The Wrong Secret

When people die, you truly find out how much of a novella your life is.

May of this year it happened so quickly, but in the moment, it felt like it’d never end. Sometimes I think I was the only one who accepted this was it. But I know that wasn’t true.

When they brought me back to her room in the ER the look in her eyes, the hollow glaze of her eyes, her widened pupils. I couldn’t see the warm brown of her eyes.

My brother, the person I leaned on at times like these could not be there.

It took three days for her to let go.

Her last hurrah of energy- struggling against the machines and the tubes- I found it horrific, like a scene out of a horror movie. Some of those who saw her like that thought it was beautiful like she didn’t want to let go. But there was no turning back. She wasn’t the same- she wouldn’t be. Nana was gone.

When they called her time of death I thought that would be the beginning of the final chapter- like the light at the end of this torturous tunnel was just ahead of us.

I was wrong.

The following days we were preparing for her viewing, the mass, the final final goodbyes. That’s when it all turned on its head.

The day after her passing we were told she had one last message for everyone.

Some years before one of the older cousins recorded messages for everyone. Sons, daughters-in-law, and grandkids. 58 seconds of indifference. She sat in a chair in her backyard. The sun shone over her just right, but her eyes never looked at me, her eyes gazed out past the camera.

“You didn’t do anything as a child, but you could talk. Boy could you talk. You grew up and here you are. Keep doing what you do. Love you.”

I sat there staring at the phone screen, the bitterness I had inside bubbled. I couldn’t help but feel even more cheated. Like a sense of acknowledgment was stolen. Her final words for me, and it was nothing but indifference. When my mother could no longer spend her time caring for Nana I took over. It wasn’t something I volunteered for- but I did it because she was nana.

I never asked her for anything- the only thing I wished for- a recipe she got from her mom. A family recipe. I wanted to carry on the family tradition. Baking was one of the few things I was good at- one of the few things she acknowledged. She took that secret to her grave.

In preparing for the viewing we were told that each of the grandkids would be speaking. We’d go in order of the sons, our fathers. My brother and I were 2nd. He spoke before I did, but when I spoke, I lied.

I lied about how involved she was. I lied about our relationship. I lied- I said that she was always there. That I always felt her love.

In my mind, I couldn’t help but compare her to my other nana, who loved with her whole heart. She wasn’t as involved but I always knew she loved me. Every time I walked into her home I was enveloped by a warmth, so comforting and soothing.

“She was always there in my corner. At all my games. When I could no longer play sports, she was at each of my theater and choir performances.” I lied through my teeth like it was second nature.

The tears that welled in my eyes weren’t from sorrow, but bitterness. I was bitter, I felt cheated. And I felt wrong for feeling this way. Each doubt I had was squashed by the echo of her words and how they made me feel.

Everyone spoke so warmly and lovely about her, and slowly it made me feel like a stranger- like I didn’t know that side of her.

Two days after the viewing and the speeches I was at home with my parents, my brother, and his partner. We planned on having the chilliest night, wanting a sense of reprieve from all the emotions. We- minus my dad- had taken an edible and man did we set ourselves up.

My dad called us all into the front room to talk. Uh oh. My brother and I looked at each other like cartoon characters. The three of us sat opposite the parents trying not to laugh. They seemed serious, more serious than before.

They say secrets should die with you. Those people would be right.

My dad cleared his throat and leaned against the couch, “So I have something I need to tell you guys… “

Oh my god you’re adopted

My eyebrows quirked and my dad could tell my brain was spinning, “ I was adopted- Did you know something?” Well shit. I shook my head, “Your nana and pops aren’t your real grandparents. My real mom is someone in nana’s family. I won’t tell you who because it’s not important,” -Oh, it has to be Aunt Elle, she’s never here- can’t be Aunt Naia or Aunt Chel.

….

“It’s you’re Aunt Elle- she never told anyone who my father was. Nana just told her that she’d take me…” Oh my god- I’m psychic.

Oh my god- we’re not Filipino!?

Cue the identity crisis. For two days I was in bed- going over all the bits and pieces of my life I thought didn’t make sense or did now. For each bit that I felt more cheated and more deceived I also felt like I couldn’t say anything to anybody. I didn’t want to hurt my dad’s feelings. However, I felt that this was the reason Nana was so indifferent to me, with us- she never saw us as her real grandkids.

She took the wrong secret to her grave

We had planned a cousin’s dinner at Pop’s house and sitting in their driveway in my brother's car with his partner and our sister I felt empty and all the more lied to. They knew- they all knew but me. My dad had told Dar when he turned 18 who in turn told Jai while he was spiraling from an identity crisis and after a few months of dating Dar told his partner. He told them but didn’t tell me. I felt angry- I felt betrayed. When we got out of the car I stood in front of my brother, tears in my eyes, and punched him square in the chest.

I took 2 DNA tests, I wanted to know what we were, like somehow, I would feel a sense of validation and healing with those results. I told my brother and he encouraged me. We made jokes about not being Filipino anymore, about knowing we were way more Mexican than we thought- we knew that for certain. Our mom encouraged us as well but warned us that our father didn’t care anymore about finding out who his father was. I didn’t care about that, selfishly, I just wanted to know who I was.

My brother and I worked on filling out what we knew about our family tree and waited for the results.

When I finally got the results back I shared them with my brother; Indigenous Americas-Mexico. Spanish, and a collection of origins from places in Europe and Africa. Somehow this collection of percentages that, on a piece of paper, made me up felt like an answer.

When my brother and I spoke about it all I realized, it didn’t really matter what we were, what I was. I was raised in a Hispanic household, I was raised within that community within that cultural sphere.

It did, however, feel like a conclusion. An ending to a chapter in my novella of a life. In the background, even now I still feel some bitterness toward Nana, and that’s ok. But I can’t let it over take me, she’s dead, she’s no longer here. I can’t confront her with questions or ask why she was the way she was with me.

Everything I was feeling, was valid- I’ll never be able to fix what was. The sense of emptiness I feel when people talk about how great she was will resolve over time- I’ll be able to move past it someday. I just had to learn to accept the negative emotions I was feeling- they were my grieving process. It’s ok to feel the way I did, the way I do. My negative emotions are still emotions to be felt, they didn't change who I am. I am still me.