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Isabel doesn’t have a favorite grandchild.
She doesn’t.
However —
Eddie is her first. He’s the one who made her a grandmother. The one who looked at her with his big, brown eyes and called her wela (because “abuela” was too difficult to say at the tender age of two); that was all it took to have her wrapped around his finger. And over three decades later, nothing has changed. When she asked Eddie if he wanted her to bring anything from El Paso, the only thing he said was: Just yourself —
But then he also happened to mention that he hadn’t had her tamales in a while.
Which is why she’s now carrying a thermal bag filled with food into her grandson’s kitchen.
(She wasn’t only going to bring tamales.)
“Hola, mi ángel.”
“Hey, Abuela.” Eddie checks the underside of the ribeyes he has on the griddle pan before turning to her, grinning softly. “Qué tal? Why aren’t you napping too? You’re not tired?”
“Ay, I already slept a little on the plane, and I want to be able to fall asleep tonight.”
That doesn’t seem to be a concern for Buck and Christopher though—both of whom began dozing off on the couch almost as soon as they started some documentary on… space? She believes? So she and Eddie try to move around the kitchen lightly, speaking in low voices.
“Your tía couldn’t come for dinner?”
“She said she won’t make it over here in time.” He shrugs.
Isabel sets the tupperware containers somewhere on the shelf above a tub of rocky road ice cream before walking over to where Eddie is cooking. “From what?”
“Some old friend is in town tonight.” Ah. She raises a brow, and he mirrors the movement. They both seem to have the same understanding. “But she made sure I have an extra key so we can take you there whenever you’re ready.”
“Mm…and that’s why she didn’t tell me.”
“What did she say to you?”
“That she’ll let me know if she can eat with us—”
“Which is a no.”
Which is a no.” She repeats.
There’s a pause when they catch each other’s eyes, and in the next instant they’re giggling—their arms pressing into one another as they duck their heads to try to contain the fizzy pop of their laughter.
“So…” Eddie sucks in a whistle. “Do you know who this old friend is?”
“Tú qué crees?”
His palms go up in surrender. “Okay, okay.”
“Eighteen. Fifty-eight.” She waves her hand. “It doesn’t matter what age she is. She still won’t tell me everything.” Children never stop being your children—which is good, Isabel thinks. She never planned to stop worrying about them.
She watches Eddie turn back to the stove top, where the browning onions are tossed first, then meat is flipped on the cast iron. He takes a sip of his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but the edges of his lips are still turned up—
It’s easy to see when Eddie is happy: his face flushes with color, and the browns of his eyes become warmer, vivid. She can see it in his body too. In his neck, his arms, his back. Before, he would either be hunched in on himself or standing at attention, even before his service in the army. And Isabel understood. So much of his life was spent curled around himself and then, when Christopher was born, curled around his son. She always had the sense that he felt like he was born with his heart outside of his ribs, defenseless and soft in the otherwise unforgiving desert of El Paso where the only things that survive are the armored and the prickly. Neither of those attributes were her Eddito’s (nor would they ever be). He tried though. She saw it with Shannon because that’s who he thought he had to be. And then again when he first moved to Los Angeles. Enough was enough—Isabel held his chin between her thumb and forefinger and asked: Do you think you can hide from me?
She’s been watching him exhale ever since.
Yet, there’s something different about Eddie lately. Something good. Not a slow and steady breath out but a full release.
She wants to ask—
She’s just not sure he wants her to.
Eddie makes that decision for her though, cutting off that thought before she can chase it further. “I’m sorry we don’t have an extra bed for you here—“
“No, no—“
“I thought maybe Chris could stay in my bed,” he points to himself, “and you take his,” then at her, “but I don’t think you’ll be as comfortable here as you will at Tía’s since the bed here’s a twin, and she has a full.”
“Don’t worry, mi amor.” She rubs his arm. “We’ll all have breakfast together anyway.”
“I know—I just… we haven’t seen you in a while.”
It’s an I miss you—
And an I love you—
And a Los Angeles feels less like home without you.
“It’s been too long,” she agrees.
Moving to El Paso and away from Eddie and Christopher and Pepa wasn’t something Isabel wanted , but the reality is that she was lucky her last fall had only resulted in a bruised hip because, at the time, she had no one to call for help or a phone she could reach. Now that Ramon is recently retired, he and Helena can provide those extra hands for her.
(Isabel continues to refuse help in the kitchen, however, and Helena continues to offer it—
The Diaz men aren’t the only stubborn ones in the family)
Still, she visits Eddie and Christopher when she can. There’s no occasion, no formal reason why she flew in on this particular Tuesday to be here, nor does she ever look for a justification. She just misses them—
And it looks like they’ve missed her too.
So she cups her grandson’s cheek in her hand, and he lets her. Like this, she feels the blush of his face in her palm—no doubt from the heat he’d been standing in front of as he prepared dinner. The skin is a little damp too; his sweat is starting to curl the hair along his temple, and it makes him look a little more like the two-year-old who had just been learning how to speak. How many times has she held him since then? How many times has she crossed him and prayed to God that it not be the last time, knowing her little hero isn’t just hers alone?
“What?”
“Nada, Eddito. Nada.” Her hand travels down to his sticky back, rubbing circles across it. “Te quiero.”
“Me too.”
“Now will you let me help you with something? The salad? Setting the table?”
He snorts. “And you’re definitely sure you’re not checking whether I burned the meat?” She looks up at him, and he has that same playful expression he always does when he knows he sees right through you. “You don’t have to keep an eye on me, you know. I can cook pretty good now. Besides, I’m almost done.”
“Primero que nada, I will always want to check on you.” She squeezes his arm once. “So don’t forget it, ah?”
It’s true.
When Ramon was just starting out his career at the petroleum company and Helena had no clue what to do on her own, Isabel was there. She changed his diapers and fed him and bathed him and took him to the playground and pushed him on the swings. It was difficult to make the drive from Los Angeles to El Paso as often as she had been, so she decided to stay for months at a time during those first few years of his life.
They were some of the best she’s ever spent. And the part she loved the most?
Eddie always looked for her.
He never said it outright. Instead, he would push himself onto the sofa where she was watching María la del Barrio and nudge his way across until she wrapped an arm around him, tucking him against her.
(More often than not, the first commercial break wasn’t on before he was snoring softly into her shirt. That was okay though. It was his nap time anyway.)
“Abuela. Grab a seat. Relax. You’re helping me by keeping me company.”
“Ya, ya.” One hand is on the back of the chair and the other is on the breakfast table to help lower herself into the seat. “I’m not that old.”
“Your knees say otherwise.”
Isabel wags her finger. “You’re lucky I’m over here, and you’re over there.”
She’s met with a teasing head tilt and an exaggerated frown so she tsks, earning another chuckle. When Eddie turns around again, she takes the opportunity to study the space, not wanting her grandson to catch on that she suspects there’s something, or someone, that has contributed to the easy way he’s now carrying himself. The sun’s been setting though, and the only light on is the one above the stovetop where it wraps around Eddie in a cool white. It’s hard to make out the text on the calendar from here, so her eyes roam over the photos held up by the circular magnets. There’s one of Christopher when he was four. One of Eddie and Christopher sitting on the steps of her son’s porch. Another that seems to be taken at the LA Zoo, only with Buck instead of Eddie. Her first thought was that Christopher had chosen them, but they’re placed too high for that to be true.
Speaking of—
“Cómo está mi nietito?”
Eddie turns his head towards her briefly before returning his attention to the lettuce he’s chopping. “He’s good, he’s good.” Chop. “Started askin’ me if he could hang out with his friends.” Chop. “Without me.” Chop. “Even went to a school dance with somebody who I’m pretty sure is his first crush. He’s not kissing though. At least… I don’t think he is. Not that he said anything,” he adds. “Buck is fu-teasing, sorry. Teasing me that Chris is going out on dates.” When he faces her again, his brows are knit together; the tension tugs on his lips and chin too. “When did he start growin’ up on me so fast?”
Mm.
“They’ll do that.”
“It’s-it’s weird. I want him to have all these life experiences. Go out. Make new friends. Make mistakes. Learn about anything and everything. Be a kid, y’know? At the same time, I—”
“Don’t want him to forget the way back?”
“Yeah… maybe.” He dries his hands with the kitchen towel hanging off the edge of the sink, swaps it for his beer on the countertop, and sits down in front of her. “I just hope he knows he can always talk to me.”
“Y tú?”
“Qué?”
“Your father was worried about you for some time. How are things with him now?”
“You know about all that?”
Isabel shrugs. She doesn’t know everything, but she does know her boys.
Eddie leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Better than I expected, if I’m being honest. We call each other a few times a week, checkin’ in. I’m getting used to telling him things, and—he’s always cared, right? But now he’s making an effort to show me too. So,” he leans forward, resting his weight on his forearms, “we’re both trying. Can’t ask for more than that”
She takes his hands in hers. “There’s this old Mexican saying: los niños son como las semillas.”
“Seeds.” He deadpans.
“Sí, seeds.” As if translating the word makes the whole thing more comprehensible. Little does he know—
“Never heard of that expression.”
“That’s because I made it up.” Isabel grins. “Suena bien, no?” She gets an eye roll, but he’s grinning back. “Okay.” Her hand claps the back of his with a thump. “Escúchame.”
“Okay, sorry, sorry. Why are kids like seeds?”
“Ahorita te cuento.” She starts again, “Children are like seeds because they are much more resilient than we give them credit for. They can survive without water and sunlight for years, but to grow? To spread their roots deep and stand on their own? They need those things. It is our job as parents to do what we can so they have that.” He’s eyeing her like he doesn’t really know where this is going. Admittedly, it’s perhaps a roundabout way to say what she intends, but at least she has his full attention. “Your father will always want to protect you the way he knows how, just like you’re finding yourself doing with Christopher. It’s a delicate balance—”
Eddie scoffs. “You’re telling me.”
“—but it’s important we talk to each other so we get that balance right.”
“I've been working on that a lot lately.”
They’re still enough to hear the house breathing: the hum of the fridge filtering through the pause, the quiet murmur of voices from the other room where the television is still playing that show—it’s harder to pick up those ambient sounds now. Older ears make the world a little muted. A little softer. Isabel watches the palm fronds rustle against the back window; the blinds are drawn, so all she really sees is the shadow they cast.
“You’re happy, Eddito?”
He looks up at her, his eyes big and the same shade of brown he had when he was a little boy. The question caught him by surprise, but his hands are steady. His voice too, “Yeah, I think so. Getting there.”
“Good. Then I’m happy.” It’s all Isabel wants for him. She squeezes his wrists. “Would you like to tell me about it?”
(It happens too quickly to be sure… but his eyes almost certainly flicker towards the kitchen door. The same kitchen door that leads to the living room. And the same living room where—)
“Not… not yet.”
“Okay, mi amor. Okay.”
The food is probably getting cold by now, so she moves to get up and prepare the table, ready to tell Eddie to go wake up his boys so they can eat. That is, until she feels a warm hand on her forearm. “I do though. Want to tell you. Soon.”
“Te espero.” She wraps her hand over his. “But for now, let’s eat.”