Page 77 of And Still Her Voice
I felt Grandma like an itch needing to get scratched. “Please let it go,” I whispered, scooting in my matching chair.
Mom pulled out a little mound of masa and rolled out some tortillas, her hands knowing what to do without the need of her attention. In between the flipping, she ladled a plate with Mexican rice, the way I remembered it with cumin, green peas, and carrots. Flip. She then served some shredded chicken simmered in olive oil and salsa and topped with lime juice. Flip. Finally, she set down a tortillero full of hot tortillas, took off her apron, pulled out a seat across from me, and stared down at the plate. “We already ate.”
I took a bite before my salivary glands might explode. Nowhere on my travels throughout the country had there been any better Mexican cuisine than what my mother made and with whatever ingredients she could find.
“I’ve missed your cooking.”
“Hmmph,” she said.
“I’ve missed you,” I added. I couldn’t see her rheumy eyes through her fogged-up glasses—no different than the times she chose not to look at me at all. Those times when she just didn’t want to acknowledge that other person taking up space behind my eyes.
“Didn’t you miss me, Mom? Weren’t you worried about me?”
“What could I do? You made your choice.” Using her apron, she wiped her glasses. “Kids, there’s ice cream in the freezer.”
“Yay,” Josie squealed, and got up to race past Michael into the kitchen, returning with the tub of Neapolitan. Michael followed with some bowls. Mom scooped some for me.
“Oh, no thank you. I’m full. It was so delicious.”
“Just leftovers,” she said as if she’d gone to no trouble for this prodigal daughter of hers. She stood, picking up my suitcase. “It’s late for you. You should go to bed. I made up my bed for you.”
“That’s okay, I’ll take the couch,” I said as she walked away.
“That’s where I sleep,” Michael said.
“I’ll sleep with the girls,” Mom said.
“But, I don’t . . .”
“Ya basta.”
Bossing me was another way Mom showed affection. And when she did it with those big infinite black eyes magnified by her reading glasses, looking just off to the side of my face, it frightened me into submission.
I kissed her cheek. “Good night, everyone.”
She closed the door.
Overwhelmed, I could barely keep my eyes open as soon as the weight of the world hit my pillow. A puff of eucalyptus-scented wind fluttered the window curtains. Dogs barked and crickets chirped as I stared out toward the star-filled sky. The day had been electric, hot, and dry, but now the temperature had droppedand I smelled the rain coming. It would be damp and chilly in the days to come. I felt it to the marrow as I sunk down into the firm mattress. It didn’t matter the place, we were all under one roof again. “Except your father,” Grandma Phoebe whispered. And Patty, for that matter, but I was too tired to argue over semantics. Even she knew life was more peaceful when he wasn’t around. If only she weren’t around. Mom had asked why Grandma still hung around even though we knew there was only one way out for the voice.
***
The following night at the wake, more people than I would have imagined attended, mostly men and no wailing women, thank God.
I stood at the front of the small salon, casket behind me, with my stiff-lipped, black-veiled Mom and four siblings, including Patty who looked like she’d swallowed a giant watermelon and her guy looking like he’d swallowed more than he could chew. It wouldn’t be easy raising the baby.
The coffin, flanked on one side by a giant photo of Dad in his Navy uniform (Maggie had picked out this respectable photo even though he’d been discharged within his first two years) and a wreath of sweet-smelling flowers on the other, but it was the bold, citrusy scent of Brylcreem that cloyed my heart. Dad used to slather that stuff on his head, and as I turned to make sure the casket was still closed and that Dad wasn’t sitting up, a handsome young Mexican man, black hair slicked back into a ducktail—a Mexican Jesus—stepped up to offer his condolences. I checked again to make sure Dad hadn’t risen from the dead.
“Most of us knew your dad from AA,” he said, gesturing to the other men. His apostles? “Good guy, always volunteering.Made some strong coffee.” His broad smile showed large white teeth, free of coffee stains. Surprised, I never knew Dad to help anyone but himself. Being of service was apparently one of the important principles in that program, like making amends.
“Thank you for coming,” I said as he shook my hand.
He then reached out to shake Mom’s hand. Clutching the rosary beads that had been hanging in Maggie’s rearview mirror, she nodded as she took his hand. “Si, gracias.”
And then a taller, darker male version of Mom, my Uncle Teodoro came up and one-arm hugged her. At the same, cousin Teddie snuck up on me from the other side. “Boo!” she said, and I shrieked as she pulled me in for a bear hug.
“Inside a mortuary, really, Teddie? Have some respect. Sin verguenza. You almost scared me to death.”
She laughed. A year older than me, and now standing at least two inches taller, Teddie used to try and scare the crap out of me until I learned that her “Boo!” was more intimidating than her bite when she’d make herself big as a bear; a Teddy bear more like it with her amber-hued skin and long raven-colored hair parted down the middle. Looking past the black eyeliner into her dark almond-shaped eyes, I saw her hibernating kind soul.
