Sins of the Child
By Fewthistle

See Part 1 for disclaimers.

Author's Note#4: Well, since we know little to nothing about Natalia's family and her past, I have taken some liberties. I know there is no reference to her having siblings, but my own personal experience with many Puerto Rican friends leads me to surmise that she probably does. Given the proscriptions of the church and societal expectations, it is rare to find Puerto Rican families with only one child. And, to me at least, there is a symmetry in Natalia having two older brothers, making her not only the youngest, but the only girl, a factor that would no doubt play a large part in the reaction of her parents to her unexpected pregnancy at 16. I have tried not to stray too far down the path of stereotypes in terms of sibling relationships, but clichés are clichés for a reason: they hold elemental truths. Thus, Natalia's brothers. Chalk it all up to poetic license, if you will.

VIII.

A rush of memories nearly overwhelmed her: her father reading to her each night, his soothing baritone lulling her to sleep. Her brothers, so much older than she, Roberto twelve years older, Carlos ten, swinging her like a sack of potatoes between them, back and forth as they walked down the street toward the grocery store, promising her a candy bar if she didn't tell her parents about the cigarettes she'd seen them buy. She almost didn't recognize those two laughing teenagers in the sober men standing at her father's side.

One of them recognized her, though.

Roberto's words echoed harshly against the institutional beige of the walls, his face contorted, angry, incredulous.

“What the hell are you doing here?!”

Even as her mouth fell open slightly at the spite and contempt in his voice, Natalia couldn't help but ask herself the same question. The answer came as Olivia's words repeated in her mind: “You came because she asked you to. You're not the one who has any explaining or apologizing to do. Don't forget, baby, you aren't sixteen anymore. You're a grown woman, who managed to raise a son all on her own. You're smart and strong and I love you.”

“¡Basta, Roberto!” Natalia could see the faint flush that stained her father's cheeks as he turned to his eldest son, although she couldn't be certain that it was merely from anger or if there was a hint of shame to his chastisement of her brother. “I called your sister and asked her to come. Your mother wants her here.”

“Ma wants her here? Why would she? After close to twenty years? She didn't say anything to me or Teresa about it,” Roberto said sullenly, dark eyes glittering with anger and something else that Natalia couldn't quite place as his eyes swept down her slender frame.

“Father O'Dell spoke with your mother and urged her to make peace with Natalia, to forgive old transgressions so that her spirit will be more open to receiving God's healing,” Hector Rivera explained solemnly, his own eyes never leaving his daughter's face.

As little as two years ago, those words would have been a sharpened spear, piercing her heart, tearing open old wounds of shame and humiliation, but not now. They still hurt, but they were no longer the body blows that once would have brought her to her knees.

“I didn't commit any transgressions, papa,” Natalia said quietly, her expression just as solemn.

Before his father could respond, Roberto made a disgusted noise. “Oh, so having sex before marriage and getting knocked up at sixteen doesn't count as a transgression in your world, eh, Tally?”

“No more than throwing your pregnant sixteen year old out in the cold to fend for herself,” Natalia replied, only the faint tremor in her voice hinting at the tumult of emotions swirling within her. “Or having sex with your girlfriend in the living room of your parents' apartment while you're supposed to be babysitting your little sister. You and Teresa weren't married yet, were you, Roberto? Oh, and don't call me Tally. I'm not a child anymore.”

Roberto took a step toward her, a spark of menace flitting across his face, only to be brought up short by a strong hand on his arm, halting his forward motion.

“'Berto. Cool it, man. This isn't the time or the place to get into this. If Ma wants Natalia here, then I'm just glad that she was willing to come, despite the bad blood. Right?” Carlos spoke soothingly, glancing back and forth between his siblings.

Hector Rivera moved hesitantly in Natalia's direction, an expression of such despair and contrition on his face that Natalia drew in a deep breath. He looked far more than his sixty-five years, lines etched around his mouth and eyes, lines that spoke not of laughter and wisdom, but of too many years of hard work, too many cigarettes, too many bills and too little joy. Without speaking, Natalia simply opened her arms to him, as she had done to Rafe when he was small, as she did to Emma now, offering a refuge against a world that was far too quick to wound the heart of a child. Or a man old before his time.

“Natalia.” Her name came on the crest of a sob as her father wrapped his bony arms around her. The scent of him, the faint, stale smell of tobacco and smoke, the lingering traces of an aftershave she was certain they stopped making twenty years ago, were like an olfactory time machine, sending her reeling back to 1989. He had hugged her like this the last time she saw him; a surreptitious embrace in the cramped entranceway to the apartment, away from the harsh, judging glare of her mother's eyes, her suitcase sitting on the floor between them, the toe of each of their shoes touching it, its presence a silent indictment of them both. The hug had been brief and shameful and yet, now, as her arms slipped gently around his thin frame, Natalia suddenly realized that the shame had been his, not hers.

Glancing over her father's shoulder, Natalia could see the contempt and anger in Roberto's eyes. She had expected nothing less. He had been her mother's first born and in the two years when she had belonged only to him, a bond had been forged that nothing, especially not the appearance of two rivals for her affection, had ever been able to break. In both mother and son's eyes, she was his mother first, plain and simple. The rest of them, Carlos, Natalia, even their father, all had to make do with whatever was left.

Carlos had stayed close to Roberto's side, watchful and silent. His lips turned up in a small smile, an apology in his eyes, although whether it was for his brother's words or his own sins against her she wasn't sure.

“It was good of you to come, Natalia, whatever the reason.” Natalia could hear the sincerity in his voice. At his brother's words, Roberto made a sound of annoyance and shook off the hand still resting on his arm.

Natalia's father patted her back, his breath a bit ragged as he murmured, “I'm so glad to see you, cariño. So glad you're home.”

He pulled back from her embrace, turning his head away from her and from his sons as he hastily wiped at the few tears that had managed to make their way down slightly sunken cheeks. Roberto's lip curled in disdain at his father's words and he shook his head in disbelief.

“So, you're the prodigal daughter now, eh, Natalia? Right, papa? Little Natalia come home to make everything all better?” Roberto sneered, voice strident. “But you know what, little sister, you're too late. The factory that papa worked at for the thirty years closed down five years ago. There were no pensions or retirement funds because the union mismanaged the money and with the economy the way it is papa couldn't find another job. Then mama got sick. They got no insurance so they're on Medicaid now. Me and Carlos, we help pay as many bills as we can but we've got families of our own to support. So you think you're gonna be able to swoop in here and fix all that just ‘cause Ma's priest thought it was a good idea to call you. Huh? Do you, Tally? Oh, sorry, I forgot. Natalia.”

The urge to simply turn and walk out of the hospital was so strong Natalia could feel it in each muscle of her legs, tensing with her brain's command to flee and to get the hell out of there. For an instant, she allowed herself to fantasize about stepping out into the humid summer air, sliding into what would now be the suffocating heat of her car, the vinyl of the seat searing through the thin layer of her dress; imagined turning the ignition, pulling the car back out onto Division, back to the interstate, back to Springfield, back to Olivia. Her father had said she was home, but this wasn't home. Home wasn't even the farmhouse, not really. If she lost it tomorrow, she would survive. Home existed in the circumference of Olivia Spencer's arms, and Natalia Rivera couldn't remember ever wanting to be home more than she did at this moment.

“No, I don't think that, Roberto. I'm sorry for all the things that have happened,” Natalia said quietly, dark eyes seeking out her father's as she continued. “I'm sorry the factory closed, papa. I'm sorry about your pension. I'm so sorry that mama got sick and that there is no insurance to help pay for things. But none of those things are my fault.” She paused and dragged a much needed lungful of air into lungs that suddenly felt tight and aching. “Neither is the fact that I wasn't here to help you. You and mama threw me out, papa. You, all of you , made it absolutely clear that I was no longer a part of this family. I came because you called me. Because you begged me to come. You told me that mama wanted to see me, and despite everything, you're my parents, and so I came. But it doesn't change anything, papa. You can't change the past.”

As she spoke, Natalia could see each word strike her father like small stones against his weathered skin, could see him flinch as each truth hit home, and she felt a fleeting sense of shame at causing such pain to this tired, old man. “I'm sorry, papa, but it's true.”

Hector Rivera nodded slowly, the movement of his head jerky and trembling, as if the admission brought him physical pain, and, again, Natalia felt the sense of guilt and shame wash over her. It was like kicking an old, injured animal and she closed her eyes tightly at the sudden rush of tears. She had promised herself in the car that she would not cry, that her parents and her brothers would never witness that weakness in her, as if the show of emotion would be some acknowledgment of wrongdoing on her part. As if her tears would be a flag of surrender to their already tarnished opinion of her. She hadn't bargained for this though, for this broken shell of a father and two middle-aged men who still held, stamped on their features, faint traces of the brothers she once knew, faces that were now stamped with other things, with loss and bitterness and disappointment at the way their lives had ended up.

“Why don't you just stab him with something, Tally? It'd be less painful,” Carlos said in quiet indictment, his own eyes showing the marks where her words had struck home.

“I'm not trying to hurt him. I don't want to hurt anyone. I never did,” Natalia replied, a catch in her voice despite her best efforts not to allow the emotions that were nearly overwhelming her to show.

“Yeah, well, too late for that.” Roberto flung the words at her, his own version of small weapons fire, intended to cause damage. “You broke mama's heart when you got pregnant. Papa's, too. You think they wanted the humiliation, the suffering you caused them? It was years before mama could go back to Sunday mass. She went on Saturday night, so she didn't have to face all the women from the neighborhood. She was so ashamed, like she didn't raise you better. And papa, he never got over having to do the right thing and disowning you. And now you come here and say those things to him, like some puta barata?”

“Roberto! You will not speak to your sister that way!” For the first time since she had arrived, Natalia caught a glimpse of the man who had raised her as her father's spine straightened and a flash of anger lit his dark eyes. A flash that faded with the next words he uttered. “She's right. None of this is her fault. There will be no further talk of blame. Natalia came to see your mother and I will not have your mama upset by any of you. Do you understand me, Roberto?”

For a moment, Natalia thought that her brother would defy their father, the look on his face stubborn and angry, but after a few seconds he relented, a brief nod the only acknowledgment of his father's demand. An uncomfortable silence settled over them, broken only by the mundane sounds of the hospital, the occasional squawk of the intercom, the voices of nurses and patients, the muted beep of monitors.

“How is she?” Natalia asked hesitantly, a little unwilling to break the uneasy peace.

“She's dying.” It was Carlos who answered, the flatness of his tone making the pronouncement all the more bleak. “The doctor's admitted her because there isn't anything else they can do for her. They offered to get a hospice nurse to come to the house, but she didn't want that. Said it wouldn't be fair to papa to die in their marriage bed. So they've had her here for a week, hooked up to a morphine pump. She's out of it most of the time, but she refused to take anything this afternoon. I guess papa must have told her you were coming. Guess she wanted to be awake to see you.”

“I told her I had talked to you and that I prayed that you would come,” Hector responded to his son's implied question. “I told her that even if you did agree, I didn't know when you would get here, but she said you would be here today. You know your mama once she makes up her mind.” A brief smile ghosted across his face at the mention of his wife's intractable nature. “Your brothers and I were just going home for the day, but we will wait while you see her. Then you can come home with us and we will have dinner and you can sleep in your room tonight.”

A sharp stab of pain lanced across Natalia's mind at her father's words, at the uncomplicated belief so clear in his voice that now that Natalia had returned, now that all the ugly words had been said and laid to rest, that things would simply go back to the way they had been twenty years ago, a belief that sent a fresh wall of tears rushing against the back of Natalia's eyelids. Slowly, she reached out and gently grasped her father's hand. The skin felt thin and warm and dry against her own.

“I want to see mama. There are some things I need to say to her. And I'll be happy to have dinner with you. But I can't stay at your apartment, papa. The last time I was there I stood in the hallway outside the door and cried for hours, pleading with you to let me back in. I can't just pretend that none of that happened. I've got a reservation at the Marriot nearby. I'll be staying there while I'm in Chicago .” Natalia tried to keep the accusatory tone from her voice, tried to be as kind as she could, but even so, she saw the older man flinch again at the sting of her words.

“What'd you marry a rich man, there, hermana, that you can afford to stay at a ritzy hotel, or have you moved from waitressing to another kind of service?” Roberto taunted, leaning his stocky frame against the wall outside their mother's room.

No, a rich woman. The thought nearly translated to words as Natalia took in her brother's arrogant stance, the sharp edge of his meaning grazing her skin, leaving tiny cuts.

“Not that it's any of your business, but I have a good job as the assistant to a publisher, so I can afford a few nights at a hotel.” Natalia's attempt to keep her voice neutral wasn't too successful, her eyes flashing dangerously. She didn't mention that the hotel was someone else's idea, someone who loved her enough to know that having to sleep in her childhood bed would be more painful than she could bear. Someone who called ahead and reserved a room for her at a nice, safe hotel, one with room service and a manager with whom she had done a lot of business. Someone who always put her first.

“I just thought that you would stay with me,” her father said again, eyes on the streaked linoleum of the hallway.

“I know, papa. I just can't. I'm sorry. I'll come for dinner tonight and I'll come visit while I'm here, but I can't stay there.” Natalia squeezed the hand still in hers, willing her father to understand. “I guess I should see mama now, so that she can take her medicine and get some rest, hmm?”

“Don't upset her. Don't go in there and get all high and mighty and tell her the crap you just pulled on pa. You hear me, Natalia?” Roberto said harshly.

“'Berto, let it go, okay? Just let her see ma?” Carlos gave her a brief, encouraging smile.

Natalia didn't reply, her obdurate gaze meeting Roberto's, daring him to continue. Squeezing her father's hand one last time, she brushed past her brother, only pausing as her hand fell on the door handle.

“Should I knock?” She asked her father, her confidence faltering for the first time since she had stepped off the elevator. This was it, this was the moment she had been praying for and dreading for nineteen years. The sheer mundanity of the moment, the beige walls, the pressed wood of the door, the trickle of sweat rolling down to the small of her back, struck her just as the enormity of it all left her weak in the knees.

Androcles and the lion, she thought. I just hope that I fare better than he did.

“No, just go on in, cariño,” her father advised. “She may not hear the knock.”

With a slightly trepidatious nod, Natalia pushed open the door.

The air in the room was tepid, laced with the scent of antiseptic and the barest hint of the sour smell of decay. Staring at the woman lying in the bed, Natalia stopped just inside the door, pushing down the tide of panic, willing herself to simply breathe, to gather her resolve. Her mother, who had always loomed so large in life, a tiny giant of a woman, a general who ran her family with a dedicated, ruthless precision, now lay, a slight, emaciated figure, barely disturbing the line of the white sheets. Her head was wrapped in a brightly colored scarf, reds and yellows and blues that gleamed like a flag of warning against the pale pillowcase.

As Natalia watched, her mother's eyes flickered open, their dark gaze focusing slowly on the figure standing motionless by the door.

“Hello, mama.”

Minutes ticked by as her mother lay silently, her eyes raking deliberately up and down Natalia's figure, analyzing her dress, studying her face. At length she spoke, her once pleasant voice now a strained, hoarse whisper.

“Well, you don't look like a prostitute.”

Natalia felt the air leave her lungs in one, harsh expulsion. Willing the spark of anger inside her to die, she replied as calmly as she could. “No, mama. I'm not a prostitute. Or a stripper. Or anything else you might have thought.”

“I wondered. You know, over the years, I wondered if you'd been forced to make your money on your back to support your bastard child. It happens, you know,” her mother responded, her tone almost conversational despite the ravages to her voice.

Natalia couldn't stop the short bark of bitter laughter that accompanied the half-smile, half-grimace on her face. “You know mama, I don't know which is worse: that you thought that I would ever resort to prostitution or that you thought it and still did nothing to try and find me and help me.”

“You made your own bed, Natalia. Made it and crawled into it with that worthless Nicky Aitoro. Why would it seem all that big a leap to think you might have turned to whoring after that?” There was a hardness to her mother's face, an astringent, acid tone to her weak voice that Natalia didn't remember being there.

“Somehow, I doubt that this was your priest had in mind when he advised you to make peace with the past. With me,” Natalia replied, ignoring her mother's cruel words, walking toward the shaded window, the snicking sound of her shoes against the sticky tile floor a counter rhythm to the steady hum of her mother's oxygen.

“He's a good man, Father O'Dell. One of those granola types though. Thinks that my ‘negative energy', as he puts it, my anger and resentment, are keeping me from being able to receive God's healing power. I told him that the only negative here is how little air gets into my lungs these days. I'm dying. God has let me know it's my time and I'm ready. These doctors can't help me once God decides. You'd think a priest of all people would know that,” Maria Rivera explained, her words punctuated occasionally by gasps for breath. “I told him I didn't need to make peace with anything. That I know I did what was best for my family, that I followed God's word. Father O'Dell convinced your papa that I needed to see you. I finally just gave in. Too much trouble arguing with both of them.”

A thousand replies crowded Natalia's mind, words of anger and indictment, of hurt and confusion, of guilt and pain, all of them clamoring to be spoken, demanding to be heard. Looking at her mother's face, Natalia knew that each of those words would die a quick, merciless death at her mother's hand. No matter what she said to her, no matter how she screamed, yelled, pleaded, cajoled, her mother would not hear her. When she said the things she had come here to say, and she renewed her vow to herself that she would say them before she left, they would be for her benefit alone, something that she had always known, in the back of her mind, would be true.

She wasn't here to make peace with the dying woman staring coldly at her from her hospital bed; she was here to make peace with herself, with the sixteen year old girl who still hid away inside her, waiting for her parents to come for her, waiting for an absolution from her mother's lips that had never, would never, come. And that girl deserved to find that peace, even if it came at the expense of Natalia's pride and righteous anger. She deserved to finally know this woman who had given her life and then taken away everything she loved and held dear, deserved to understand why her parents' unconditional love came with so many conditions. Not to forgive them, but to understand them and, maybe, to forgive herself.

“Here, mama, let me get you some water before I go,” Natalia said gently, crossing to the bedside table and lifting the pink plastic pitcher to fill her mother's cup with icy water. She handed the thin plastic cup to her, now close enough to see the pallor of the older woman's skin, the purple stains that circled her eyes, the faint blue tinge to her lips. “You should take your pain medicine now and get some sleep. I'll come by tomorrow.”

Maria took the cup from Natalia's hand, a haze of suspicion blurring her already pain-clouded eyes.

“Don't worry, mama, it isn't poisoned. I don't want you dead. I have too many things to say to you. Here, take the button for the pump,” Natalia said, a sad smile gracing her lips. She handed her mother the small control for the morphine pump, waiting to make certain the woman used it. As the lassitude of the drugs spread through her system, her mother's eyes closed.

Pausing by the door, Natalia closed her own eyes, bracing herself. If her mother was the lion, then her brothers definitely ranked as Roman soldiers. Well, Roberto, at least. Tilting her chin up, Natalia reached for the door handle and stepped out into the hallway, offering her father a brief smile as she moved purposefully down the hall. She had survived this encounter with the lion. She could only pray for the strength and the courage to face her again.

Right now though, she needed something else.

Stepping into the waiting room, Natalia pulled out her phone.

“Hey, you. I was just thinking about you. Are you okay?” She felt Olivia's voice as a palpable caress, soothing her ragged breathing, smoothing each ruffled, bedraggled feather in her soul.

“I wasn't, but I am now. I am now.”

To be continued...