Hannah Lavin

La Cocina

We called it La Cocina because that’s really what it was—just a kitchen. A hole in the wall that people shuffled in and out of, avoiding eye contact as they squeezed past each other through the doorframe. It was also our kitchen. All the meals that we ate came from those stoves and shelves downstairs. We lived in that kitchen. Well, really we lived upstairs, but still, Mamá for sure spent years in there. And hell, maybe me and Estel too. We spent probably five hours a day in that kitchen, even more on weekends. It was practically a full-time job for us, and Mamá would not entertain laws about child labor. Estel and I used to joke about it, about collecting evidence and suing the pants off Mamá. I guess we didn’t see the irony in that. But that’s how we ended up taking pictures on one of those old disposable cameras of Estel all hunched over on the tile with a sponge and a bucket of soapy water, like she was really getting in there. And actually, I think we stuffed some rags under her shirt to make it look like she had a curvy back from always being like that. She had a real miserable look on her face ’cause she said there was some uncooked rice on the ground and it was digging into her knees, but it really sold it. Anyway, we never got those pictures developed. Even if we had, I don’t think we would have done anything with them. Of course, Mamá caught us, and you’d think she’d be happy that we were helping her clean, but no, she knew we were up to something. She always knew.

Man, when we cleaned on Sundays it took hours ’cause we’d do the whole apartment maybe once a month. And sometimes, like after four hours in, you’d think, "Screw it, I’m not vacuuming under the rug," ’cause Ma had tons of these little rugs that were on top of the rug that was like the apartment rug, you know? So it was like, whatever, I’m not vacuuming a hundred rugs. But then Ma would come out from the bathroom or whatever she was cleaning to check on you and make sure you weren’t “playing grab ass”, as she said—like I’d be doing that right in the middle of the living room. So anyway, she’d come out and look right at the one rug you didn’t vacuum under, zero in on it with like spidey senses or something, I swear, and then she’d look at you real suspicious and ask, “Did you vacuum under that?” She always knew. God, it was so frustrating. And you’d have to say, “Not yet.” ’Cause if you said “No,” then you’d get the “Why the hell not?” And if you said “Yes,” then she’d check and you bet there’d be some black old crumbs or a paper clip or some shit and then you’d really get it. But I’m getting away from myself here. My English teacher says I do a lot of ‘digressing’ and Ma says I have the gift of gab. They must be onto something ’cause one person saying it, alright, but two makes you think. I don’t know, it’s not so much that I like hearing the sound of my own voice; I think I just like telling stories. Maybe I just want someone to listen.

So, anyway, the three of us lived and worked in this place we called La Cocina. It wasn’t like a sit-down restaurant; it didn’t even have a sign out front. It was just our apartment. But it was sort of a neighborhood thing. We had a menu and everything, but some days if we didn’t make the stuff the night before, we’d just black out whatever we didn’t have with an Expo. Mamá got all the menus laminated at Kinko’s so it wasn’t wasteful or anything; you could just erase them after. We didn’t even have seats inside or bathrooms or anything ’cause that was all upstairs, and Mamá was not letting anyone up there but me and Estel, and even then she didn’t want us up there during service hours. The people who came by were all regulars and neighbors and stuff, and they probably didn’t ever say “I’m going to La Cocina”; they probably just thought, “I’m gonna run to the DeMarcos,” ’cause that’s what we were called.

DeMarco was my Pop’s last name, and my English teacher would probably say that was a pretty good segue. I bring up Pop ’cause he’s not around anymore. As in, he’s dead. He didn’t run out on us while going to the panadería or anything; he just died all of a sudden. It was kinda a freak thing, actually. He was riding the bus to work one day and had a heart attack and sort of just keeled over and died. It was pretty awful at the time, especially for Estel ’cause she was just a five-year-old, so she never really knew him like me or Rico did. I was ten when it happened, so I guess I didn’t know him that well either. But if I’m being honest, those days after it happened are all sorta gray and fuzzy in my mind. I don’t really like to think about them. Like sure, maybe I didn’t know him all that well, but I still loved him plenty. He still taught me how to ride a bike, you know?

Anyway, Rico was sixteen when it happened; Ma and Pops had him real young. The worst part was watching Mamá. I mean, Christ, it got dicey there. She just lost it, man, I’ll never forget that scream when she answered the phone. She fell to the ground so hard I swear her knees cracked on the tile. She couldn’t even stand up at the funeral; Rico and I had to help her sit down. I mean it when I say I thought she was gonna die. Her pain was so hard, intense-like—I thought it’d make her own heart stop working. But the neighborhood sorta rallied and helped us through it, and after a few months people started buying food from Ma, and that’s been what’s kept us going ever since.

What’s funny is I remember Rico and Dad used to butt heads all the time. I mean, they’d go at it until one, two in the morning, these screaming matches like they were feral or something. I don’t really remember what they’d argue about; math homework sometimes, maybe Rico sneaking out. But man, Ma would just take me and Estel into her bedroom and turn on Bob the Builder like he was gonna fix them too. What’s funny about it is that now I’m sixteen and Rico is twenty-two and thinks he’s hot shit, and Ma is all starry-eyed about him. Like she forgot all those screaming matches now and just sees him as the golden boy. He got a full-ride scholarship to go play tennis at this Catholic school; I swear, it’s the weirdest goddamn thing to me. I don’t know when the hell he got good at tennis. I don’t remember us ever even having tennis balls or any of that in the apartment. I don’t even remember him ever playing. But I guess he got good in his last couple of years of high school, and I wasn’t paying much close attention to anything back then.

My relationship with Rico isn’t too great. I don’t know if Rico thinks that so much; he probably thinks things are good between us, and things are fine. I just don’t really like the guy is all. If he wasn’t my brother, I wouldn’t be friends with him. He wasn’t too nice to me growing up. He used to pick on me with his friends and snap rubber bands real hard right on my skin. One time I swear he concussed me when he knocked me into the door. I was trying to get milk or something from the fridge and he just jumped me, trying to wrestle or something, horsing around, maybe trying to be closer, I don't know. Guy didn’t know his own strength. Christ, he used to make me cry just about every day doing something mean or calling me something wrong. So no, I don’t like him much.

The good thing is I’ve got Estel. I know that brothers aren’t supposed to admit that they like their sisters; like, sure we can love them, but we’re not supposed to like them for some reason—’cause they’re girly, I guess. But I really love Estel. I mean I love her and I like her, and that’s harder. The kid’s funny. And I don’t really care what they say about sissy shit. Like when she was younger, she always wanted me to do tea parties with her and stuff like that. But the thing is, she let me bring my old Spiderman figurine and she let me drown Barbie in the teapot and then Spiderman saved her; I swear it’s not as dark as it sounds. She’d always laugh, and I just thought it was kinda fun. Sometimes I wish we could still play like that, but she’s eleven now, so we’ve both grown up. Plus, I think I try to be nicer to her since Rico was never really like that for me. When I turn eighteen, I want to get a star tattooed on my shoulder for her, ’cause that’s what her name means. And maybe I’ll get something for Mamá too; I just don’t know what. Maybe one of her recipes, or her goddamn chanclas.

So anyway, that’s how our life went. Pretty boring stuff, really. Estel and I went to school and spent muggy afternoons and summers cooking in La Cocina.

* * * 

Today was different, though. I knew it as soon as I woke up and heard all sorts of clattering downstairs. It was Sunday morning, and there was no good reason for Mamá to be in the kitchen; she should have been in church, rosary in hand, knees bruising on the wooden kneeler.

“Mamá?” I called, looking into the room she shared with Estel. 

Mamá’s bed was empty, the sheets made, and next to it, the blankets of Estel’s twin bed were lumped high over her head. I called Estel’s name in a sort of whisper-shout, to see if she was awake, but she just groaned and smashed the pillow over her head. I shuffled downstairs, calling for Mamá again, and heard her curse in one of her special Spanglish combinations, which meant she was about two seconds away from pointing a wooden spoon at me through the ceiling, and also that I needed to haul ass. I grabbed my shirt hanging over the banister—no time for the sniff test—and turned the corner into the kitchen. Jesus H, man, La Cocina was a nightmare; about a hundred degrees hotter than the rest of the apartment, pots boiling over, a head of cabbage on the ground, three different sauces on the stove, peppers piled over the remaining burner. Mamá’s hands were buried in a bowl of masa, an open tub of lard next to her, teetering halfway off the counter’s edge.

“Did someone die?” I asked. And I wasn’t even joking one bit. Short of Christmas Eve or Easter, this was unheard of, even by Mamá’s standards.

“Why are you just standing there?” Mamá squawked at me over her shoulder, hands pausing in the masa. “Turn the peppers!”

My vision just about split in three directions like some sort of superhero. First, I saw Ma’s small silver wedding band sitting next to the bowl of lard, then the cleaver, all shiny and sharp, hanging off the counter toward my bare feet, and finally the tomatillos smoking over the open flame.

“Shit,” I murmured, stepping barefoot into the kitchen. I rolled the three peppers on the burner and snatched my hand away when the flames caught my fingertips.

“Rico’s coming,” Mamá said, like it explained everything. The sad thing was, it really explained a lot. I paused and watched the smoke rise off of the peppers in front of me.

“Mijo, I need you to cut the banana leaves,” Mamá said. “And pull out the blender.”

My mouth went all puffy, holding in a sigh so I didn’t get in trouble. I turned the heat down on the tomatillos and walked into the pantry to pull the blender from the top shelf.

“Really, Ma, tamales?” I asked, brushing corn flour from the top of the blender. “It’s not Christmas.”

“No seas celoso,” Mamá replied. Don’t be jealous.

I plugged the blender into the one open outlet in the kitchen, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “I don’t get what the big deal is,” I mumbled.

“He’s bringing a su novia,” she replied, her voice shrill with excitement.

I pushed the hair out of my eyes, trying to clear my vision like it would help me hear better somehow. I didn’t know Rico had a girl. I opened the fridge and pulled out the banana leaves, looking around the shitstorm of La Cocina for a pair of scissors before I decided my hands would work to tear them just fine.

“He told me about her when he first started liking her. They go to school together,” Mamá shared.

"Marvilloso," I muttered, stalking toward the sink to wash my hands.

"¡Yo sé!" Mamá replied happily. I know!

I shook my head, just starting to scrub up when Mamá’s elbow struck into my side like a viper.

"Feet on the tile?" she hissed at me, her eyes on my feet. "¡Vaya a ponerse los zapatos!"

"Okay, okay!" I said, holding up my hands, soapy water dripping down my arms.

She turned back around, and it’s like I saw it happen before it happened, like it was in slow motion or something. Her hand knocked the bowl of masa just slightly, just enough for it to touch the tub of lard, sending it crashing to the ground with a hollow thunk like a massive bottle of shampoo falling in the shower. Mamá sucked just about half of the room’s air between her teeth, arms covering her face to avoid the wreck. We both froze, Mamá’s hands lowering slowly, our matching brown eyes looking at the white paste spread in a vertical stripe across the ground. 

Some days in La Cocina, I swear, it feels like I’m living within a sigh. Like all the moments of the day are stretched out and slowed down and resting right on the edge of this sigh, just waiting, waiting for things to not be how they are.

"I got it," I said, kneeling down and putting the tub of lard, still a quarter full, back on the counter, this time a healthy distance from the edge. "I’ll get the mop."

* * * 

I was just about to run back down the stairs with the mop when Estel's voice called out for me from her and Mamá’s room. I popped my head in, watching as she removed the pillow from over her head.

"What’s all the noise?" she asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"Rico and his girlfriend are coming."

She threw an arm over her eyes, sighing. I think she got it the same way I did. "What’s she making?"

"Tamales."

Mamá called from downstairs, something like the banshee from one of my old childhood comics. I shrugged to Estel.

"Hide for as long as you can, I guess."

Estel snorted, throwing the blankets off. "Please, she’ll kill me if I don’t help."

I paused for just a second, looking down at her sparkly purple toenails. "Just make sure you put shoes on first," I said, thinking of the cleaver.

Estel gestured to my feet. "Um, you first, nasty."

I rolled my eyes and clambered downstairs with the mop, back to the kitchen where the lard waited for me like a nice old stripe of mucus. I started pushing the fat into a pile when Estel entered the kitchen, shoving my scuffed Chucks against my chest. I gave her a nod, grateful, and knelt down to slide them on as she kissed Mamá on the cheek.

"Good morning, mija," Mamá said to her. I rolled my eyes again, giving the lard an extra wet shove to the side. No such greeting for me.

"Can you cut the foil?"

"Sure," Estel said, looking around the kitchen. "Have you done the meat yet?"

"No meat," Mamá replied, distracted as she started up the noisy blender.

Estel and I both paused and exchanged a long glance, watching Mamá add the roasted seeds, chilies, garlic, onions, and tomato to the blender. When she was satisfied with the thick, smooth texture of the recado, she cut the blender, the kitchen silent. Estel and I looked at each other, arguing over wide eyes and tilted heads before Estel broke.

"No meat?" she repeated.

"No," Mamá sighed. "She’s vegetarian."

My stomach clenched, like that feeling when the roller coaster drops, but not in a fun way. I felt my eyes go big as a frying pan as I looked at Estel and asked the question I knew would clear our confusion one way or another.

"What’s her name?"

"Can… Candy?" Mamá said, pouring the recado into a large mixing bowl. She hummed thoughtfully, Estel and I waiting patiently as she puzzled it out. "¿Cómo se dice… ah! Candace."

Estel and I glanced back at one another, our suspicions confirmed. Never in my sixteen years have I met a Candace that was anything other than the color of the half-chopped white onion sitting on the counter. My fist clenched around the mop in my hand, the remaining lard looking strangely like a concha against the tile. Estel waved a hand in front of my face, grabbing my attention again.

"Vegetarian?" she mouthed to me, pointing at the lard on the counter.

I just shook my head at her. Mamá wouldn’t get it.

"Ay, Dios," Mamá tsked, turning her head and catching our glance. She snapped her fingers at Estel. "Stella, help your brother clean up this mess. Sebastián, get the capers and olives from the cabinet."

* * * 

"Mrs. DeMarco! It’s so nice to finally meet you!"

I felt half sick as I heard that, setting the table in the living room upstairs. I tried to ignore the chatter, my hands getting all sweaty as I heard footsteps climbing the stairs.

"Hey." Estel’s head appeared from the landing, and I nearly sighed in relief till I saw her arms holding three plastic cups against her chest. "Can you go grab the other two?" she asked.

"What is it?" I asked, peering into the cups as Estel pulled herself over the last step. She didn’t answer, letting me see for myself.

"Horchata?!" It’s stupid to be upset over something like that, I know, but I swear, I couldn’t help it.

"Christmas came early," Estel responded, placing the cups carefully on the table. "Let's just enjoy it while we can."

I rumbled downstairs, head down, passing the door where the three crowded near the doorway.

"Seb!"

Rico's voice was like hearing a car crash outside, and my Chucks squeaked against the tile as I stopped, looking back.

"Come say hi," Rico said, his black hair buzzed close to his head. It had been maybe six months since I last saw the guy. He was darker than usual, like he had been getting some sun, but the basketball shorts, black v-neck, and gold chain around his neck all looked the same, más o menos. I stepped back toward the entryway, lingering halfway in the kitchen, the shape of Rico’s girlfriend coming into view. She was tall, almost as tall as Rico, blonde hair curled around her face, vanilla as one of Estel’s old teapot-drowned Barbies.

"Hi," she said cheerfully, giving me a little wave. "I’m Candace."

"‘Sup," I responded, nodding my head.

My eyes fell on Mamá, holding a small potted plant in her hand, a touch of confusion curving her brows as she looked down at it.

"‘Sup. He thinks he's so cool now," Rico snorted. "Don’t forget who changed your diapers, Gordo."

One of my least favorite of Rico’s nicknames for me: Fatty.

"It’s an orchid," Candace cut in, her eyes following mine to the plant. "It’ll last a lot longer than flowers."

I nodded slowly and jutted my head toward the kitchen, just itching to get out of there. "I gotta grab the drinks."

Mamá seemed to jump out of her trance, waving the couple upstairs. "Please, please, make yourself at home," she said. "We’ll come up in a minute."

"Oh, are you sure?" Candace asked. "Do you need any help?"

"Don’t ask," Rico chuckled. "She’ll never let you leave."

Rico steered her up the stairs, Mamá turning toward the kitchen. I ladled the sweet milk from a large silver pot into two cups before lifting the pot back into the fridge.

"Isn’t it nice?" Mamá asked me, looking at the plant in her hands. "It reminds me of the jungle."

"Sure," I responded half-heartedly, grabbing the cups.

"Mijo," Mamá said, a warning on her tongue. "This is good for your brother. He’s growing."

I stared at her blankly for a few moments. Then I turned away and took the cups upstairs.

* * * 

I was quiet for most of the dinner, my anger rising up in me as I looked at the orchid in the middle of the table, Mamá’s words echoing through my head. He’s growing. I faded in and out of the conversation, avoiding eye contact with my brother as I squished the masa of my tamale with my fork.

"All my children are so smart. Sebastián has an A in English," Mamá said pointedly, drawing me back into the conversation.

"Oh wow!" Candace replied. "I’m actually hoping to become an English teacher. Sebastián, what’s your favorite book?"

I sat up a little straighter, my eyes finding Candace and then quickly moving away. Her eyes were so blue it felt like she was staring right into my soul.

"I liked 1984."

"Oh gosh, yes. That scene with the rats!"

I nodded slowly, unsure what to say. It was possible that Candace wasn’t terrible.

"Gordo knows all about rats, don’t you?" Rico laughed.

Next to me, Estel’s purple fingernails stiffened around her cup.

"What’s the story?" Candace asked curiously, glancing at Rico.

Estel shuffled in her seat, and I heard her kick Rico’s shin under the table, but he only laughed. "No, it’s fine, why don’t you tell it, Seb?"

"Does anyone need more horchata?" Mamá asked, standing up from the table.

Rico and I stared at each other, something passing between us; half dare, half hatred.

"Sure, I’ll take some!" Candace said, handing her empty cup back to Mamá. "It’s so good."

The air grew more charged with each fading step of Mamá down the stairs. Candace smiled at me with her sky eyes, while Estel looked toward the stairs, gaze practically begging Mamá to return.

"I kept a pet rat when I was younger," I answered simply, my eyes meeting Rico’s.

The guy didn’t miss a beat.

"Not quite," he said. "This was no fucking pet store rat. This was a street rata. The thing probably had rabies. In fact, didn’t you have to go get shots after?"

"Shut up, Rico," I said, my hand curling around my plastic fork.

"What happened to it?" Candace asked. I looked at her and felt my face begin to heat.

"It was my fault," Estel said, jumping in.

Rico pointed the edge of his knife at her. "It was not your fault."

"I let it out of the cage," Estel countered.

"It wasn’t a cage," Rico snorted. He stretched his hand across the back of Candace’s chair. "Gordo had it in a fucking shoe box."

"So it got out?" Candace asked. I looked away from her again, her small lips curving in a smile like this was just a silly little anecdote. And really, she didn’t know. How could she, you know?

"Yeah, it got out," Rico chuckled. "Chased the damn thing halfway around the apartment. Almost scared Christ himself out of Mamá. She didn’t know he was keeping it, obviously."

"I thought I was telling it," I said, fire rising in my eyes as I looked at Rico.

He gestured for me to go ahead.

Estel tapped her fork against her plate anxiously. "It’s not that good of a story anyway," she said.

Rico shushed her. "Let him tell it."

"Rico—"

"No, it’s fine," I interrupted, and Estel shrunk back in her chair. I felt bad, really. Estel always tried to play peacekeeper. I don’t know too well what her relationship with Rico is like, but she was there during those Bob the Builder nights, and she doesn’t like arguing any more than anyone else.

I looked back at Candace, who wasn’t smiling anymore, and I shrugged. "I sat on it."

"He sat on it!" Rico hollered. "Can you believe that? Pancaked the thing in the couch cushion with his fat ass."

"You’re such a dick," I said, unable to keep the words in. Candace’s wide sky eyes sucked me in. "Seriously, what do you see in this guy?" I asked.

"What the fuck did you just say?" Rico asked, sitting forward, chain swinging out of his shirt.

Candace laughed nervously, pulling her eyes away from mine. "He was just kidding, babe."

Estel kicked me under the table, and I turned to look at her. Her brown eyes pleaded with me. Don’t. It’s hard to explain a moment like that. Like years and years stuffed into something so small. Estel and I know the horns on that stubborn bull well, and really, I think she just didn’t want me to get hurt. So I waved the white flag. 

"Yeah," I said, leaning back in my chair, my eyes shifting back to Rico. "Kidding."

"I brought more for everyone," Mamá said from the stairs, hauling the giant silver pot against her hip.

"Christ, Ma." I jumped up, grabbed the pot from her, and set it down on the table between me and Rico.

"Actually," Rico said, "we gotta head back pretty soon. But thanks for this, Mamá. It was nice."

* * * 

Downstairs in La Cocina, Mamá and I cleaned dishes and put away leftovers.

"That was nice," Mamá mused.

I ignored her.

"You’re so quiet, mijo," she said softly. "What’s going on with you these days? You never want to talk to your Mamá."

I paused, my jaw clenching, half a mind to curse at her or scream at her—anything to turn that sigh into something else, something I could hurl instead of hold. I set the last clean dish on the rack and shook my head.

"I’m just tired, Ma," I replied.

"Ah, mijo, it was David’s party, wasn’t it? I always think something happened at David’s party."

"What?" I asked, my voice all snappy, even against my will. I threw the empty cups of horchata into the trash under the sink, ground rice sticking to the bottom of the cups like sediment in a gold pan.

"When you were twelve, you went to your old friend David’s party, and when you came back, you were never the same," Mamá said, putting the remaining tamales in a Ziploc bag.

I turned around to face her, my frustration slipping from me as I gripped the edge of the sink behind me, water dripping onto the tile. "You know what happened at David’s party? We played Xbox and shot off bottles of Diet Coke with Mentos. We sat in his hot tub and talked about girls, and his mom made something called chocolate soda. And then I came home, and Rico called me a coconut. He said I was brown on the outside and white on the inside."

Mamá swallowed nervously, hands pausing as she sealed the Ziploc. "Oh, I’m sorry, mijo."

My nails cut half-moons into my palms. "It’s fine, Ma. Whatever."

"No," she said, leaving the bag and turning toward me, her hip resting against the counter. She wiped her hands with a tattered rag, looking at the ground. "I’m sorry. I should have been there for you. I should have done more for you."

All my energy, charged to the brim, ran out of me into the ground—an open circuit. I just couldn’t hold it. "You were doing a lot."

Her eyes met mine across the kitchen. "But I should have tried to talk to you more. I should have stepped in when he said those things."

A sort of tightness wedged its way between my shoulders then, almost panicky; we didn’t talk like this. I cleared my throat. "You were learning too. We didn’t know."

I saw the reflection of the kitchen in Mamá’s unshed tears. "Ah, mijo, that one time you and Rico got into a fight at the dinner table, and you walked out. I should have gone with you."

I felt my hands twitch at that.

"I’m your Mamá. I’m not supposed to make mistakes like that."

I sighed, my eyes drooping to Mamá’s worn hands, the wedding ring faded from years of twirling, and I forced myself to say the words. "It’s okay, Mamá."

I shrugged, like my body was trying to convince my mind. "Papá and everything... it’s been a lot, for all of us. You were keeping food on the table, juggling three kids. I get it."

Even as I said it, though, I felt my throat getting all tight. I’ll always be grateful for what Mamá has done, for how she’s hustled to keep us off the street. I know her body has suffered from years of grueling work in that kitchen—on her feet all day, hands losing their senses to heat, knees bruised permanently from cleaning the floor. She did that for us. Her love has been pain; sacrifice. How could I ever be angry at her for that?

But there are some things that I know, even at sixteen, and I don’t care how corny and teenage that sounds. You’re not supposed to comfort your Mamá for how she raised you, for how she left you alone. And, you know, maybe if it was the past and we could leave it there, it would be one thing, but it’s not. It’s tonight, and another six months from now, and five years from now. Maybe that’s pessimistic; maybe people can change, but I’m telling you, there are some things that I know. And that’s what winds me up.

That my brother, six years my elder, is growing. That he gets to grow. That Mamá somehow doesn’t see how wrong it is to tell her younger son these things about her older son. She doesn’t see it—how she didn’t follow me out into the street, how I had been left alone, and how that turned me into this goddamned bundle of tangled shit.

And listen, it’s not that I can’t see the other side, ‘cause I do. Maybe Rico gets to grow because he needs to, and maybe I should just take it on the chin because maybe... maybe I’ve got a head start in some ways. Maybe I don’t need hand-holding, and it’s not that she likes Rico more. It’s just that I’m more capable in some ways. But I just wish Mamá saw what made me that way. And I wish Candace had brought up Catch-22 so I could try to explain this: that I’m like this because I’m alone, and I’m alone because I’m like this.

"You didn’t," I want to say to Mamá. "You didn’t come outside with me. You never came outside with me. No one ever came outside with me." I want to shake the words into her. 

"It was cold and dark. And I was alone."

I want to scream it at her, and cry, and rage, "This means nothing to me now." And actually, I wish she had never apologized in the first place, because where am I supposed to put this apology? Where do you put your Mamá’s apology, you know? 

But more than anything, I want to say something quiet, something hidden, something I can hardly think to myself, but that I want her to get. Don’t you see? It’s too late.

But I don’t say any of it, because really, I don’t want to make Mamá feel worse.

So now, I flip peppers and mop lard and wash dinner plates while my brother grows.