Chapter Text
Alma hurried into Julieta and Agustín’s room just after her son-in-law and stopped a few steps in, watching helplessly and wordlessly as he laid Julieta on the covers with gentleness he always showed towards her.
For a few long seconds, everything was silent.
Then, she turned her head to the side.
Pepa stood two or three steps away from her, tugging nervously on her braid as she always did when she still had her gift and the cloud, along with her emotions, was going out of control.
To Alma, it was clear Pepa was perfectly knowledgeable of her sister’s condition. Pepa knew what happened. And considering her behaviour, she had known it for quite some time.
The matriarch took a deep breath and came closer, taking Pepa’s arm and walking with her into the corner of the room.
Her middle child stared at her with wide, anxious eyes and Alma could feel her eyebrows furrowing as worry squeezed her heart.
“What’s going on, mija?” she asked in a tone as soft as she could, to not shake Pepa too much. She wanted answers and anxious Pepa wouldn’t give them to her.
The younger woman bit her lip, her hand stilling halfway through her braid as she shot a nervous glance at Agustín, then leaned closer to her. “Julieta, she’s–” and she stopped.
Alma looked at her, concern hidden deep in her eyes. “Julieta is what?” she prodded and Pepa’s lower lip got white under her teeth. “Why did you send Isabela for Andrea? What ladies’ business were you talking about?”
Andrea Guzmán had been her dear friend for years, and Alma respected her very much for everything she accomplished through the years and for what person she was in general.
Andrea was a few years younger but Alma had known her since they were children. In fact, Andrea was there when the Madrigal triplets were born. Then, she had been just their midwife’s apprentice, but she assisted in their birth, which was one of her first experiences in her field.
Then, after their village was attacked and they had to run for their lives… Andrea became the only midwife in the newly established Encanto. Not even twenty and with a very brief experience, more educated in theory than in practice, she had to become an expert. And she did, though the beginning wasn’t easy.
But years of being the only woman able to help bring children into the world resulted in her early retirement. Before that, she had two apprentices - one of those two younger women was there when all of the Madrigals grandchildren were being born.
She wasn’t an active midwife now. There were two more in their Encanto. So why was she needed? Why her? Julieta looked so unwell for quite some time, Alma was sure that if she was suffering from something connected to that lady business Pepa was talking about, the younger midwives would be of much more help to them.
“Is she sick?” she asked finally, and there was silence. “Pepa?”
“She’s pregnant.”
“What.”
She couldn’t help it. The answer Pepa had for her was nothing she was preparing herself to hear.
Her children were fifty, almost fifty-one. They all were greying, both her daughters had families on their own - husbands and children. Bruno had his rats.
There were no Madrigal children since little Antonio, and even he came as a surprise, for Pepa had been told she would never have children after Camilo. And now her middle child was telling her that her oldest child was expecting?
Alma was prepared for everything. She was prepared to hear that maybe Julieta was going through menopause that took an awful toll on her health. She was prepared to heart about any possible sickness that the midwife might have had the best knowledge of.
But the pregnancy? She wasn’t prepared for that. She was pretty sure she was done with grandchildren.
But it all made sense, she thought when the first wave of shock washed off.
The tiredness that seemed to torment Julieta every day, her pickiness when it came to food, the sudden closeness between her and Pepa and all that fretting on Pepa’s part.
Pepa said nothing more, she turned away and started pacing around the room while Agustín was just staring at Julieta, his face shocked but weirdly distant, as if he was recalling something.
And Alma - Alma just stood there, frozen in place. One of her hands found its way to rest on her chest as the other tightened around the small chain with a locket she kept on her hip.
Julieta was pregnant.
Julieta was pregnant, and she was fifty years old, and her youngest child had just died–
Alma took a deep breath, though her lungs felt like contracting and her heart pounded in her chest loudly.
There was no day that she didn’t think of Mirabel.
Since the very day of her death, Mirabel was on her mind when she woke up and she was the last thing she thought about when falling asleep.
Their fight was playing in her memory again and again, and the girl’s heartbreak - one of the last expressions Alma had seen on her, then very much alive, face - at Alma’s accusations was permanently imprinted in her mind.
There was no escaping from the guilt she felt. There was no escaping from the mistakes she made. There was no escaping from the consequences she now had to face.
She couldn’t even imagine what Julieta must have felt. What she still felt.
Alma lost her husband and it broke her heart, her soul and all her plans for life. And they both had so many plans.
But she couldn’t imagine losing a child.
Bruno… Bruno was gone for ten years but Alma always felt like he was still alive. She just knew he was somewhere there and she could have only hoped he was safe, even if in her anger she was telling herself she shouldn’t worry because he left the family, so he did the worst thing imaginable to her.
But losing him forever, seeing his dead body - it would break her and she knew that. Whatever disagreements might have been between her or any of her children, she would have been just as heartbroken if any of them had been hurt.
Yet Julieta - her sweet, caring, loving Julieta - had to experience it. She had to experience unimaginable. She lost her child. She lost her youngest daughter.
And Alma might have been blind to many things in her life that she now regretted but she had never been blind to the bond Julieta and Mirabel had had between them.
Even before the ceremony, Mirabel had always followed her mother everywhere - she was offering help and hugs and kisses and bright smiles to everyone, but most often to Julieta. And after her failed gift ceremony, they only seemed to grow closer.
While not in school, Mirabel was often spotted in the kitchen where she tried to help the best her little self could, then she often accompanied Julieta in town at her stand and while doing groceries, only to help her prepare the table and clean up after cooking in the evenings.
With some bitterness, Alma remembered that for some reason that closeness irritated her.
“You should let your madre work, Mirabel,” she said to the little girl who was sitting on the counter, swaying her legs. “You’re distracting her.”
“She really isn’t, Mamá,” Julieta glanced at her over her shoulder. “She’s helping me. Right, mi vida?” there was a tap on Mirabel’s nose that made her giggle.
“By sitting there and babbling to you?”
A sigh. “ Mamá…”
“No, Julieta,” she said with a note of finality in her voice. “Mirabel has to learn that people have responsibilities that come as a priority,” she looked at Mirabel who was peeking at her from under her lashes. “Your priority is school, Mirabel. Go to your room and do your homework.”
“Si, Abuela.” the little girl hopped down, gave her mother a quick hug around the legs and hurried out of the kitchen.
Julieta turned around, a pained look on her face. “You’re too hard on Mirabel. She was helping.”
“That’s not what helping looks like, Julieta. She spends too much time with you. It’s distracting.”
“She’s my hija,” was an answer. “Her spending time with me shouldn’t be something weird to you.”
“She’s almost six. Her sisters were helping the community at this age. She has no gift, so the best she can help is by leaving you alone to do your work.”
Julieta opened her mouth to say something but there was a loud sniff on the other side of the entrance to the kitchen, then loud little steps slowly fading away. Mirabel heard it all.
And she took her words to her heart. From that day on, Mirabel hadn’t been in the kitchen as much as before. She hadn’t followed Julieta’s every step. She hadn’t gone to help her on the stand or doing groceries anymore.
She had only helped to lay the table and clean up after meals.
Alma hadn't regretted it then. She regretted it now, and she regretted it when Julieta brought it up, just a day after Mirabel’s death.
“Do you remember the day you told Mirabel–” Julieta’s voice cracked but her eyebrows were lowered and there was raw anger - so uncharacteristic for her - in her voice. “You told mi mariposita that she should leave me alone to my duties?”
“Julieta–” she tried, not really knowing what to say.
Her oldest shook her head. “I had never forgiven you for that, Mamá. I will never forgive you for that,” she said and the tears flowed freely down her face. “I had come to her that day and offered her cuddles before bed because it had been our tradition. But do you know what she said? She said: I’m six, Mami. I’m a big girl now. I don’t want your cuddles. The town needs you more.”
Alma’s throat tightened. “Julieta…”
“Had you–” a deep breath. “Had you said the same to Isabela and Luisa? Had you said the same to my other hijas?”
Alma could only close her eyes.
“They had stopped coming to me shortly after their fifth birthdays,” Julieta continued quietly as if the realisation only dawned on her. “Mi flor - Isabela used to tell me everything, she had trusted me, she had confided in me, but after her gift ceremony? She’d say: I’m big girl now. I can have my secrets.”
Alma opened her eyes then and it was a mistake. Her oldest looked at her with so much anger, with so much pain–
“And Luisa, mi leona,” her voice was now barely a whisper. “She had always been more a papá’s girl but we still had had our traditions. We used to read together, she had loved mythology so much, I’d always read to her and we’d talk for hours about those stories but after her gift ceremony? She’d say: I’m a big girl now and you have Mira to take care of. And I wanna read better on my own,” her voice broke and she burst into awfully sounding sobs. “You had told them to leave me alone, hadn’t you? You had torn my daughters away from me.”
Alma was silent.
“And now I don’t have my gift anymore, I’m free but Mirabel is–” a shaky breath. “Dead.”
There was nothing more for her to tell than… “Lo siento mucho, mija.”
Julieta shook her head. “I don’t– it’s not–” she gave up on speaking, turned around and ran.
Julieta had run away from her. She had run away from her own mother. And Alma couldn’t blame her for that.
She was shaken out of her thoughts when she heard some loud steps and voices tattling to each other and then her old friend rushed into the room with a bag in her hand.
Alma took a deep breath and having one look at Isabela and Luisa, made her decision, shooing Agustín out of the room, to join them.
When she closed the door after him, Pepa and Andrea were talking to each other, the latter opening her back and searching for something.
It was when Alma approached the bed and looked at her. “Why didn’t you tell me about Julieta’s condition?”
Andrea didn’t look up. “Such was her request.”
“We’ve been friends for years,” Alma continued, still looking at the other woman’s face, searching. “You should have–”
“Forgive me, Alma,” Andrea said quickly, still averting her gaze as she found something and pulled it out of the bag. “But Julieta is an adult and my patient, I didn’t have to tell you anything concerning her health, especially if she didn’t want me to.”
“But why–”
The midwife finally met her gaze. “It’s not me you should ask that question,” she turned around and approached Julieta’s unconscious form. “I’m here to do my job and ensure your hija and her bebé are alright, so please, do not distract me now.”
Her bebé.
Alma took another deep breath.
When she looked at the bed, Pepa was sitting there, brushing her slender fingers through Julieta’s loose hair. Alma thought her younger daughter looked tired. And worried. It was something all her children had in common - they worried so much, about everything.
“Pepita,” she said quietly and Pepa stilled but hummed, indicating she listened. “How far along is she?”
“Sixteen weeks, more or less.”
“She kept it a secret for four months?”
Pepa looked at her, a brief irritation flashing across her face. “What’s the point of your questions, Mamá?”
Alma pursed her lips. “Why didn’t she say anything? Even Agustín looked surprised when he looked at her as if he didn't know–”
“Because he didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Ay Mamá,” Pepa shot her a look. “Do I look like Julieta to you? It’s something you should ask her…”
But unsaid was that Alma and Julieta hadn’t talked for months. Julieta avoided her and didn’t even greet her in the mornings when they saw each other. She talked, more or less, with anyone. But not with her.
Alma couldn’t blame her, not exactly. She saw her mistakes. She felt remorse. But she couldn’t turn back time. And Julieta didn’t want her apologies - she made it clear the first time Alma tried to do it.
She didn’t try again. She decided to give her oldest child space. And so, months passed, and things were still tense between them.
“But you know why,” she said quietly.
She heard two sighs - Pepa got up from the bed to make room for Andrea, and the older woman glanced at her from checking Julieta’s pulse. Her daughter looked at her. “Because Julieta was– is sure,” she said, clenching her fists. “That she’s going to lose this bebé just like she lost Mirabel and… the one before her.”
Alma sucked in a breath.
Andrea looked up with interest. “She experienced miscarriages before? She didn’t tell me…”
“Once,” Pepa turned to her. “Should it be concerning? Is she–”
The midwife patted her shoulder. “Ay cálmate,” she said in a soft voice. “It’d be concerning if she had a few miscarriages in a row and so on, but I see no need to worry about this one. Well, not to worry that much. Her fainting still is a little concerning to me. What happened?”
It was the moment the temperature in the room dropped a few grades. Pepa shot Alma a look before turning from her, both arms crossed over her chest. “She had a panic attack.”
Andrea knitted her eyebrows worryingly. “A panic attack?”
“Someone,” Pepa said slowly. “Forced her into a situation she wasn’t comfortable with and she couldn’t breathe, then she fainted.”
“Ay, not good.”
“Claro,” Alma saw Pepa glaring at her for a few seconds.
She felt awful for that alone. She should have never forced her daughter into a stressful situation, especially while lacking information about what the situation exactly was.
“It was my fault.”
Her quiet confession took both women by surprise.
Pepa looked at her, eyes wide, while Andrea quirked one eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I had no idea…”
It was a lame excuse.
Pepa scoffed. “That seems to be a pattern with you, Mamá. You don’t know and yet…” she sighed, then returned to Julieta's side at the edge of the bed when she smoothed her sister’s blouse with her fingers. “Is she going to be okay?”
Andrea gave her a small, reassuring smile. “She’s not bleeding nor cramping. I think it’s just… exhaustion, and the panic attack and lack of oxygen clearly didn’t help at all. But she’s breathing properly, and I think she’d be awake soon. If not, then we should worry.”
“And the bebé?”
A bit of silence.
Alma looked between three women with concern, pulling her black shawl closer around her shoulders.
“The bebé seems alright,” she said at last, but there was something in her voice that made Alma uneasy. “But Julieta is an older mother. This pregnancy is considered riskier, not only because of her age but also because of the situation she’s in. She needs to eat more, she’s still too skinny to my liking. Does she take those herbs? They should lessen nausea…”
“They did, a little,” Pepa tugged on her braid. “And she told me she wasn’t nauseous for the past few days. I think she passed that stage.”
“Bueno,” was the answer. “She needs to rest more. She needs to sleep and avoid stress. I know it’s hard for her now… But I don’t think she’ll miscarry. I think, and hope, she’ll carry it to term and have a healthy baby in another five months.”
Both Pepa and Alma exhaled with relief.
Andrea started gathering her things into her bag. “I’ll be back tomorrow. But don’t hesitate to fetch me if something happens. And Pepa…”
“Si?”
“Talk to her, please. I believe you may be the only person to get through to her. She must realise it’s time to take care of herself. Neither of us wants her to be hurt more.”
Alma saw the glance Pepa sent her way at those words.
She pursed her lips.
Maybe it was better that Julieta avoided her, after all. This way Alma wouldn’t hurt her any more than she had done so far.
It was time to let her be.