she looked up at Dani with the same eyes she inherited. The likeness didn’t make them feel any less foreign.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Dani said. She pulled the chair back and sat down.

Jennifer grabbed her fork and twisted the stem between her fingers.

“Can we just eat? Just try?” she asked.

The plate before her still smelled like all the best moments of the years before. Dani couldn’t help the pull as she leaned in.

Her mother’s eyes shone as Dani cut into the cheese and pasta with her fork, watching her taste the offering.

Dani’s tastebuds were assaulted as the burst of seasoned tomato and salty pull of the cheese hit. She saw herself seated at this table years before, her feet swinging over the kitchen tile. Now, her feet wanted to swing again–to find that old rhythm–but there was no room between her shoes and the floor.

“Is it still as good as you remember?” Jennifer asked like she needed the answer.

Dani blinked fast and swallowed.

“Yeah…” she whispered and wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “It is.”

She drew a ragged breath and cut another bite, almost hoping something would taste off, or bitter, or different. But it was every bit of perfect she dreamed it would be. That was almost worse.