Page 42 of Betsy
I planted my palm on the floor to push myself up into a sitting position, but my fingers started to slide apart into the splits. Good grief. Whoever had waxed and polished the wood had been a little too generous, making the stage as slippery as a Malibu sunbather slathered in tanning lotion.
I managed to get myself upright and took inventory. My hip ached but not too bad. My elbow still smarted though. I rotated my arm to try and get a look, but the position was awkward, to say the least.
The other band members drifted away, talking about instrument placement and the acoustics in the room.
Betsy squatted beside me. “Let me see.” Her fingers encircled my forearm, and she gently pulled to get a better view. The curtain of her spiral curls fell to cover the side of her face. She made a noise in the back of her throat, then took her fingertips and rubbed my elbow where it hurt in a circular motion.
“Sana, sana, colita de rana. Sí no sana hoy, sanarás mañana.” Finally, she gave my elbow a quick, painless smack, then sat back on her heels as if she’d just made everything better.
I wasn’t going to take the time to examine the how and why of no longer feeling any pain. “What was that?”
She pushed her hair away from her face and tucked the thick mass behind her ears. “What was what?”
“What you just said. What did it mean?”
Her lips tipped up in a tease of a smile. “The meaning kind of gets lost in translation. It doesn’t really make sense in English.”
I moved my legs to sit crisscross. “I’d still like to hear.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine, but I warned you. Literally translated, I said, ‘Heal, heal, little tail of the frog. If you don’t heal today, you’ll heal tomorrow.’”
I twisted my arm to look at my elbow again. “The elbow is a frog’s tail in Spanish?”
“No. Elbow in Spanish isel codo. The rhyme is something parents in some Latin American countries say to their kids to make them feel better when they’ve hurt themselves. Kinda like parents here in the United States kiss their kid’s boo-boos to make them feel better. It wouldn’t matter if you hurt your elbow or your shin, the saying is the same.”
I bent my arm at the elbow joint, back and forth. “You should patent that. It really works.”
She huffed aduh. “Of course it works.”
I leaned back, supporting my weight on my palms, then readjusted when my hands started to do a slow slide away from me. “Any other secret saying or remarkable traditions I should be aware of? I feel like I’ve been missing out.”
She rolled her lips between her teeth, considering. With an imperceptible lift of her shoulders, she leaned toward me ever so slightly. “These aren’t secrets, as every Hispanic abuela has passed on these little facts, so I guess it would be okay to let you in on them as well.” She smirked. “Not your fault you didn’t have the privilege of an abuela to teach you in the first place.”
“No, it’s not.” I matched her posture. “I’m listening.”
“First, never sweep a single woman’s feet or let your feet get swept.”
“Like, with a broom?”
“Of course with a broom. You use something else to sweep the floor besides a broom?” She tsked. “And stop smiling,payaso.”
I grinned wider. “So why is getting one’s feet swept bad?”
“The person who gets their feet swept will never get married,” she said matter-of-factly.
My brows rose. “Seriously?”
“It may sound ridiculous to you, but we don’t question these things. They just are.”
I nodded. “Okay, what else?”
“If your left palm itches, you’ll be losing money in the near future. You can try to combat that by scratching your left palm away from your body and keeping your hand open, but that might not work. However, if it’s your right hand that itches, that means you are going to receive money soon. Some say to not scratch so you don’t jinx your luck, but my abuela said to scratch toward your body, make a fist, then put that fist in your pocket just like you’ll put the money in your pocket.”
“Is that what you do?”
“Of course. If she’s right, I don’t want to miss the opportunity for a payday.”
“Makes sense.” Every culture had their superstitions. Interesting, sure, but even more than that, Betsy was opening up and sharing something personal with me. Things about her heritage and how she’d been raised. Things that were important to her, and traditions she held dear. That were a part of who she was at her core.
