Page 19 of Outspoken

A cousin down the table says, “I was so glad to get him out of my place. He stole Abuela's jewelry and you know how sentimental her rings are to me. Then, when he was at Rico's, he broke a TV.”

“Told me it was a mistake,” Rico says, “but that little shit did it on purpose while we were sleeping. You know what they say—when the parents use, the kids end up the same.”

I swallow some water, trying to remember the last time I saw Angel. I remember him as a little kid, so it has been a while. I feel for him, though. His mother, Ava, had a rough time when she left home. She got into an abusive first marriage, had a lot of miscarriages before conceiving Angel, and then got hooked on meth while dealing with her asshole second husband. She finally divorced two years ago but fell into meth so deep that Angel ran off. She was close to losing custody anyway. No one knows where the dad is, but he’s also an addict.

Angel showed up at Lupita’s door one day, so of course she took him in. But he was too much for her to handle. He keeps getting passed around the family because no one can handle him.

“But he’s not using, right?” I ask the group. It'd be heartbreaking if he was.

Rico scoffs. “Not yet, unless you count drinking. It's only a matter of time before he becomes like his parents. It’s in his blood.”

I frown. “Isn't that our blood?”

“Naw. Comes from his dad.”

Johnny stands to get a second helping of food. “I think he should go to juvie. Might motivate him to change.”

“Doesn't that make it worse?” I ask. “Kids who go to juvie don't get rehabilitated—most get worse and end up in jail.”

Johnny shrugs and heads to the food table.

Rico pats my shoulder. “I hear your sister is getting him next.”

I glance at Maribel, my stomach still unsettled. She has the cake ready and is waiting for a good time to grab everyone's attention.

With their own three kids to raise, I’m not sure how she and Steve will foster a delinquent. But I've always said Maribel would make a great drill sergeant, so maybe Angel will improve under her watch and escape the bad start he was given. I feel better at least knowing he'll be somewhere safe.

After lingering at the party until cake and presents, I dip out to return home.

As I steer my sedan onto the familiar streets of my neighborhood, I unconsciously release a heavy breath, happy to be home. The clouds have broken up, letting the late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over everything. Even though it's January, the trees where I live are late shedders, so the sidewalks are still littered with clumps of orange and red leaves. I’ll have to rake soon if I don’t want a nasty letter from the HOA.

I pull into my driveway, and the large tree in front of the house rustles, dropping leaves onto the grass. I park in front of the garage, which is currently too crammed with Mom's stuff to even walk through. I exit my car, bypassing the two steps on my short porch, and then reach the off-white front door. I step inside.

Stepping inside, I'm met with the array of Mom's knickknacks that cover the living room. There are tons of crosses and animal figurines lining the walls, along with pictures of saints. Visitors are usually shocked, but I'm so used to the visual chaos I no longer notice.

The muted TV and drawn curtains make the living room mellow and a bit somber. Behind the TV, a few small candles flicker on the mantle, where Mom built her altar.

Mom is resting on our gray couch, bundled and shivering under a turquoise crocheted blanket. Her eyes are closed as she tries to sleep.Wish she would stop sleeping with candles lit.

I walk to the thermostat in the hallway, cranking it up to 80°F. Then, I change into lighter clothes—a tank top and cotton pants—to deal with the heat. I grab a heating blanket from the linen closet and then return to the family room.

Mom stirs as I cover her with the blanket and plug the cord into an outlet.

I kiss her forehead and the aroma of her eucalyptus rub surrounds me. “Brought you some cake. It should keep in the fridge until after your appointment next week.”

Mom sits up with a yawn, her weathered black and gray hair loose and messy. She's wearing a white house dress with embroidered pink flowers, looking like a sweet old angel who needs a good night of sleep. “I’ll eat that now,” she says in a gravelly voice. “It will taste good going down and coming up.”

I make a face. “That's morbid.”

She smiles, her warm brown skin stretching like paper around her sharp cheekbones. “You have to laugh, mi cielito,” she says. “Laugh because it helps you get through.”

I grab a pair of exercise bands from under the plain wooden coffee table. As I do, my arm bumps the table and some of Mom’s clutter, mostly small paperbacks, tumbles to the floor. I kick the books under the table to sort them later.

“Well,” I say, “if you really want to eat cake now, let's make it a reward for doing your exercises.”

Her face turns grim as she mumbles, “Las bandas de ejercicio son el diablo.”

I raise my brows, holding back a smile. “Hmm, what was that?”

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