Her expression blanches.“I don’t hate you.”
“Oh.”I shrug.“Could’ve fooled me.”
We stare at each other, and her voice softens.She sounds almost miserable.“I don’t hate you,mija.I never have.”
My hand clenches into a fist around the strap of my bag, and I wish I had asked Caleb to stay so he could be a buffer between us.It’s as if a thousand knives are shearing my heart just talking to her.“Are you sure?Because dislike is all I’ve ever felt from you.You’ve liked to punish me, just like Luis.You take comfort from my misery.It’s been that way since Dad died, Mamá, and you can’t pretend any differently.”
She looks at me, shell-shocked.
I start to walk again toward the building entrance, but she catches my arm.“Eve?—”
“Go home, Mamá.”The words come out as a whisper.“I’m not ready to see you.”
Instead of letting go, her grip tightens.Then, without warning, she pulls me into a fierce hug that catches me completely off guard.Her arms wrap around me with a strength I’d forgotten she possessed, and for a moment I’m transported back to being seven years old with a scraped knee.
“I may be harsh, my Eve, but I would never hurt you.Never!”she vows against my hair, and there’s a protectiveness in her voice I haven’t heard in years.“I’m sorry.I didn’t know that boy was like that.I thought—I believed he would cherish you.That’s all I’ve ever wanted, for someone to cherish you.I didn’t want you to go through the hardships I did.”
I stand there frozen in disbelief.She’s hugging me in a way she’s not done in years.
“You’re so much like me,mija.I was just trying to give you a good future.I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”Her voice cracks, and despite all the anger and resentment in me towards her, when my mother’s voice cracks like that, my hands clutch the back of her shirt.The unexpected tenderness breaks something loose in my chest even when I know it shouldn’t.
My eyes are burning with unshed tears, but I hold them in.I have to.
She pulls away to look at my face, and then her thumbs wipe the two errant tears that escape.“I didn’t mean to hurt you,mija.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” I mutter, not certain whether I believe it or not but too tired to put up a fight.
“I missed you,” she says, and I can see the hurt in her eyes.“You didn’t call to argue with me.You didn’t come when you got hurt.I got worried.”
“How long have you been here?”I ask finally.
“Six.I thought you come back then.”So she’s been standing here for a couple of hours.No wonder she looks so tired.
I sigh, not knowing what to say.“Just come on up.”I pick up the heavy cloth bag at her feet, and my back nearly pops out at the weight.“Who dropped you here?”
“No one.I took the bus.And then I walked.”
“You walked, carrying this?”My eyes widen.“Mamá, you know the doctor said you’re not supposed to carry anything heavy.Your back isn’t what it used to be.”
My mother gestures dismissively with her hand.“I’m fine.My back is fine.”
I drag the bag to the stairs as I start making my way up.“What’s in this thing?Bricks?”
“Groceries,” she says matter-of-factly.“And pots and pans.”
“Of course,” I mutter, not even bothering to ask why she brought pots and pans to my place.I never know with my mother when it comes to her reasoning.
My back is close to giving out as I carry the bag up the stairs, but when I open the door to my apartment, despite everything, I feel a hint of excitement.This is the first time she’s ever visited my home.Under the excitement, however, is apprehension.I keep waiting for her to say something nasty, something cruel.
“It’s beautiful.”
Her words have me swallowing.“What?”
“Your home,mija.”She glances at me with a smile.“It’s beautiful.Very elegant.It suits you.”I stare at the back of her head as she looks at some of the paintings hanging from the wall.Did my mother just praise me?
“Mamá,” I ask, slowly, fear tightening in my gut, “you’re not dying, are you?”
“What?”She gives me a confused look.“Of course not.Why would you say that?”
