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“Julieta – Julieta!” Alma cried, lunging forward in an attempt to keep the pitcher from tipping.
It was too late.
Six-year-old Julieta, in reaching for the eggs on the counter, knocked over the pitcher of fresh milk. It had been completely full; they’d just gotten the delivery half an hour ago. In her effort to catch it, Alma only served to knock it further out of her grasp. The tin pitcher bounced off the counter and landed with a wet splat in the puddle, splashing little droplets on their legs and the hems of their skirts. A little river of the creamy liquid trailed along the counter and spilled over the edge of it, making the puddle on the floor larger. Casita – a little too late to prevent the spill, but just in time to help clean it up – lifted several tiles on the countertop and floor, attempting to contain the mess.
Julieta froze, and then turned to her madre with wide, frightened eyes. “Lo – lo siento, Mamí, I didn’t – I didn’t mean to - ”
Alma sighed. “It’s – it’s okay, Julieta. No use crying over spilled milk. Next time, we’ll just – be more careful, sí?” She wasn’t angry; she was just – so, so incredibly tired. Five years of leading the town and rebuilding her life, her niños lives, and the lives of all the other refugees who had fled, and she’d finally managed to find some sort of semblance of normality. She’d finally managed to carve out some small piece of routine in the midst of the grief and anger and longing that still threatened to choke her whenever she thought for too long about her husband and his sacrifice and the men who took him from her and from her bebés.
Having a living house – as strange and fantastical has it had been to discover – had helped. Keeping track of three babies was no easy feat, but having a house that could open and shut doors and slide her mischievous triplets away from trouble was a little miracle of its own.
And then her triplets had turned five, and her life had been turned inside out and upside down once again.
Three doors and three gifts and they were still figuring out how they worked and how they could use them to help the town. (Because that had to be why they were given gifts. Why else, but to protect them and keep them safe? Safe from ever experiencing what had happened to her…what had happened to all the adults in town?) Julieta’s gift had obvious and practical applications, but if Alma did too much in the process then the gift didn’t work. Teaching a five year old – now six – to cook without doing everything for her was proving to be an extremely nuanced task.
Pepa’s was – Alma didn’t even know what to do with Pepa’s gift. It was charming at times and at other times – extremely frustrating and even frightening. Sometimes the only thing she could think to do in the midst of Pepa’s emotional storms was to scoop her daughter up and run her to the fields on the outskirts of town so that at least the crops would get some water.
And Bruno –
“Anybody need some towels?” Bruno skidded into the kitchen, arms loaded with old rags. His chin rested on top of the pile and he grinned at the two of them.
Alma’s heart surged with pride as Bruno set the pile on a kitchen chair and handed both Julieta and herself a rag to mop up the mess. Her little shining star. At least Bruno’s gift was always useful, always helpful. Bruno’s gift, out of all of them, would protect them.
“Gracias, mijo.” Alma kissed both of his cheeks and the three of them began cleaning up the spill.
When Pepa came in five minutes later, slipped on a remnant of milk and landed on her behind and promptly started crying and raining, Bruno hastened to reassure her – “It’s okay, Pepa! We still needed to mop anyway. It was still sticky. Your gift is helping!”
***
Isabela, two years old, positively howled as her cup bounced across the floor, leaving a milky trail in its wake. She writhed in anger, attempting and failing to free herself from the little booster seat.
It was the last of the milk and they’d have to wait until tomorrow to get more, but she was not having it.
Dolores began crying as well, and Agustín ran into the room, slipping and skidding across the floor and hitting the table with a crash. He let out a low moan and slowly pulled himself upright, assisted by Casita’s tiles. Casita clicked around him, worried and almost apologetic for not being able to stop him sooner.
Félix sighed and picked up the cup. He walked over to Isabela and held it in front of her. “It’s empty now, mi florita,” he apologized. “You can still have the cup though, or I can get you some water - ” He handed her the little tin cup, and she attempted to drink from it. Realizing it was empty, she threw it on the floor again with an angry wail.
Pepa sighed and scooped up Dolores, attempting to comfort her.
“Ugh,” Agustín groaned. “I think – I might have broken something.”
“Here. Juli’s still in town. I don’t – I don’t think she’s coming home for dinner,” Bruno mumbled as he handed his cuñado an arepa. “At least – not until later.”
Agustín took it gratefully and flexed his hand and rotated his ankle as his wife’s cooking took affect. “Ah. Gracias, Bruno.”
“Ah - sure. No problem.” Bruno said quietly. He had a rolled-up towel under his arm as well, and dropped it on the floor and began to swoosh it around with his foot, soaking up the mess.
He looked up at Pepa and her eyes were narrowed at him.
Bruno squinted back at her. “What?”
“If you knew she was going to drop the milk why’d you give it to her in the first place?” Pepa said. She immediately winced and the cloud above her head grew larger and darker, a sudden burst of wind filling the room. She knew her tone was harsher than she intended it to be. “Bruno. I didn’t mean - ”
His body stilled and his shoulders were tense as he stared at the towel under his foot. “Pepa, she’s two. If we have milk and she wants milk, I’m going to give it her. Am I not allowed to give mi sobrinas snacks now?” He paused. “I didn’t have a vision before I gave her the milk. All I saw was Agustín sliding across the floor a few minutes ago. I can’t – I can’t – you want me to see if a snack results in an injury every time I offer them one?”
Pepa sighed and pinched her nose as Félix took Dolores from her and Agustín recovered and took Isabela from her seat at the table. The men left the room with their daughters and Pepa stooped down to help Bruno clean up the mess. After a moment, she spoke again. “I don’t expect you to look into the future every time you offer the kids a snack, Bruno. You know that.”
“I know,” he whispered.
“Besides,” Pepa continued, attempting to smile, attempting to cheer herself up so that her cloud would disappear before Mamá came home with Julieta. “No use crying over spilled milk. It’s just milk, eh?”
“Heh. Yeah.” Bruno agreed. “Just – just milk.”
But it wasn’t just about the milk.
How far he’d fallen, these past ten years. He was no longer the shining star of the Encanto, no longer the one people looked to and trusted in and relied on. His visions were once a thing of beauty, a thing of pride, and a source of comfort.
Now, they were the bane of his existence and he couldn’t escape the pressing weight of expectation and disappointment that threatened to bury him every day. If he saw good, he was blamed for not warning them about the bad. In essence they - they cried over their spilled milk. If he saw bad, he was chastised for not seeking out the good. They would sniff and scorn and tell him – in essence - well, it was just milk. Why’d he have to go and make a big deal out of it spilling? There was more to life than milk.
He couldn’t even give his nieces a snack without being questioned by his own sister now.
But he knew he wasn’t the only one fraying at the edges. Pepa was constantly pasting on a smile. She seemed to think if she just faked being happy enough, she actually would be. Julieta was always tired, always over worked. Mamá was constantly avoiding talking about their feelings – about her feelings - and pasting makeshift apologies over deep, old wounds.
He sighed and finished cleaning up the mess.
If only cleaning up the mess in his family was this easy.
***
“Dolores, he’s gonna spill it,” Bruno warned.
“Oh, it’s okay, he’s been doing really - ”
Pedro sneezed and the cup in his chubby toddler hands jerked, splashing milk all over himself and his madre.
“ – well.” Dolores finished flatly, blinking the milk from her eyes.
Camilo snorted and Mirabel tried not to, but they both ended up cracking up as Pedro attempted to lick the milk off his face with his small pink tongue, twisting in his seat and contorting his face and making a bigger mess in the process.
Bruno sighed, smiled to himself, and held out a handkerchief.
“Gracias, Tío!” Dolores laughed. She wiped off her face and then carefully cleaned off Pedro’s chubby cheeks, and the two-year-old struggled and giggled against his mamá’s efforts.
“Did you know that was gonna happen?” Antonio asked quietly. He was nine years old, now, but still such a calm, gentle soul.
“I did, but not because of a vision. It was pure experience,” Bruno chuckled softly.
“Pure Tío Experience! The man is an expert!” Félix said.
Pepa smiled affectionately at him and helped Dolores pull Pedro out of his seat for a change of clothes. “Pure tío experience, ” she cooed at the baby. “And he’s the best tío, isn’t he? The best tío in the world.”
“Hey!” Agustín looked to Pepa with a wounded expression on his face. Julieta shook her head and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He pulled her close for moral support.
“Best Rat Tío,” Pepa amended.
“Hey!” It was Bruno’s turn to protest. “That makes me sound – like - I’m a rat.”
“Best…best Telenovela, Story-telling Tío?”
He snorted. “Better.”
“And I’m….?” Agustín said, though he had smile on a face.
“Best Piano-playing Tío.” Pepa reassured him.
Antonio laughed as Pedro sneezed again, three times in succession, and managed to cover his abuela in baby spit. Pepa wrinkled her nose but cuddled him close and whisked him out of the room, Dolores beside her.
“Did I ever do that? Spill my milk because I sneezed, I mean?” Antonio addressed the question to Bruno, and it was innocent enough.
Bruno hesitated.
Alma, who had been happily watching the entire thing unfold from her seat beside Mirabel at the head of the table, froze.
It had been four years since Bruno’s return. Four years since Casita fell and was rebuilt. Four years since she’d finally allowed her old wounds from Pedro’s death and the suffocating responsibility of leading a town and preserving a Miracle to be opened, to be cleansed, and to heal.
So much had changed, and for the better. Her family was stronger, happier, and closer than ever. She’d spoken with everyone, she’d apologized, she was working, still working to make amends. But things with Bruno – they were still hard. Four years later. It took forty-odd years to make the mess, it might take that long to clean it up. Her children would be cleaning up the mess she’d made long after she was gone. She’d do as much as she could before that happened. She was making progress.
But still, there was this.
There would always be the fact that her own brokenness had spread out from her soul like a weed and wrapped its way around those closest to her; it had squeezed the life out of her familia, out of her Brunito. He’d hidden in the walls for a decade because of her. He’d left because of her. He couldn’t answer an innocent question from Antonio about what he was like as a baby because he was not there when Antonio was a baby. Not really. Not in the way he should have been. Because of her.
Alma stared at the plate in front of her as Mirabel cut in and answered the question, telling Antonio anecdote after anecdote of the silly things he’d done as a baby.
***
Later that night, Alma could not sleep. She wandered down to the kitchen, and there, in the dark, was Bruno.
“Brunito?” She whispered, and he jumped, effectively knocking over the mug of milk he was going to heat to make hot chocolate. Casita, just as it had done all those years ago when her triplets were six years old, lifted the tiles to keep the milk pooled and contained.
“Ah! Lo – lo siento, Mamá! You just – ah – startled me.” Bruno apologized, looking around the room for something to clean it up with. He sighed when all he could find was a hand towel hanging off the wall. He wrung it in his hands as he spoke to her. “I – ah – sorry if I woke you. I was just – having trouble sleeping and I thought – hey – maybe - ” He stopped and looked up at her, and froze when he saw the tears streaming down her face. “…Mamá?” He whispered.
“Bruno. Brunito. I am – I am so sorry.” She sobbed.
“Hey, it’s okay, it’s just a little milk!” He laughed nervously.
She shook her head. “I am – I will never – how could I - ”
He swallowed.
“I just – wanted to keep you all safe. And I wanted to – honor Pedro. And I am sorry I let – my desire – to earn his sacrifice – cause you pain. I’m sorry, Bruno. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t – I’m sorry I let my brokenness break you, too.”
She was swallowed up in his arms. His hands were trembling and she hugged him back, rocking him side to side in the dark and patting his back as she had when he was a baby. “I’ve wasted so much time.”
“So have I.” He just hugged her, harder. “So have I. But we still have plenty left.” His voice broke and she felt the tell-tale drip of tears on her shoulder, soaking through her shawl and nightgown. “We all still have plenty of time left. We’ll be okay.”
Alma sighed and nodded, pulling away and brushing the tears from her eyes with her thumbs. “Te amo, Bruno.”
“Te amo, Mamá.”
Maybe crying over spilled milk wasn’t such a bad thing after all.