Page 7 of Fool Moon First Aid

“No, you know that won’t do,” she replies, her voice laced with resignation. She pulls a small foil pan of tamales from the fridge, and the comforting aroma of home-cooked food fills the air. “Here, so you won’t starve.”

I nearly roll my eyes, but instead, I smile warmly. “Thanks, Mama.”

“So, are you excited about school?” she asks, her eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. “Met any boys?”

I roll my eyes this time, a blush creeping up my cheeks. “No, Mama.” I pick at a knot in our old wood dining room table, worn smooth by years of family meals. “I’m focusing on myself. This will be my last year, if all goes well.”

“Ah, yes.” She beams with pride, her smile lighting up her entire face. “My daughter, the doctor.”

“Veterinarian,” I correct her, though it’s a lost cause. To her, I’ll always be a doctor—no matter if I’m tending to humans, spiritkin, or actual animals.

Unfazed, she shoos me away, muttering something in Spanish too softly for me to catch. “Doctor,” she insists again. “Your ancestors would be proud.”

“I hope so,” I reply, my gaze drifting to the living room, where our small ofrenda sits, a tribute to our ancestors who came before us.

“It’s your turn to make offerings,” she states firmly. “Remember your roots. Now” —she places my dinner in the oven and removes her apron— “pull that out in twenty minutes.”

I wrinkle my nose playfully. “Twenty…”

“Ah…” She tugs at a loose strand of my hair affectionately. “Fine. Turn the broiler on and get that cheese crispy.”

“That’s the only way, Mama.” Standing, I wrap my arms around her in a tight hug, feeling the fragile strength of her frame in my embrace.

When did she become so thin?

Pulling away, Mama smiles up at me. Dark circles, like faint shadows, line her eyes, speaking of her exhaustion.

How did I not notice how worn out she is?

“Are you okay?” The words escape me impulsively, but I wouldn’t retract them even if I could. My hands linger on her frail shoulders, feeling the delicate bones beneath.

She makes a dismissive, almost musical sound in the back of her throat. “Ava Martinez-Thompson, I am a lady. Of course I am fine,” she declares with a flicker of her old, fiery spirit.

I don’t believe her, not even for a second. “You’d tell me if you weren’t, wouldn’t you?” I probe, though deep down, I know the answer. Mama has always believed that her problems are matters to be discussed only with God.

Clearly, I don’t share that sentiment.

“Hush now, I need to go,” she insists, attempting to step away, but I hold her in place.

On a whim, I embrace her again, savoring the familiar scent of her vanilla perfume tinged with a hint of spice—a unique blend that is quintessentially Mama. Her soft hair brushes against my cheek, a comforting sensation. Her breath, steady and warm against my skin, and the light caress of her fingers on my lower back, are reassuring yet heart-wrenching. When she pulls away, we both tactfully ignore the tears brimming in our eyes. She collects her purse and keys, her movements graceful yet weary, and walks toward the front door.

“Mama,” I call out just as her hand grazes the doorknob, “be careful. Something in the air feels unsettling tonight.”

She answers with that matronly, enigmatic smile of hers before disappearing into the humid summer night, leaving a trace of her perfume lingering in the air.

Sighing, I turn to the ofrenda, reaching for the gold tequila on the shelf beside it. The tequila, a blatant reminder of the cultural clash in our household, is a bone of contention for Daddy. I’ve overheard their heated debates about her heritage clashing with his idea of a “proper” home.

It took me years to understand that my father, once my hero, supports the Puritas Umbra, shadowy figures who hunt spiritkins under the guise of vigilantes. They masquerade as heroes, but in reality, they are heartless murderers.

Unscrewing the cap on the tequila, I gaze at the photos of relatives I’ve never met, their faces frozen in time, witnesses to a past Mama spoke of only in hushed tones. In these silent faces, I see echoes of her life before us, the beliefs she cherishes, and the boundless love she showers upon me and my friends.

She once confided in me that she didn’t want to pick sides, that her soul feels forever torn between two worlds. Dad made her relinquish almost everything from her past, except for this altar.

Pouring tequila into a glass in the center of the table, I surround it with others filled with water, paying homage to her grandparents, aunties, and uncles who grace the white cloth-covered table with their solemn visages.

“Watch over her tonight,” I whisper to the silent assembly, my voice laced with uncertainty and secret hope. I replace the tequila and turn off the oven timer. The rich aroma of tamales wafts through the kitchen, stirring a pang of hunger.

My gaze lingers on the table, drawn in by an inexplicable allure, as if it whispers secrets just beyond my grasp.

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