Chapter Text
Unlike what her Abuela promised, Mirabel does not get a gift.
She does not get a gift, and she doesn't understand why. All she can understand is the crushing weight of what happened, falling on her like the storms Tía Pepa would make or the waterfall of blossoms Isa would dump on her to make Mirabel laugh.
Abuela looks at her with confusion, but there's something else to her expression and Mirabel doesn't understand it. Is Abuela mad? Upset? Disappointed? Mirabel wanted to know, wanted to ask; what happened? Why didn't she get a gift like her hermanas, her primo and prima, her tía and tío? Was it something Mirabel did?
These questions would follow her to the nursery where she cries underneath her bed, having escaped the trying comfort of her parents, the buzzing confusion and judgment of the townsfolk, the clueless stares of her sisters and cousins, and the disappointment of Abuela.
(Abuela has never looked at her like that. Before this, Abuela smiled and told her the story, talked to her warmly, held her like she meant everything. What went wrong?)
Mirabel was supposed to get a gift. She was supposed to be like Mamá, Tía Pepa, Tío Bruno, Isabela, Dolores, Luisa, and Camilo. Wasn't she meant to get a gift just as special as her?
Or had that been a lie? Did Abuela lie to her? Why did she lie?
Was Mirabel not special after all?
Camilo, her roommate and "twin" of all five years of their life and gifted, finds her first. He tries to get her to talk to him, shifting into different people, trying to get her to smile, but Mirabel stays under her bed. Hiding, sobbing, wondering.
Camilo leaves eventually when Tía Pepa calls for him, but not without getting down on the floor, scooting beside her under the bedframe, and giving her a tight, comforting hug that she wanted to last for a little while longer, even when a part of her wants to be alone.
Mirabel comes out of her hiding spot later when her chest starts to ache from lying on the floor for too long. She lays on her bed, expelling what little tears she had left before the exhaustion kicks in. In between those moments, Isabela, Dolores, Luisa, Tío Felix, Tía Pepa, and her parents stop by to check on her, to comfort her, to offer support and reassurance with every hug and gentle hand on her shoulder.
(Mirabel tries and fails to ignore that Abuela doesn't visit at all.)
Soon, she falls asleep in her ceremony dress, too tired and upset to bother changing. Before being blissfully carried to her dreams, Mirabel wishes for something different. Wishes that she is still wanted, after all this.
And she still wishes for it months later, convinced that her family hates her. Or at least, doesn't look at her the way they used to anymore.
(That's just Abuela, a part of her whispers. Abuela, who had stopped smiling at her, especially after Tío Bruno left.)
Isabela acts differently around her now too, less sweet and fun, and more distant and unapproachable with her rolling eyes and annoyed looks. (Mirabel pretends it doesn't hurt. It doesn't.)
Mamá, Papí, and Luisa continue to love her the way they always do, though. But it has another element to it; it's more like they're being extra careful with her, afraid of saying something- anything wrong, especially about her being giftless. Mirabel appreciates it, even if she doesn't like it.
Her Tía Pepa, Tío Felix, Camilo, and Dolores do their best to hang out with her in between helping the community, particularly Camilo who enjoys practicing his shifts and getting Mirabel to laugh, and she loves him all the more for making the effort despite his busy schedule.
(But sometimes, they're too tired to play, to talk, to be around Mirabel outside of meals and she can't fault them for that. She pretends it doesn't hurt despite the loneliness that creeps up at her after dark.)
All of that pales in comparison to the general unspoken truth of La Familia Madrigal; Mirabel is giftless, therefore she is useless, even when she tries not to be.
(And she tries so hard not to be.)
She sleeps that night, failed again in being useful to the community, to her family, another wave of tears threatening to spill on her pillow. Rather than wishing, Mirabel wonders if she is even wanted at all.
A voice calls for her in her dreams, gentle and comforting.
Though as Mirabel opens her eyes, she realizes it isn't a dream. The voice, angelic in nature and tone, sings for her in a way that reminds Mirabel of the nights when her Mamá would lull her to sleep with her little songs. The voice is beautiful.
Mirabel doesn't know where it's coming from, who it belongs to, or why she can hear it, but what she does know is that the window is open now, letting the voice become clearer for her to listen to.
She wants to know where it's coming from, who is singing, because the pains of her failed ceremony have faded and Mirabel doesn't want them to come back, doesn't want to be reminded of what she lacks.
This voice is probably like the food her Mamá makes, healing her from the inside out.
Mirabel leaves her bed, leaves her shoes, leaves the tears and heartbreak behind for something kinder; something different and new that promises Mirabel she could have anything she wanted.
She believes it.
Casita tries to keep her back, though. The floors roll in little waves, inching Mirabel away from the open window, but Mirabel is just as stubborn. She wants to know where that voice is, who that voice belongs to. She just has to know.
A figure bathed in lunar light appears along with the wind, so mystical in their approach. Mirabel should be frightened, she knows, but the person doesn't look mean or cruel at all.
The person looks kind. Their long, silky, wavy dark hair and warm skin reflect the moonlight in a way that they seem like a ghost. But their glowing eyes, the color of gemstones and honey, convince Mirabel that this person is alive and friendly.
I wanted to talk with you for a while, pequeña.
Casita shakes the room through the floors and shelves, wanting to get her away from the ethereal figure at her window but Mirabel doesn't care. The figure is singing and she wants to follow wherever they go, where there are no failed ceremonies, no Abuelas being disappointed in her, and no families to sadden. She won't make her familia sad anymore if she goes with them.
I promise you'll never be lonely.
She takes the figure's hand.
The door to the room slams open and Mirabel sees her Mamá and Papí, but she can't hear them now because the figure wraps her in their arms so snuggly, like a protective blanket that keeps the pain and terrible memories away. Inwardly, she bids her parents goodbye, for she is going on an adventure.
Her body falls limp in their hold, soothed by the figure's melody. The same melody then ushers her into pleasant dreams and Mirabel believes that her wishes are finally coming true.