By: Jackie Espinoza
The yelling woke me up again. Estúpida, my dad echoed, my mom sobs ringing in my ears. I hear shuffling in the kitchen, as if they are looking for something. I block out the noise, and instead, look towards my brother’s bed, to see if he had woken up. “Miguelito,” I whisper. Nada. I sigh a breath of relief to know that he will not have to hear the endless insults my dad will yell at my mom. I lay back down, and begin to think of la vida en el otro lado. How it would be to have enough money to have the coyote take my mom, my brother and me away. Away from this man who has nothing but a black hole where his heart is supposed to be. Slowly, I begin to doze off, thinking of the better future.
I feel a jump on my bed. My first instinct is to kick, but I hear Miguelito’s laugh.
“Miguelito, no me asustes!” I say laughing along with him. I pull him closer to me, to tickle him and avenge my rapid heartbeat.
“Lo siento hermana,” he says between his gasps of air. Then the slamming of glass against the wall. Miguelito instantly is off of my bed, asking for answers with his eyes. I try to smile, but instead I make a head movement to his cajonero. He looks down at his feet, and heads towards it. I look towards my cajonero, picturing the hand-sewn bag I have filled with two jeans, t-shirts, and underwear for both Miguelito and me. The money I have saved up, hidden in one of the socks. I stand up and head towards it, taking out the bag. I notice the sock looks a little thicker. Inside is a piece of paper, folded into a thick square. Miguelito’s oblivious. I open it, the large letters are mamá’s.
Mija,
You have made me so proud. Nunca me voy a perdonar for having put you y a tú hermanito in this position. I should have walked away years ago, pero I thought I could change your papá. In misa, when we got married the priest said “for better and for worse,” y yo pensé that this was one of the “worse” times, he was talking about. Lo amaba, but I was wrong to stay with him.. I do not want you to let anybody treat you like your papá has treated me. No te lo mereces. Cada dia y noche le rezo a Dios, asking for a sign of what I should do. I never get it. Si algun dia me llega a pasar algo, just know that my love for you and Miguelito es himenzo. El amor de una madre con su hijo, no se aguala. I just do not know how much more I could handle. If I were to be gone today or tomorrow, don’t cry. I want you to learn from me. Don’t stay in a place that hurts you. Llévate el dinero y a Miguelito y corran hasta el fin de mundo, because that is what you deserve. Espero que algun dia me llegas a perdonar por todo lo que te hecho pasar. Te amo mi niña al igual que a Miguelito.
Tears form in my eyes. What does this mean? Le va pasar algo a mi mamá? Does she think my dad is going to go too far one of these days? No se que pensar. When did she put the letter in the sock? I try to remember the last time I put money into the sock. Two? Three weeks ago? No me acuerdo. It must have been recent though because I know it wasn’t here last time. I try to think of cuando puedo preguntarle. Maybe today after lunch mientras mi papá listens to the radio in the living room, and my mamá and I wash the platos en el lavadero. That’s one of the only times we’re alone.
The shutting of Miguelito’s cajoneros door, brings me back to our dim room. I stare at him for a moment, taking in his slightly overgrown brown hair. His body is as slim as ever, with just a slightly swollen belly. I wipe the tears quickly. He begins to change into jeans that fit him right at his ankles, his yellow striped shirt fitting loosely. I decide to ask any of my coworkers if they have any old clothes their boys don’t wear anymore. It had been a year since Miguelito last got something new. He looks at me, and tells me to hurry up because he does not want to step outside without me. I get up, change into an old pair of jeans and t-shirt, make our beds, and head to open the door.
As I reach the handle, I feel Miguelito’s hand on my arm as he says, “Vamos a rezar antes de salir.” I smile at my brother, and head to his bed. As we kneel towards our virgencita, we begin “Dulce Madre….” As we finish our cross, I feel both our bodies tense. Miguelito’s mind preparing himself, as only a six year old can, trying to put on the best poker face he can manage. We head out the door, trying to go unseen. The new blue and purple mark on my mom’s cheek is visible as she bends over, picking up glass from the floor.
“Buenos días papá.”
“Ya era hora de que se levantarán.”
The rest of the morning is the same as every other morning, except I feel something thick in the air today. No se que es, but it feels like a bubble that wants to burst. We all eat in silence as my dad talks about el hijo de su chingada madre he has to call his boss. No one else says anything. I try to make eye contact con mi mamá, but she keeps her eyes down onto her plate. I see a bandage on her right wrist. She didn’t have that yesterday, so it must have been de anoche. She must have sensed me looking at it because at that moment, she looks up at me. Something in her eyes is different. She does not look conscious of what surrounds her. I try to question her about the letter I found with my eyes, but she looks down again. Miguelito and I try to eat as fast as we can so that we don’t have to leave on empty stomachs. Once my dad gets up, I reach out to get all of our plates to take to the lavadero. As he locks the front door behind him, I look at the window to see my mom giving me the best smile she can behind the white curtain that shades her face. But even with the curtain, I could tell the emptiness in her eyes is still there, despite the forced smile. What happened last night, que hoy esta tan distante? From Monday through Friday, my dad walks Miguelito to school, and me to the tortillería.
As I fill the maquina with masa, I think of my mom locked up in that house. The house we are supposed to call home. When we were allowed to visit my abuelita, I would always admire the picture she had of my mamá. Her straight hair, was once a chestnut brown that would reach her shoulders according to my abuelita since all I saw was black and gray undertones. In that black and white picture, her eyes were full of life. Her smile is genuine, something I have only seen a number of times. Her body had been somewhere in between thick and athletic, but now she has no curves. The day the picture was taken was at my mother’s quinceañera, a year before she chose to marry the man I now call papá. My abuelitos threw a small comida and misa for my mamá for her coming of age day. It was not what my mother deserved my abuelita had said, but it was the only thing they could afford.
When my mamá met my papá, she was mesmerized by the man that came knocking every other night on her window just a week after her fifteenth birthday. He was twenty-one, tall with dark, wavy, black hair. His bushy eyebrows accented his hazel eyes very well. My dad’s family lived in the rancho that was next to ours, yet one day on a visit to ours, he spotted my mom with my abuelita at the plaza. No era del pueblo, meant that my abuelitos did not know who he or his family was. According to my abuelita, they had suggested my mom date somebody who was from their town, someone whose family they have known for generations, but my mom blinded by her first love, refused to. “He’s a good man. Denle una oportunidad. Just one chance,” my mom begged them.
One day, as my abuelitos and mamá were getting ready for misa, my dad showed up. He knocked on their door, and they finally met the man their daughter would soon regret marrying. My abuelita said that he seemed todo un caballero. He showed up with flowers, greeted them with a handshake and kiss on the cheek. He went with them to church, and as the priest was announcing the weekly news at the end of mass, my dad took my mamá’s hand and swore his love for her. That same day my father asked my abuelitos for my mamá’s hand. My abuelitos were shocked, but since their daughter seemed so happy, they agreed only asking him not to take her away to his town. I never understood what convinced my dad not to take my mamá away. A part of me believes he did it so that it could hurt her more, knowing that she is only a couple of blocks from her papá’s but cannot see them. It sounds so cruel, but my dad seemed to only want to break my mom as much as he could. The other part of me believes he was running away from his own town, from his family. Whichever the case, I wish I understood his intentions.
My dad never talks about his family, nor have we ever met them. When I was younger, he would sometimes wake up screaming. My mamá would try to calm him down, only to be met with insults. ¡Tú no sabes nada, pendeja! She would get up, make him té and head back to sleep once he was sleeping again. I once asked him where he had gotten the scar that fits diagonally across his back, but instead of receiving an answer, I received a slap that came with a “No preguntes lo que no te importa.” That hadn’t been the worst thing my dad had done to me. The worse thing was making sure that I no longer see a beautiful girl in the mirror, but an ugly one, one that has the same features as her mamá.
I feel Rosa hugging me, as she says, “No llores.” I feel the tears. I apologize. She asks me what it is, but I just shake my head, saying nada. No es nada. She doesn’t continue asking me. No one ever does. The whole town knows what happens in my house, and I could feel the whispers, the stares, but no one bothers to do anything about it. Not that I am expecting any help. It’s not like my family is the only one who is going through this. Then again, I don’t know what’s worse: a house like mine? Or a town like mine? I understand that the decisión to marry this man was my mamá’s, but I do not understand why that allows my dad to do what he does.
I go numb for the rest of the morning. I don’t want to cry again, so I start making up a story in my mind. One where there is a happy family of three, living on the other side of the border. Where there is no violence, no insults. No one to make the daughter to feel less. No one to make the mother cry. No one to make the son an egotistical hombre when he grows up. At twelve, I take off my mantel and head outside to wait for my dad. Our whole town works this way. We have to get to work by eight, everyone has lunch from twelve to two, and goes back to work until eight at night. The children being the exception, have lunch from twelve to one, and get off at three. Miguelito gets off at twelve since he is still in la primaria. When I see my dad with my little brother in tow, I head their way. As I reach my brother’s side, he grabs a hold of my hand, giving it a squeeze, letting me know he is in a worse mood than the morning. We walk the eight-minute walk to our house in complete silence.
As we approach our house, we feel a difference. Something is not right. Everything is quiet, and the house looks normal like always, but we can tell it’s off. A smell reaches our noses, and my dad sprints to unlock the door. Miguelito and I catch up to him, as soon as he flings the door open. Sitting there on one of our kitchen chairs in the middle of the living room, is my beautiful mamá in flames.
