Abuela is on the case!

Today we find the elderly Hortensia “Abuela” Mondragon in her most natural and comfortable state: being a relentless busybody. 

Standing thin and tall under the frame of the kitchen door, wearing her Wednesday best, Abuela takes in the state of affairs through her thick, blue glasses: the counters piled with ingredients in varying states of preparation; a cookbook titled ‘America Does Have a Cuisine’ propped open to a meatloaf recipe; and, most importantly, her fellow elder Po Po—short and square, jet black perm and thin penciled-on eyebrows—looks just like a steaming, wrinkly dumpling on wheels as she runs to and fro, muttering under her breath. Her sleeves are rolled up, and she is wearing an apron featuring a cartoon fox proclaiming “you dim sum, you lose some.” 

“Fucking Joanne,” mutters Po Po, oblivious to Abuela’s deep scowl. 

Abuela’s puffy gray hair turns even grayer. She does not like Po Po swearing. She is a respectable senior citizen, and respectable senior citizens are polite and proper and do not swear. 

Abuela magnanimously overlooks her friend’s rudeness because, as it happens, their apartment is hosting a small but very important dinner party with Po Po’s nuclear family.

Besides her hometown of Shanghai and anxious daughter Louise, Po Po has only one other thing she loves: her grandson Michael. Louise, you see, is married to Ken, whom she met at NYU, and since had Michael with. Ken, who Abuela thinks is terrific, and Po Po thinks is just all right, has a mother—the aforementioned “fucking Joanne.” 

“So!” exclaims Abuela, clapping her hands together. Po Po looks up from the cookbook she is glaring at. “How is everything going?”

“Fine,” Po Po insists, before grabbing a knife to chop string beans. “I’m making dinner. Louise brought dessert. Home-made. Everything is fine.” She stops chopping and looks at Abuela, voice low. “Why? Is Joanne asking? She as nosy as you!”

“Oh, no, no,” Abuela reassures her, briefly glancing back towards the living room. She can hear voices praising little Michael, who is no doubt demonstrating his chicken dance for the tenth time. “Joanne hasn’t said a thing.”

“No?” Po Po fumes, galled. “Why? She doesn’t care? Because I’m the host this time, hm? She think she better than me? Just because she went to fancy cooking school? I can make great American meatloaf, too! Bah!” She shakes her head, her permed black hair bouncing with her. “She just as cold as stupid old Yizé.” She points the knife towards Abuela. “You know why?”

Abuela has never met Po Po’s ex-husband, but she knows better than to reply.

“Because he dead! Ha!” cackles Po Po, and then goes back to punishing the poor string beans for the crime of existing. “Fucking Joanne.”

Abuela breathes in. She must rise above her distaste for expletives for the sake of her friend and her dinner. She must. 

“Are you sure you don’t want help?” Abuela asks again, Po Po looking up at her. “I can—”

“No,” says Po Po.

“But—”

“No,” repeats Po Po. “And if you ask again, I will throw you out of the apartment.”

Abuela smiles politely. “I’ll be outside, then,” she says, and then adds in sing-song, “And you can’t throw me out! I’m the one on the lease!”

As she steps into the living room, Louise is the first to greet her. She is thin and mousy, with her long black hair tied up in a ponytail. She stares up at Abuela with anxiety-inducing amounts of anxiety. “Ayí Tensia!” Her eyes flit towards the kitchen door, still swinging shut, and then briefly towards Joanne, who is now praising Michael’s T. rex dance. “Everything all right?”

Years ago, when Abuela, Po Po, and Nanna—their third friend and roommate—began receiving supernatural visions of dubious propheticness, Po Po commented that Louise would benefit from such powers, as they might have cured her anxiety.

Abuela thought of this a lot when speaking with Louise.

 “Of course, mi vida,” replies Abuela, taking a seat in the living room. Her voice is soothing. “Todo bien.” 

“I’m really looking forward to dinner,” Ken comments. For once, he’s wearing a nice shirt and trousers that complement his blond hair, as opposed to the usual jeans and hoodie that, in Abuela’s opinion, make him look like a mess next to the put-together Louise. “I’m starving.”

“She’s making meatloaf, isn’t she?” Joanne asks. She has thin, short blonde hair and is wearing a wine-colored turtleneck and black pants. Thin square black glasses frame her face, and her smile is exceedingly polite. “Trying for traditional. Bless her heart.”

Abuela nearly gasps.

“Worst thing someone can say to you,” Nanna told her once, putting down her knitting. 

“What? Pero, you’re blessing someone. That’s always good,” Abuela had insisted.

“Not this blessing, dear,” Nanna said. “It means something else.”

Po Po explained, “It means you a dumb bitch.”

“Excuse me?!” Abuela gasped, appalled.

“A dumb bi—”

Affronted by such an insult, Abuela opens her mouth to defend Po Po, only for her eyesight to blur and her head to spin as a prophetic vision assaults her mind. Unfortunately for Abuela, her terrible eyesight translates into her visions, and since she can’t exactly put on her glasses in the visions, well… she can’t see squat. 

In the vision, Abuela finds herself… in the kitchen? The blurs look like a kitchen. 

She hears screaming, followed by a short blur waving its arms and Po Po yelling, “You ruined my dinner!”

 A second voice, a man’s (Ken’s?) yelps, “What’s happened?!”

Then, the vision stops. 

Just like that, she is back in the living room, blinking at Joanne telling a thin-lipped Louise what school Michael should go to this fall. 

Someone, somehow, is going to ruin Po Po’s dinner. 

And Abuela is going to save it.

⧖ ⧖ ⧖

When Abuela was not so abuela and was instead a twelve-year-old girl in Mexico City, she was swindled out of her entire savings of a hundred and fifty pesos by a woman who insisted that was definitely enough money to: get her husband out of jail; both of them out of the country; feed their six—sick!—children; and, also, buy a dog which they needed.  

“Horten,” Abuela’s older brother had told her back then, his tone harsh, “you’re too naive. You can’t help everyone.”

Abuela, tears in her eyes, had told him she wouldn’t, and then proceeded to learn nothing from the experience. 

Now, that said—

Someone in that apartment is going to ruin Po Po’s dinner unless she stops them, but try as she might, Abuela can’t decide just who would do such a thing. Her stomach churns at the thought of even blaming someone. Maybe they’d do it by mistake, but on purpose? No. 

On the other hand, Po Po’s voice in the vision had been clear. “You ruined my dinner!”

Her brows knitting together, she analyzes Louise and Ken as they talk to Joanne. She can’t very well tell them not to ruin the dinner. That would be very rude and might also plant the idea in their heads, and that would make them ruin the dinner. 

She should just tell Po Po. 

She excuses herself and steps into the kitchen, where Po Po is shoving the meatloaf into the oven. 

“Po Po, querida—” 

Po Po slams the oven shut. “I am fine,” she barks. “No stress! So you better not give me stress!”  

Abuela smiles, quickly discarding any idea of telling Po Po a word. “I won’t, dear,” she says, quickly switching gears. “Do you still not want my help, then?” 

“You want to be useful?” Po Po asks, turning around and grabbing her knife. “Put meatloaf timer for one hour. And entertain guests. And wake up Nanna! She always late to everything.” 

“Alright,” Abuela says, “but I think Nanna’s already awake, and—”

“Abuela!” Little Michael is standing behind her, his dark hair plastered against his head, eyes sparkling with delight. He is holding a red crayon. “I made a drawing!”

“Oh my!” she exclaims, searching for said drawing and then finding a red Picasso-esque dinosaur on Michael’s nice white tee-shirt. “Oh my.”

⧖ ⧖ ⧖

A moment after, Michael sits patiently on the toilet seat, examining his new blue shirt while Abuela cleans his artwork in the sink. 

“Michael,” she asks, “do you think everyone is excited for Po Po’s dinner?” 

“No,” he replies, folding his hands on his lap.  

She turns to him, masking her shock as surprise. He must know who wants to ruin the evening! “No?” she asks, exceedingly casual as she squats down before him. “What do you mean ‘no’?” 

Now he’s the one surprised at her. “You don’t know what ‘no’ means?” He takes her hand in his, commiserating. “Mommy says I don’t, either.” He affectionately pats her hand. “I forgive you.” 

“…Thank you, mi cielo.” She clears her throat. “But, tell me, why don’t you think everyone is excited? This is very important.” 

He gives her a once-over, deep in thought, and then says, “Where’s my cookie?” 

“Cookie?”

“I shouldn’t do anything for no cookies,” he informs her. 

“What?” she asks, just a bit appalled. My goodness, what were the youth coming to! “Where did you learn that?”

“Po Po!”

“I see,” she says, dryly. My goodness, what were the elderly coming to? 

He extends his hand and smiles angelically at her. “Please and thank you!” 

A minute later finds him chomping down a chocolate chip cookie, Abuela taking notes on a small notepad. 

“Grandma’s upset about the dinner,” he says, gravely. “I heard her talking to Daddy, and she had an angry voice, and she said that this was very unortobox.” 

“Unortobox.”

“Mhm! That means she lives in a box.” He makes sure she writes it down and continues. “Mommy is also being silly.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s been laughing at all of Daddy’s jokes.” Abuela stares at him, at a loss, so he elaborates, “She never laughs at his jokes. You should write that down.”

Abuela does as much, and then adds, “Well, at least your father is happy.” She looks at him. “Is he happy?”

“Iunno!” He clasps his hands together, smiling brightly. “He’s always happy on Wednesdays ’cuz Grandma makes dinner for us and Po Po.”

Abuela nods. She and Nanna usually watch their Korean dramas on Wednesdays while Po Po has dinner with her in-laws. In fact, she realizes, this is probably the first time ever that Po Po is hosting Wednesday dinner. 

“Michael,” she asks, “why are you having dinner here? Do you know?”

“Po Po wanted it. She says she should get to cook.”

That isn’t too surprising. Po Po constantly complains that all Joanne does is brag about studying at a prestigious culinary school, so she would be one to try to show up Joanne. But Joanne went to culinary school. Surely she wouldn’t feel threatened. 

“You think that’s why Joanne was yelling at Daddy?”

He shakes his head. “No, that was ’cause I told her that Po Po says she has tastier food than her!” He brightens visibly, clearly unaware of the discord he is sowing in his own family. “If I like it, I want Po Po to make my birthday food next month instead of Grandma!”

Abuela’s brow furrows. “Did you also tell Grandma Joanne you want that?”

He nods. “Uh-huh!” He giggles, naughty. “She really yelled at Daddy for that, too.”

On second thought, maybe he does know the discord he’s sowing in his own family. 

“I see.” 

Abuela smiles politely and underlines Joanne’s name in her notebook twice. 

⧖ ⧖ ⧖

Conducting an investigation inside a small two-bedroom apartment is not as efficient or discreet as Abuela hopes. 

The living room—small and unobtrusive, consisting of a small L-shaped couch facing a medium-sized TV—serves as a great holding space for suspects, but she can’t quite interrogate Joanne with Louise and Ken sitting right there. 

The bedrooms are out of the question—one because Nanna is still occupying her shared bedroom with Abuela; the other because it’s Po Po’s, and Po Po would murder Abuela for taking Joanne into her room. 

Abuela steps into the living room just as Michael runs past her, eager to draw more. Ken is on his phone, Louise is repeatedly drinking from an empty glass of water while furtively glancing at Joanne, and Joanne herself is watching Michael as he destroys a sketchbook with a crayon. 

Personally, Abuela’s opinion of Joanne is that she is a fine woman. They see each other regularly at church, at the soup kitchen, at the homeless shelter, and at the local rummikub club Abuela goes to only when she’s received a foresight of winning that day’s tournament. 

Nanna and Po Po call it cheating. Abuela calls it the Divine Will of God. 

“When’s food gonna be ready?” asks Michael, looking up from his drawing. 

“Whenever it’s ready, buddy,” Ken replies, eyes still glued to his phone. 

Michael turns to Louise. “Is Po Po gonna take this long for my birthday?” 

Before Louise can reply, Joanne speaks up, eyes set on her daughter-in-law. “Oh? Has that been decided? She’s doing his dinner, then?”

“If Michael wants it,” Louise stammers quickly. “I know you usually do it, but—”

“I do,” Joanne interrupts. “Since he was born.” 

Abuela clears her throat, spurred on by noticing Louise’s snow-white knuckles around her empty glass. “How nice of Po Po to give you a break for once,” she says to Joanne, clapping her hands together. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Wonderful,” Joanne replies. Her smile, thinner than a string, is precisely the same as the one in her second-place winner photo at the rummikub club. 

In the distance, they hear the clattering of pans, as well as the occasional aggravated muttering. After a moment of silence, Joanne gets up. 

“I should go help.”

Louise and Abuela yelp in unison. “Help?”

“It’s taking a while,” Joanne explains, striding purposefully towards the kitchen. “She might—” Her sentence cuts off at Abuela blocking her way, which looks just a bit ridiculous in the tiny apartment.

“What? Help? No, no, pero, don’t be ridiculous!” Abuela gestures to the couch. “Sit, sit. You’re our guest.”

This isn’t just an excuse. A guest doing anything but looking pretty and having a good time would be sacrilege in any self-respecting Mexican or Mexican-adjacent household. The fact that said guest is possibly intending to ruin dinner is merely a secondary concern. 

“Hortensia,” Joanne says, a sliver above impatient. “Don’t be ridiculous. Michael is hungry. We’re all hungry.”

“Oh!” Michael looks up from his drawing. “Can we have dessert first?”

Though Abuela and Joanne turn to him, the word “no” on their lips, Michael’s question is answered first by Louise’s glass shattering on the floor, shards flying everywhere. 

“Oh, God!” she says. “I’m sorry, I—Ken, please—Michael—”

Poor Louise looks as white as a sheet as she scrambles to her feet, while Ken quickly steps over the shards and lifts Michael away from them. 

“A ver, I’ll take care of it,” Abuela reassures her, moving towards a small closet to fetch a broom and dustpan. 

“Great!” Louise quickly exclaims, clutching Ken’s hand and all but dragging him away. “Let’s go wait with Michael in Mom’s room. Thank you, Ayí!”

Poor dear, thinks Abuela, sweeping the glass. Any excuse to get away from her mother-in-law. It is only then that she notices said mother-in-law an inch away from the kitchen door. 

“Joanne!” she barks, and then quickly composes herself, pointing her dustpan towards the couch. “Sit, please. You don’t want to step on the glass, now do you?”

“Hortensia.” Joanne takes a breath. “I appreciate your concern, but I would like to help in the kitch—”

“There’s no need for that!” Abuela insists. “So, please, sit—Sit!” She tries to be friendly. Joking. “I know it can be a drag to be with the in-laws; no need to make it worse by having her yell at you!”

“Excuse me?” Joanne bristles suddenly. “You think I don’t want to be here?”

Abuela freezes in place, blinking at Joanne behind her glasses. Then she forgets herself and says, “Yes.” She remembers herself a second later, just as Joanne’s eyes open wide, but it is too late to backtrack. So she barrels forward, trying to make it sound better as she does so. “I understand! Really.” She smiles sincerely, and what follows is not an accusation, but a fact. “But you don’t have to prove you’re the best cook out of the two! We all already know you are.”

“Prove I’m the best cook? You think—? That has nothing to do with anything.” There is a slight quiver to her voice, her thin hands balling into fists. “I—” She then forces her hands open, smoothing them against her hips. “I know you all don’t like me.” She gestures to the kitchen. “I know she doesn’t like me.” And now she gestures towards the bedroom Louise disappeared into. “And neither does she.” Not an accusation. Just a fact. “But Michael is my only grandchild, and even if he wants Po Po to make dinner, I didn’t go to culinary school for nothing. I’m allowed to help make food for my grandson when he’s hungry. So, please.”

“I see,” says Abuela, chastened as much as she is heartwarmed. She is also just that little bit delighted to realize she’s right about Joanne. She is a fine woman after all. She smiles genuinely. “And I understand, I do. But there are other grandmothers who care for him just as much.” She gestures to the kitchen. “If he wants her to take care of dinner by herself, you should care about that, too.” She smiles. “After all, I’m not in there helping either, am I?”

Joanne falters briefly. “Well, I—” She sighs. “Alright. Fine.” She sits down on the couch, frowning. “I suppose I’ll just sit here and wait. But do me a favor and ask her what’s taking so long, please.”

Abuela nods. “As soon as I’m done here,” she promises before turning back to her sweeping, her smile identical to the one on her first-place photo from the rummikub tournament. Well, well! she thinks to herself, Crisis averted, and no one found out! Muy bien.

Admittedly, part of her would have liked to know how exactly Joanne was going to ruin dinner. Maybe she would try and fix the recipe, or—

“Horten.”

Abuela turns around to find Nanna—the third and final inhabitant of the apartment—standing outside their bedroom door. She’s still in her pink pajamas, her white hair is hidden under a blue sleeping bonnet, and her bleary expression makes her look as if she’s two steps away from shuffling off this mortal coil. 

“Come here, will you?” she says gravely before disappearing back from whence she came. 

Abuela excuses herself and follows Nanna into their bedroom, closing the door behind her. Nanna sits on her bed, smile sweet as honey. 

“Horten, what were you telling Joanne about Po Po?” she asks.

“That she needs to let her cook,” Abuela says. 

Nanna adjusts her hearing aid. “What?”

“That she needs to let her cook,” Abuela repeats, louder. 

Nanna leans in, gesturing for Abuela to come closer. “What?”

“I said,” Abuela practically yells, right next to Nanna, “that she needs to—Agh!”

“And I say,” Nanna snaps, Abuela’s ear caught in her pulling hand, “what have I told you about keeping prophecies to yourself, you naughty child?”

“I’m older than you!” Abuela protests as soon as Nanna lets her go. However, her irritation soon becomes alarm. “Hold on. How did you—Did you get a prophecy? But I saved dinner!”

“What?” Nanna asks, tapping at her hearing aid. “I didn’t hear you this time.”

“Oh, never mind that.” Abuela grabs her friend’s hand. “When did you get your prophecy?”

“When did I read the Odyssey? When I was reading up on famous prophets after we got our powers,” she says, “but what does—”

“No, prophecy. Prophecy!”

Nanna jumps slightly. “Oh! About a minute ago. I was coming out to see what you and Joanne were fussing about, but as soon as I came out—!” Her eyes go wide. 

“…But that’s after I stopped her from going to help,” Abuela gasps. “Then, that means someone is still trying to ruin dinner!”

⧖ ⧖ ⧖

After filling Nanna in on what’s happening, Abuela has her carefully detail her own prophecy. Much like Abuela’s visions, Nanna’s visions match her conditions, which in this case means she can barely hear half of them. 

The following is what Nanna relays:

There was a strange man in the kitchen. He was wearing a jacket and jeans and was holding a bag. Everything was chaos. Michael was running around the strange man. Ken was running behind Michael, also around the strange man. Joanne was gesturing at everyone. Louise was leaning against the fridge in shock. Po Po was yelling at Louise. Finally, Abuela was on the phone, looking frazzled.

“Who was I calling?” asks Abuela.

“A priest for an exorcism, knowing you.” 

Abuela elects to ignore that remark. 

“And you’re sure you didn’t hear anything else?” she asks. “Nothing at all?”

Nanna hums. “What Po Po was yelling. Something about Louise walking in with this ‘Kareem Boulay.’ The man, I bet.”

Abuela’s eyes narrow. She’s never heard the name before, and she certainly can’t piece together what this man has to do with dinner. It’s not as if he’s attending the evening, but he must be related somehow. Maybe an unwelcome guest that Louise invited? But why would she— 

She thinks even further back. Well… Ken seemed upset in her own vision. A friend of Louise that Ken is jealous of? 

“Is there anything else about this Kareem you can tell me?” she asks. “Was he attractive?”

“Hortensia! You’re seventy-three!” Nanna gasps. “What would Jesus say?”

Abuela is affronted. “Not for me, my goodness! And don’t bring Jesus into this. I’m just gathering information.” 

Speaking of which, she gets up. 

“I’m going to see what I can find out,” she informs Nanna. “Will you be joining us any time soon?”

“I don’t think so,” Nanna says, settling herself on top of her bed. “I don’t want to be there when this blows up in your face.”

Abuela offers her friend a frown for good measure and then steps out into the living room, undeterred. 

Joanne has thankfully listened to Abuela’s advice and is still sitting on the couch, reading a book to Michael. Louise and Ken are back as well, the former sitting a little way away from everyone. She keeps glancing down at her phone and tapping on the screen every few seconds, anxiously looking at the time. 

Abuela thinks back to Nanna’s vision. 

A strange man. Everyone in a panic. Louise looking pale as a ghost. Kareem Boulay. 

She repeats the name in her head over and over, her eyes fixed on Louise, unsure of what to do. Louise knows about their visions, so if she can get her alone somehow, she can ask who this Kareem fellow is. But how could a family friend ruin dinner and upset Ken? Unless…

A lover? 

Abuela’s eyes widen as she stares at Louise, still fidgeting with her phone.

Louise? A lover? No, she would never! She was a proper girl. She was polite. She wasn’t Catholic, but surely she was going to Heaven; she was such a lovely young woman. 

…But what if?

Her nails dig into her skin; she is holding her hands together that tightly. Well, now that she’s wound herself up so much, she needs to know. She needs to find out. 

“You know,” Abuela says, praying to San Judas Tadeo, the patron saint of desperate situations, and also San Juan de Dios, the patron saint of heart attacks, “I really do love the name Kareem.”

Everyone looks at her. All three of them with varying expressions. Joanne rolls her eyes. Ken blinks with polite confusion. Louise smiles, also with polite confusion.

“Oh, really, Ayí?” she asks. She doesn’t seem shocked in any way, just as affectionate, humoring and anxious as she always tends to be in general. 

Maybe it isn’t a lover, Abuela concludes, the relief sweeping over her as endless as her list of obscure Catholic saints. 

“Yes!” she continues. “I met a young man recently, and I liked his name.” She pauses. Then says, slowly, “Kareem Boulay.”

Again, Louise reacts with nothing but a polite nod. There is absolutely no recognition in her gaze, nothing at all. She looks as innocent as an angel. 

“Kareem Boulay,” Joanne repeats, humoring Abuela. “Boulay. Sounds French.”

“Funny,” Ken says, “I feel like I’ve heard that before.”

And only then, as he says this, does it strike Abuela that the name feels familiar to her too. Not exactly it, but familiar in a strange way. Not quite right, but right there. Kareem Boulay. Kareem Boulay. Kareem—

And then it hits her. 

A strange man. Louise looking like death. The strange man carrying a bag.

She locks eyes with Louise. 

“You know,” she says coolly, “Kareem Boulay. I think it sounds just like crémé brûlée.”

⧖ ⧖ ⧖

“How could I have forgotten dessert?!”

Even if she isn’t consciously aware of it, Abuela is a bit of a sadist. 

To someone like Abuela, who treats helping like something she can receive a medal in—and has—someone in pain is an opportunity for her to help. 

So, sitting there in the bathroom, patting Louise’s leg as the poor woman becomes the poster child of anxiety attacks, Abuela feels good. In her element. People crying means people needing her. 

One might call her deranged. One would be right.

“This always happens to me,” Louise wails into her hands, Abuela now gently rubbing her back, doing nothing to help her. “It was the one thing Mom asked! And I forgot! And I spent all day making it!”

“It can happen to all of us,” Abuela says, including herself as a courtesy, not a reality.

Louise dabs at her eyes, her brow knitting as she frowns. “Ayí, how could you not have told me you had a vision today?”

“I didn’t want to worry anyone,” Abuela insists. This isn’t exactly a lie. She didn’t want to worry anyone, but she also doesn’t need anyone helping. “And you’re already fixing it, aren’t you? You have someone delivering a dessert.”

Louise sniffles. “Yes. But Mom specifically didn’t want me to order dessert. She wanted me to make it. Probably because she thinks Joanne is going to say something.” She has a brief look of hope. “Maybe Mom won’t care in the end?”

Abuela swallows. “Well. According to Nanna, your mother certainly had some feelings about it,” she says, diplomatically. 

“Oh my God, she’s going to kill me,” Louise whispers. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”

“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” Abuela says automatically, “and give me a second to think.”

If the problem is the delivery man… 

She claps her hands together, struck with an idea. “I know! Have Ken wait by the door, and he can get the créme brûlée before the deliveryman rings the doorbell. Then, you distract Joanne while he brings it to the kitchen and voilá! Joanne doesn’t find out, and your mom isn’t upset.”

Louise takes this in and then relaxes slightly, her shoulders slumping. “Yes. Okay. That could work. Okay. Yes.” She lets out a deep sigh. “This is all because of Joanne! If she wasn’t such a bi—” She pauses at Abuela’s frown. “Boor about cooking, Mom wouldn’t be so bent out of shape about this.” 

Abuela tuts at her. “Maybe Joanne isn’t as bad as you all think, Louise.” She doesn’t exactly want to betray Joanne’s confidence, but surely God will forgive her if it means healing the relationship between Joanne, Louise and Po Po a bit. Why, she can practically see the three of them skipping along through a meadow of yellow daisies, happy, co-existing, like out of a movie. Abuela is there, too, of course. “I’m sure she knows she’s not very popular here. So, the fact that she is here means she’s trying. That she cares about getting along with you two, at least a little.”

“Really? I don’t know…” Louise says, leaning back a little. She then relents. “Well… Maybe… Maybe you’re right. Maybe she is trying to be nice.” She seems much more at ease now, even as she sighs into her hands again. “Fucking Joanne.” She suddenly yelps, and looks up, remembering who she’s in front of. “Oh! Sorry, Ayi.”

Abuela smiles thinly. “It’s alright, mi vida,” she replies, even though her mental image of the four of them skipping in a meadow now features Abuela scowling at Louise and Po Po. She claps her hands together and stands up. “Well! I’ve solved dessert and Joanne! A job well done.”

“Solved what?” Louise asks. “I’d already fixed the creme brûlée situation before you said anything, Ayi.”

You may have heard of a condition called selective hearing. Abuela has transformative hearing, which means that all she hears is Louise telling her she was such a great and resourceful tía. 

“Now, you go and tell Ken about the plan while I go check on your mother.”

⧖ ⧖ ⧖

When Abuela bursts through the kitchen doors moments later, it is with a smile and great pride. Po Po is elbow deep in a Greek salad. 

“I did it!” Abuela exclaims, pleased as punch. “You’re welcome.”

Po Po looks up from her salad. “Did what?”

“I’ve figured out who was going to ruin your dinner,” Abuela says, walking over and rewarding herself with a piece of feta from a cutting board. “I had a vision about it, and Nanna had one, too.”

“You what?!” Po Po squawks. 

“At first, I thought it was going to be Joanne,” Abuela continues, ignoring Po Po but not the second piece of cheese she also deserved. “She was going to come in here and help you cook because you were taking too long.”

“She what?!” 

“But I talked her out of it and told her you should be allowed to take care of it,” Abuela finishes, just as she grabs a third piece.

“…Oh.” Po Po relaxes. “Good.”

“And then,” Abuela continues, forcing herself to move away from her beloved cheese, “Louise forgot to bring dessert.”

Po Po’s blood pressure medication is being put to work. “She what?!”

“But she sorted it out,” Abuela continues, weak-willed as she returns to the cheese, “and it should be here in about fifteen minutes.”

“Oh. Good.” Po Po frowns, scratching her head. “So… everything is fine? Dinner won’t be ruined?”

“Dinner won’t be ruined,” Abuela replies. She gives a small spin. “Thanks to me!”

Po Po huffs a little. “Bah! No one does as I ask. Joanne trying to meddle, Louise forgetting dessert! Can’t trust anyone!”

“But see,” Abuela replies, eyelashes fluttering. “You can trust me. And if you’d let me help with cooking earlier, we’d be eating by now.”

Po Po waves her off, smiling. “Go! I need to fini—”

Her sentence cuts off mid-word. Her eyes go wide—the telltale sign of a Foresight occurring. Po Po’s visions, unlike the other two, never involve people, sounds, or situations. It is only ever objects, things, a snapshot of an element. Thus, the vision ends as fast as it begins, and when it is done, Po Po is pale. 

“What happened?” Abuela yelps. “What did you see?”

“Nothing!” Po Po replies, startled. “Gray! Gray air.”

Abuela frowns. “Gray…? Gray air? Like smoke?” 

“Smoke? Why would—” Po Po’s eyes narrow just as Abuela’s widen, the two coming to a singular realization. 

“Hortensia,” Po Po says, every word careful. “How much time is left on the timer I told you to put?”

Abuela blinks. Then smiles, and it is perfectly charming, perfectly polite, and perfectly innocent. She steps back just as Po Po rushes to the oven, opens it and—Fwoosh! A cloud of smoke bursts out of the oven, the fire alarm enthusiastically alerting them seconds later.

“Hortensía!” Po Po, surrounded by smoke, turns to Abuela, waving her arms around frantically. “You ruined my dinner!”

Before Abuela can even defend herself, Ken rushes into the kitchen, covering his ears. 

“What’s happened?!” Ken asks. 

“Ken!” Louise yells despairingly from the living room. “The door!”

This is shortly followed by Michael running into the kitchen, eyes sparkling. “Fire!”

Po Po looks at Abuela, and all Abuela can do is nervously smile back. 

“You know, why don’t we all go out to dinner instead?” she stammers, fishing out her phone to make reservations, moments before Joanne walks in with the deliveryman. “My treat!”