7. Family Interlude Part 2 - Agustin, Pepa, & I...
Agustin felt that this was for the best. He had always been a bit of an outcast with his in-laws, ever since even before he dated Julietta. He was one of the few people who integrated into the Encanto from outside, going through many trials to prove his lack of ill-intentions. His accident-prone nature, and the danger of his previous job, cartographer in the jungles of the Encanto, had gotten him in close acquaintance with a younger Julietta. The two had bonded during the short chats he would instigate when she healed him upon each return.
As the two had gotten closer, the family dynamic of the Madrigals had become more and more apparent. His mother-in-law was a harsh taskmaster when she needed to be, under that veil of a caring mother. She expected perfection in everything: appearance, performance, altruism, and behavior. She had made it abundantly clear that she didn’t like him, especially his clumsiness. Because he could never be a perfect husband, even if Julietta felt, and often reassured, that he was perfect for her. It was only through his and Juli’s persistence that their relationship and later marriage survived her machinations. And although Julietta didn’t, or couldn’t, see past her mother’s façade, the argument that she and Julietta had after he had proposed was legendary. Even now, people were vaguely terrified for inexplicable reasons of his kind wife. But ever since then, he had been conscientious about avoiding his in-law’s wrath.
When Mirabel was seemingly rejected by the miracle, Alma’s eyes immediately latched onto him as a cause. So, in an attempt to calm her, he had busied himself trying to mend the damage, so to speak. Agustin had tried to calm his daughter and show her how to survive in her new position. He had wanted to integrate her into his routine. Especially since his role kept him near the village, and that would allow her the freedom to grow as she pleased. His hope was she would eventually learn a trade and escape her Abuela’s rule sans, perhaps, holidays and birthdays. However, in his haste to bring about a safe new status quo, his attempts had been too ham-fisted. He had royally screwed up his relationship with his daughter, probably almost to the point of no return. Recognizing this, he had taken a step back to reevaluate, and during that time, he watched helplessly as the new status quo took shape. It wasn’t a good one, not at all. The daughter he was so worried about was a ghost in her own home, working herself just as hard as her mother did without any of the recognition. Julietta’s mother gaslighted and maneuvered her into forgetting their daughter’s existence. This, despite his attempts to counteract the damage. Worse of all, his daughters were estranged from each other. One’s grooming as the perfect heir neared completed, another was worked the hardest of the family to keep her too busy to question the status quo, and the last isolated and marginalized. It was a nightmare seemingly tailored to fit his worst fears.
He was honestly shocked that it had gotten to this point, but the one time he had tried to fix it before it could be set in stone, it had blown up in his face. He had quietly prepared for Mirabel’s 6th birthday, trying to show his little girl that the family still cared. Everything was ready, only for Alma to decide that everyone got double chores that day. This decision was ostensibly to remind the community that the miracle was going strong, of course. When he had brought up the possibility of celebrating his little girl’s birthday, seeing as she was still a part of the family, Alma had given him a look that could strip paint. She had then remarked that she was doing this, FOR MIRABEL. She had the temerity to insinuate, very obliquely, that because his mundanity had infected his daughter. She asserted that she was trying to keep the villagers from thinking that his daughter had harmed the miracle protecting them. And if his daughter’s safety came at the cost of the girl’s birthday party, she would just have to be a big girl and suck it up. Mirabel had shrunk in her seat at the table and had slunk off to God knows where. No one would see her for another week.
After this incident, Agustin had taken a wait-and-see approach. He had tried to keep an eye on his daughter whenever he could. The problem was that she got more elusive the older she got, and the House helped her. He had planned often enough to restart their relationship, but every time something got in the way before he could execute those plans. Usually, it was his ever-growing list of external chores as the only Madrigal who wasn’t tied to one job, place, or person. But every so often, he sensed the twang of sabotage in an unexpected errand, and it had turned him a bit bitter. He still loved his daughter and could never hate her, but that bitterness had to go somewhere, and it turned towards what he saw as the source of her misery. He often silently questioned if the gifts were actually helping the family. And because of that, he had stuck to his other two daughters and wife like glue. Nowadays, he focused on reducing their burdens since interacting with them wasn’t some sort of unwritten taboo in his mother-in-law’s books.
He still tried to keep tabs on Mirabel, but he honestly couldn’t remember the sound of her voice, and that hurt. He had vaguely noticed her frequenting Signora Rojas’ shop, so hopefully, she was doing what he would have suggested if he had his way at the start. He wanted to encourage her, to tell her how proud he was of her fortitude. But so long as he was under his mother-in-law’s thumb, he really couldn’t do more than watch as she got further and further from her family. It was for the best, even if he could feel his heart breaking as his daughter slipped away…
Pepa isn’t allowed to feel anything. She hadn’t wanted to have another child, she was satisfied with Dolores and Camillo, but Mama had insisted. “We need to show that the miracle is still strong, and it will take too long for Isabella or Dolores to be old enough to do so.” So, somewhat reluctantly, she and Felix had gotten to work. It was painful, dealing with the disgusted look on her daughter’s face every time they tried, but eventually, she had gotten pregnant.
She hadn’t really acknowledged her youngest sobrina in years, so when she became the topic of discussion at the table when the nursery was brought up, she had been startled. “Don’t mention Mirabel” had been an unspoken rule amongst the family, something like “We don’t talk about Bruno” ’s second cousin; so, the fact that the rule had been breached had her staring at her mother worriedly. That discussion had been challenging. Someone noticed that the girl was still in the nursery and had wondered aloud why she didn’t have her own space. Which had sent Pepa spiraling mentally as the arguing started, wondering what the girl had been up to.
Sure, she heard the rumors caused majorly by her Mama’s harsh treatment of the girl. That she was attention-seeking, and-slash-or a lay about do-nothing. She couldn’t see it herself, but she had still stayed away from the girl regardless because any change of Pepa’s emotional state in the girl’s presence would have her mother bearing down on her and the girl, in what measure each Pepa could not guess. Not worth the risk, and even then, true or not, the girl’s position only made Pepa worry about her own baby. What if he didn’t get a gift? Would he be the next unspoken-of family member to disappear or fade into rumor? It stressed her out, and she just barely had made it out of the room before she started hailing.
It had taken her a while to decide on what she would do. She had taken care of Antonio as carefully as she could for as long as she could bear it. But eventually, the worry and doubt got to the point where she could only spend an hour with him before spiraling into fear about his future: forming tornados, hail, or rainstorms, depending on the nature of the intrusive thoughts. After that, it was all she could do to accept how mature her littlest niece had become and attempt to trust her with his care. She hated it, but she tried to be as present as possible without destroying the valley with her nerves.
She wished she could have kept his upbringing to herself and her husband (or even just Felix), but she needed Felix to stabilize her mood. If the villagers could stand a bit more rain or a bit less predictable weather, maybe she could. Sadly though, her mother promised specific weather all day each day and would be at best displeased if Pepa made a liar of her. That wasn’t even mentioning the riots the townsfolk could start if she really released all of her stress. They were already spoiled. If she gave them a reason to, they would destroy her like they had Bruno: via crippling rumors that led to her mother’s disapproval. The end result leaving all of her children without a mother rather than one with a somewhat absent one. So, she bottled up her emotions and prioritized attempting to keep the peace.
The backfire was that that decision left her out of a large part of her son’s life. She found herself living vicariously through a pre-pubescent girl’s sparse reports and the few moments she could steal. She had cried when she learned that Antonio had taken his first steps towards Mirabel. And even if she was elated when Antonio had called her mom, Dolores had covered that memory in melancholy when she timidly told her that he called another Mami. Pepa couldn’t even bring herself to be mad, just disappointed in herself that her choices had led to this. Still, it was for the best. The best for their family, at least. Despite that, she felt her son slipping even farther away from her as he got older…
Isabela couldn’t feel herself. It was an odd feeling, being trapped in your own mind. The feeling of banging on walls of conditioning, trying to make yourself see reason through the blinding fear of punishing disappointment. She didn’t find herself in this condition much, but the feeling of captivity crept up on her. It latched onto her brain until she was a robot going through the motions alma her grandmother programed as her ego was pounding the walls of her skull trying to get out.
Isabela hadn’t noticed when it had started, but she guessed it was around the time she was seven. She hazily remembered playing in the mud, creating giant cacti or trees to climb and explore the boughs of. There was an inkling of producing more than flowers, but time and alma her Abuela’s silent disapproval had stolen that ability from her. So, she just created flowers, trying to keep her powers diverse as possible. This persisted even if creating succulents and some of the more dangerous flowers in her arsenal made Alma her Abuela side-eye her (every time causing a spike of anxiety for her perfection being questioned).
It had started small, with suggestions, perhaps white lilies instead of orange ones, maybe roses instead of morning glory or oleander. Then it had been corrections and orders, “oh, sit up straighter please,” “this family needs nice flowers for this event, please do it and don’t make a mess,” “Oh, don’t create that anymore, it’s horrible.” Finally, for fear of disapproval, she started seeking out the suggestions, corrections, orders, and expectations. And then she was trapped, a shell of perfection enclosing everything she actually wanted to be until she was stuck and miserable.
Every so often, she felt the pieces of herself that she suppressed slip through the perfect persona she had been forced into like an ill-fitting suit. If she was alone in her room, she raged. She broke down and tore apart the place. Attempting to leave some semblance of her true self in that constant reminder of her forced perfection. Thorny vines ripped apart the disgusting pink everything (Bella, as her littlest sister dubbed her, hated Pink. She had always preferred purple or navy or even teal over the saccharine color so closely associated with femininity). Carnivorous plants sprouted and flooded the room. Rafflesia bloomed, Snake Lily blossomed, and Cacti barricaded the door. During those times, her room became almost uninhabitable as she released all the bile she stored up and tried to make peace with daily. But no matter what, as soon as the rage lifted, hostile foliage wilted into nothing, and the room sprouted pink anew. Almost worse, the dress would reappear in the next few days like brand new as though taunting her inability to make any difference as her true self.
If she was in town, it became more insidious. Orange Lilies would follow Alma. Her usual vines would be traded for thick bands of morning glories. Red tulips sprouted in her own wake, reflecting the boiling kettle she kept constantly sealed. Cacti burst inconspicuously in unfortunate places for the town gossips who peddled her youngest sister’s misfortune as the daily rag (it was the most she could do when merely peaking out of the shell). The general flora of the area around her became wilder than the restrictive beauty it was when she contained herself. Her anger leaked in a more manageable way, corrupting the ground around her, only to never fully sprout as she was forced to bottle it back up.
Conversely, she hated herself when trapped in her persona of forced perfection. The days where she felt like she was cadged inside someone else’s body. The exhausting crippling feeling of trying to gain control or get out of her own head. Bella’s barely concealed self-hatred morphed into Isa’s disdain towards her littlest sister, forcing her to mirror Alma Abuela. Bella’s calculated recklessness morphs into Isa’s over-the-top hubris. Bella’s sarcasm and black humor morph into Isa’s cutting bile aimed at the family’s black sheep instead of more worthy targets. Even as she cried on the inside, wanting to hug the girl, to promise that she still loved her, her perfect chains tore any hint of the girl’s self-respect, any smidgen of pride, to shreds. It hurt so much; The boiling mask which Alma had dubbed Isa burned and withered the whole of Isabela.
She wished she could scream and thrash and rage outside the confines of her room, in view of everyone. Shatter her perfect prison once and for all. Be just Bella again, the parts of herself she kept hidden that Mirabel had loved so much. She wished she could show all the townspeople and her family the pain everyone was going through. But then came the fear. The little threats warnings that alma Abuela whispered in her ear whenever she showed more Bella than the woman’s perfect little Isa. “Your perfection keeps the miracle strong; a strong miracle keeps your sister safe from the townspeople’s rumors.” “The townspeople are worried about the strength of the miracle. If we don’t reassure them, they’ll think that your sister’s ceremony weakened it.” “Your perfection mirrors the family. If the heir isn’t flawless, then the family isn’t either.” Of course, the words were usually more honeyed than those, but that was the real meaning behind the comments.
The insidious thoughts just wiggled and squirmed and locked her further into her cage. Isabella loved her sister; she would never want her harmed. So, Bella kept herself hidden. She let Alma have her precious little Isa as she secretly stewed in her impotent rage. After all, she would bitterly remind herself, it was for the best. For her family. For her sister. Even if she felt herself slipping through the cracks…