11. Fabric Colored Green

The day before Antonio’s gift ceremony, Mirabel found herself with a lot of things to get done before the sun set that evening.

Of course, none of her tasks pertained to the preparation of the ceremony, no, Abuela had made that she was not needed abundantly clear in her own subtle, passive aggressive way. Basically in the form of brushing Mirabel off whenever she tried to step in and help, right before turning away to enlist the help of another member of the family, barking orders out that never were addressed toward her. But despite all of this, Mirabel found that she didn’t mind; she had her own checklist of things to get done.

It was good for Mirabel to have her own separate list of things to do. The closer that the days had drawn to the ceremony, the more stress and intensity there was that buzzed around the house. And it was growing increasingly more difficult to maintain an upbeat, chipper attitude in the face of the starkest reminder of her biggest shortcoming.

Her own gift ceremony had been one of the worst days of her entire life. The image of the door crumbling before her eyes, the magical golden particles that symbolized her gifted potential fading away into dust until nothing but the wall remained did nothing but make hot tears prick at the corners of her eyes whenever she thought about it. And all this preparation, this talk about Antonio’s gift ceremony was enough to bring these memories that she had worked so hard to suppress come crashing back. As if the years she had spent trying to prove herself and bury them away and forget the fact that she was the only Madrigal without a gift were all for naught.

It all brought up a complicated whirlwind of emotions. On one hand, she wanted Antonio to receive a gift. Even if it was something super dumb, like being able to play piano with his feet or hold his breath for longer than ten seconds. Because that way, he would still be blessed by the candle, and he would still be accepted by the family. He wouldn’t face the years of neglect and sadness that Mirabel had, no, Mirabel would never want to wish what she had gone through on anyone.

However, on the other hand, Mirabel knew that if Antonio got a gift, confirming that she had been the only child to be skipped, then it would crush her spirits. Isolate her further from the family, solidifying that there wasn’t something wrong with the candle, but that there was something wrong with her.  

But that was all such sad, sappy talk! There were much more fun things to think about and distract herself with, like sewing!

First, she started by packing up Antonio’s embroidered coat that she had completed a week ago in a little gift box, wrapping the whole thing up with a neat, flashy bow tied at the top. Satisfied with the presentation after fifteen minutes of fussing with it (when it probably would have taken a normal person about two to accomplish), Mirabel had tucked it away into her dresser. Antonio would never think to do something as boring as go through her clothing drawer, so she was fairly confident that he wouldn’t snoop around and accidentally find her surprise gift for him.

The second thing on her to-do list had been to finish up the costumes for the rats acting in the telenovela. That had taken her the better part of the morning and early afternoon, and when Antonio had popped a curious head in before lunch, she had smoothly covered up the odd project with the explanation that “I’m just getting some practice so I can make more clothes for Tío Bruno!” Tío Bruno being Antonio’s frog, of course, because how was Mirabel supposed to know that the ruana she planned to construct that afternoon was also destined to be an article of clothing for another Tío Bruno? The original Tío Bruno? The irony would be humorously understood by her later, when she had discovered the truth about her rat-loving friend, however, for the time being, she remained blissfully unaware.

As for the ruanas, she started with finishing the repairs on Ratón’s old ruana, figuring that she had originally promised him that she would complete it, so even if the article of clothing looked like someone had removed it from a corpse that had been buried fifty years ago, Mirabel decided that she would follow through and mend up the torn sleeve. With a needle and thread, she quickly made her way down the seam with a whip stitch, the needlework so precise and neat that she lamented its waste on the deteriorated condition of the ruana.

Oh well. It was a gift for Ratón, so with that mindset, her regret was easy to rewrite into something more positive. 

Once she finished that, she had folded it up and set it to the side before she started working on constructing Ratón’s new ruana, her secret gift for him. Using the old one as a reference for fabric sizes and shapes, she was able to cut out the necessary pieces, doing her best to match it to the original as possible. After she had all the necessary parts displayed, she had sat down on the floor of her room, her tongue sticking out in concentration as she began the painstaking process of pinning the chunks of fabric together. A necessary evil, if she wanted the pieces to line up, but after the fifth time that her finger pad got stabbed by one of the pins, all she could do was pray that it would be over soon and fantasize about the project she would begin after the ruana was finished.

She had plans to make personalized doily candle holders for everyone in the family, customized with the color that the assigned person preferred to wear. Mirabel thought it would be a nice surprise, a little flourish of celebration for the entire family. She was hoping that the small gesture would be noticed and appreciated by Abuela, but Mirabel stopped that train of thought before it got too imaginative. She had to focus on the task at hand, which at the moment, was constructing Ratón’s new ruana.

She had been hard at work hemming the garment, the fabric passing under the stabbing needle of her sewing machine at a speed that only one with a lot of experience could ever hope to accomplish. Her fingers deftly removing the pins that held the hem together as the mechanical needle raced down the cloth, Mirabel was so engrossed in her work that she only faintly registered the light tapping on her shoulder.

“Yes?” she asked, placing her fingers lightly along the spinning wheel that powered the machine to slow the breakneck sprint of the needle, thinking that it was Antonio behind her.

However, the dainty cough, light as a feather and almost inaudible, was enough to make her realize that it wasn’t Antonio that was behind her. No, it was someone a bit older, a bit taller, and a bit more perceptive to sound.

Mirabel’s hackles raised in fear. She would have to tread very carefully.

“Dolores, hey! What’s, um, up?” Trying her desperate hardest, Mirabel spun around and attempted to angle her body so that Dolores couldn’t see the green fabric that sat under the sewing machine, the needle still embedded in the fabric from when she had been interrupted mid-stitch. Propping her elbow up on the table and using her hand to act as a perch to rest her head on, she went for an aggressively casual stance. Which didn’t really work, since her torso needed to bend at an unnatural, crooked degree to make the whole thing work, but it had been a decent effort.

“I’ve been hearing your sewing machine run all day.”

Mirabel blinked. What an astute observation. “Oh, I’m… sorry?”

Dolores shrugged off her apology with a roll of her shoulders. “Don't be. I just wanted to see what you were working on.”

At this, she craned her neck to look over Mirabel’s shoulder, who tried (with limited success) to shift her body to conceal the project she had been working on from her cousin’s prying eyes. “It’s nothing of importance!” Mirabel was quick to explain, hoping that her words would brush of Dolores’ curiosity and suspicions.

However, this was a fruitless venture, for as Dolores drew back, there was a subtle twinkle in her eyes. “This is for your little friend, I take it?”

Mirabel froze, her scrambling to cover up the ruana halting as her eyes flitted up to meet Dolores’. Prior to this, they had seemed to reach a mutual understanding about Mirabel’s friendship with Ratón; Dolores knew, Mirabel knew that Dolores knew, and both of them knew not to outwardly speak of it around each other.

Realizing that she hadn’t yet responded, and that she probably should soon before Dolores began to think she was an absolute nutcase, Mirabel began to stammer, the words in her mouth feeling thick and heavy. “I… uh… what would make you think that?“ she finally managed to get out.

Dolores shot her a knowing smile; uh oh. That was foreboding. “I didn’t think that you wore ruanas. Not to mention, green isn’t really your color.”

Mirabel’s face puckered up in response, as if she had taken a bite out of a lemon. Dolores was right. Green really wasn’t her color.

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” Dolores continued. “He’s been wearing the same thing for the past ten years.”

Mirabel recoiled. Ten years? Ratón had been living in the walls for ten years?! That was… that was so long! He had been living inside of Casita amongst the Madrigal family for an entire decade, and no one had ever discovered his presence?!

The embarrassing negligence of her family aside, it also explained quite a few things. Like why he was always knocking on wood, throwing salt over his shoulder, and talking to rats. He had been living for so long in isolation, that he had developed some quirky habits (unless those had already been present… which was a very real possibility given the eccentric nature of his character) and reverted to keeping company with rodents. All of a sudden, Mirabel’s earlier disdain over his affectionate disposition towards the rats melted away; she could hardly blame him. She probably would have developed the same connection with the little rascals if she had been in his shoes.

And then a second, more alarming thought occurred to her. Ten years ago had been her failed gift ceremony. Had Ratón already been in Casita before it happened, tucked away and present for the whole ordeal? Or had he moved in afterwards? And had the timing been a mere coincidence? Or, perhaps, was it all correlated in some way?

Mirabel brushed that last thought off with a slight shake of her head. Of course it wasn’t correlated; what would her unsuccessful ceremony have to do with some random dude choosing to live within Casita’s walls? Absolutely nothing, that's what.

All the while that Mirabel’s thoughts were racing at this new revelation, she stared at Dolores, dumbfounded, who in turn, shot her a small smirk as the corners of her lips upturned ever-so-slightly. And then, realizing that Mirabel had essentially been rendered mute, she let out a small “hm!” and left, off to go about her day.

“Dolores, wait!” Mirabel called, reaching out a desperate hand in a pleading gesture. This was the first time that she had said anything about Ratón, and she was just going to drop that bomb and then leave?! Dolores had just revealed that she was a treasure trove of information, and she had exited before Mirabel had gotten the chance to capitalize on her vault of knowledge.

Because what else could she tell Mirabel about Ratón? What else did she know? His real name? Where he came from? These elusive questions, with answers she knew that she’d never get from the man himself, could all be divulged by Dolores. Dolores, who could hear everything. Dolores, who had known this whole time, but was only now telling Mirabel about it.

Mirabel sprang to her feet, fully intent on chasing Dolores down. Their mutual agreement to not speak about Ratón had been breached, meaning that now, he was fair game. And if discussing him was fair game, then Mirabel had a lot of questions to ask.

However, before she could chase her down, in fact, before she could even take a step in her cousin’s direction, there was a soft knock on the door.

Mirabel balked in surprise. Had Dolores returned? Back to talk about Ratón?

But no, she should have realized that it wasn’t Dolores (especially since her cousin didn’t even bother to knock the first time), because after Mirabel called out a strained “Come in!”, it wasn’t Dolores that entered her room. It was Pepa.

“Uh…” Mirabel began dumbly, not really sure what to make of her aunt’s presence in her room. “Hola, Tía Pepa. Are you looking for Antonio?” That was the only reason Pepa ever seemed to swing by these parts, was for her youngest son. Which made sense, of course, but Mirabel had lost track of Antonio and his frog earlier that afternoon. He had told her that he was off to go bird-watching, which sounded to be the most boring thing in the entire world to her, but if it meant that she would get some privacy to work that day, then she wasn’t going to be one to protest.

“Antonio? No, no, Mirabel, I actually came here to talk to you.”

Well, that was unexpected. “Me?” she asked, surprised.

Pepa nodded, her thin lips twisting in hesitation, indecision as she stepped forward. However, there was a determined fire alit in her eyes, one that continued to burn as she began to speak. “After our little talk the other day, I realized how harsh I had come across, after I managed to cool myself down.” She let out a small self-conscious laugh, and right on cue, a small cloud popped up above her head, as if a mere adjacent mention had been enough to summon it. Pepa, hyperaware of her little visitor as it hovered above her, shot it a scathing glare, waving her hands through it to dissipate its fluffy form.

“As I was saying,” she continued, softening her gaze as she turned back to Mirabel. “I have been doing a bit of reflecting, and I just wanted to say… I’m sorry.”

Mirabel stiffened; she didn’t know how to react. This was very uncharacteristic behavior for Pepa to exhibit, this emotional display of apologetic affection catching her off guard.

So, to alleviate some of the tension, she was quick to return the sentiment. “No, no, Tía Pepa, I’m sorry, too.” She took a deep breath, the apology genuine but still finding it challenging to confront and verbally acknowledge what had happened between them. “I should have realized that you didn’t want to talk about… him… and I shouldn’t have pushed you. That’s my fault.”

“Mirabel—”

“No, Tía, I really mean it. I brought up something you didn’t want to talk about, and continued to talk about it even when you told me not to.”

Pepa waved a dismissive hand. “Oh no, Mirabel, don’t be sorry! There was no way for you to know why we don't speak of him. You see, what had happened was it was my wedding day, and....” Out of nowhere her voiced died in her throat and Mirabel cocked her head in confusion, puzzled as to why she had stopped talking at what was shaping up to be an oddly touching, wholesome moment.

And then, realizing that Pepa was looking at something past her, she turned, following her gaze until her eyes landed on Ratón’s ruana sitting folded up on the corner of her desk, the pattern of the hourglass on the textile brandished for the whole world to see.

Oh no.

“Mirabel,” Pepa started, her head turning in her niece's direction, but her eyes never leaving the offending lump of fabric.

Mirabel’s gaze darted wildly between Pepa and the ruana on her workbench, her mind racing with a million thoughts and all of them nonsensical. Pepa saw the ruana. Pepa saw the ruana, and now she was going to ask who it belonged to, or where it had come from, and how was Mirabel supposed to respond to any of those questions?!

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Mirabel! she berated herself, the self-scolding rising above the ashes of her inner panic and turmoil. What were you thinking, leaving it out in the open like that?!

“What are you doing with Bruno’s ruana?”

There had been countless questions and scenarios that Mirabel had been mentally preparing herself for. Mirabel, who does that belong to? Certainly not you, or Where did you even get that deteriorating thing?  or even Why would you bother fixing something that is such a hideous shade of green?

But Pepa referring to Ratón’s ruana as Bruno’s was not something she had been equipped to hear.

All Mirabel could do was stare.

And then, upon noticing the expectant look that Pepa extended to her, she was snapped out of her reverie, enough to remember that she needed to respond. “I…” she started, but Mirabel found herself unable to speak, in fact, it was a miracle that she had been able to get out a single word at all, Pepa’s question inducing a tsunami of shock that left her drenched and speechless.

In front of her, Pepa took a step forward, picking up the garment with fingers so ginger and gentle, it was almost as if she were scared that the ruana was a ghost, an apparition that would vanish if she were to reach out and touch it. However, such a thing did not happen as she lifted it up, the fabric unfurling in a muted woosh! and revealing the extent of the patterns on the hem. The patterns, Mirabel now numbly realized, that were hourglasses because it had belonged to Bruno and he had the power to see into the future, and how had she not made that connection earlier?! “Mirabel,” she repeated, her voice distant and haunted. “Where did you get this?”

Now there was a question that Mirabel had been expecting. However, in light of Pepa’s earlier assertion, she felt woefully unequipped to answer it, her mind still hissing and sizzling in protest like an egg in a frying pan. Because how was she just supposed to accept the fact that Ratón had been wearing Bruno’s ruana? For ten years?! There were so many things wrong with that picture, Mirabel didn’t even know where to begin dissecting it. Or, in the present moment, how to answer Pepa’s question of where she had gotten it in the first place.

She started by swallowing. That was always a good start. And then: “I… uh… found it in the laundry pile,” she began. Which was technically true; she did find the ruana in the load of dirty clothes. She had been the one to deliberately put it there, of course, but Pepa didn’t need to be privy to this little detail. “And I didn’t know who it belonged to, so I washed it and brought it up here. I must have forgotten about it.”

That was the understatement of the century. Mirabel had definitely forgotten about the ruana, leaving it out in the open for anyone to see. It took everything in her power not to slap a palm to her forehead at her idiocy, opting instead to stretch her lips into a thin, displeased line.

Pepa gave her a doubting look, the disbelief written plain on her face. “You’re telling me, you just found it in the laundry?”

“Yeah,” Mirabel agreed, doing her best to sound as confused as Pepa, taking a page out of Ratón’s book of acting and playing the part of the befuddled niece. Which was easy enough, seeing that she tended to do that genuinely on a daily basis, no acting required. “It was just sitting there.”

Pepa let out a soft hum, turning back to behold the ruana she held so delicately in her hands. “I never thought I’d see it again,” she muttered under her breath, awe and reverence coloring her tone. Mirabel wasn’t sure if the statement had been for her ears to hear, feeling strangely intrusive as she watched Pepa study the garment unblinking, as if she were afraid that if she were to break eye contact, it would disappear from her grasp.

And then, glimmering tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, she was quick to fold it back up, placing it back on the table with such a sharp action that it may as well have been on fire. The cloud was back above her head, dark, gloomy, and storming, and Pepa seemed to notice this with wide eyes that glanced up towards the heavens.

“Excuse me,” she said, turning abruptly and fleeing the room. Likely, Mirabel presumed, before she would burst into tears. She was rapidly gaining a better understanding as to why nobody talked about Bruno. It appeared that all his name seemed to do was bring about a storm of sadness and sorrow.

Mirabel stared at the door that Pepa had slammed shut behind her for a minute. And then another minute. It was only after five minutes of staring blankly at the closed door, her mind thinking of everything imaginable, yet nothing at all, that she was jolted from her stupor by the prodding of Casita. Floorboards nudged her so that her heels lifted off the ground, and Mirabel glanced down at Casita’s concerned gesture with a soft look.

“I’m okay, Casita,” she reassured her friend. And then, adjusting her glasses as she looked back to where the tumultuous ruana sat innocently (except it wasn’t innocent at all, in fact, it was causing a great deal of problems at the moment), she narrowed her eyes, the cogs of her brain turning as she prepared to spring into action. When she finally spoke, there was a fiery edge to her voice, strong and unyielding and determined to get to the bottom of whatever this mystery was.

“I need to talk to Ratón. Now.”