Page 18 of Sweet Little Lies
Chapter 6
Mica
“Eres tu, mi Hermosa hija?” my mother asks from inside the small, hot kitchen of my childhood home.
“Buenos dias, mamá.”
My bookbag lands in a heap on the floor as I let it fall from my aching shoulder. It’s Saturday afternoon and aside from the shift I just put in this morning cleaning houses with my auntie and sister, I’ve also spent two hours at the library studying. The schedule I’ve been keeping is going to be the death of me and I nearly backed out of coming over to visit today, but we’re celebrating my cousin’s engagement with a typical family get-together.
While I’m dead tired, the familiar noise and smells emanating from the house and backyard are a natural pick-me-up and I can’t help but smile. The laughter of my young nieces and nephews, the sounds of Mexicana playing on the stereo and the loud, argumentative voices of my dad, uncles, cousins and brothers are the soundtrack of my life. There is nothing better to me than being surrounded by my family.
I step into the warm, bustling kitchen where I’m greeted with the familiar, tender hugs from my mother, granny and auntie.
My sister Therese walks in from the back door carrying Alejandra on her hip, who is babbling his baby gibberish and clapping his hands in joyful delight, her oldest son, Alvaro, trailing at her heels. I lift my eyebrows and cover the smile that grows wide on my lips when I notice how filthy Alvie’s face and hands are, which likely means my sister is covered in the same mess. Judging by the scowl on her face, she’s not too happy with her son at the moment, so I do my best to hide my amusement.
I head Therese off at the pass and get a washcloth wet underneath the tap.
“Sit down, Therese. I’ll get it,” I offer, nodding my head to the old kitchen table in the middle of the room. A table that has seen years of use and is practically falling apart, but carries our family stories within its scratches and grooves.
She looks as exhausted as I am. Her husband, Ramone, is working a graveyard shift, and she spends six days a week cleaning homes and taking care of her children, when I’m not around. I should feel lucky I only have to care for myself most days.
“Gracias, hermana,” Therese replies with a sigh, her entire body collapsing into the chair as AJ wiggles his tiny body down her legs and onto the floor. “You look about as tired as I feel.”
I catch Alvie’s wrists as he tries to make his escape and dart past me, cleaning off his hands before wiping off the mess around his mouth in a struggled dual. Once clean, I let him go and he runs into the living room, his baby brother toddling after him in a fit of giggles.
Returning the washcloth to the sink, I dry my hands and shrug. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. ¿Cómo estás?”
I turn around and lean against the kitchen sink as she carefully slips the loose hairs around her face behind her ears. She’s seven years older than me and wasn’t born in the US. My parents didn’t move here until after Carlos was born. It’s only Mateo and I that are natural born US citizens. Everyone else in my family are immigrants and sometimes it makes me feel a stifling guilt. Like I’m blessed in a way they aren’t.
“Estoy bien. I just don’t know how mama did it all those years when she had all five of us underfoot when we were kids.”
My mother and granny chime in from their places at the counter and stove.
“No fue fácil,” she grumbles, but then turns to smile at her daughters. “But I did it out of love.”
“Ya me imagino que no,” Therese responds, understanding all too well that kids are never easy and can make life a whirlwind of chaos. “But we all turned out okay.”
My Abuela huffs disgruntledly and my eyebrows raise, as I look to my sister in question.
The response from my granny is skeptical. “Hmm, we’ll see.”
“What’s this all about?” I ask no one in particular, even though I’m still staring at my sister.
My mother answers for her. “Your cousin, Juan, seems to have fallen for a güera.”
I whip my head in Therese’s direction and she covers her mouth with her hand and snickers. This is news to me. The last I’d seen Juan, he was as single as single could be – going through girl after girl within the Mexican community. So, I’m a bit stunned to find out he’s supposedly in love with a white girl. And based on the reaction of my grandmother and female relatives in the room, it’s a fate worse than death.
“Oh, well that’s news. What’s her name?”
All four of the older women pipe in at the same time, rolling their R’s in disgust.
“Erin.”
And then Therese adds with a conspiratorial whisper, “She’s a red headed Irish girl.”
I can’t help but play into this a bit and let out a mocking gasp, shaking my head as if I’m affronted. “¡Dios mio! The horror!”
The two of us laugh together, but everyone else in the kitchen remains in quiet contemplation over this potential slight to the family. While there have been distant cousins who have dated and eventually married gringos – white folk – it is a highly unusual situation. There’s a certain expectation that you stay within the Mexican and Hispanic culture when you settle down to find your spouse.
