I bolt upright to Samson hovering over me. Only it’s a much younger Samson from years ago when we first met in Brooklyn.
He reaches out his hand to me. “You ready to do this shit?”
“Who are you supposed to be?”
“You know who I am, fucker. I’m your first ghost, and as much as I hate taking orders from that deadbeat, Sal, I’m your Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“My past? I sure don’t need to revisit that shit-show. Once was enough, thanks.”
“Well, you don’t have a choice, and neither do I, so strap up, it’s gonna be a bumpy fuckin’ ride.”
I blink my eyes, and magically, I’m standing in my old apartment in Brooklyn. Adult me iswatching a scene of my mother and myself at around ten years old in our kitchen. The same age Portia is now. I can smell my mother’s delicious empanadas. I want to reach out and grab one off the plate, but Samson holds me back with a shake of his head.
Doors slam, and a cold draft wafts through the room.
“What the fuck are you cooking?” my father bellows, supporting himself on the doorframe.
“Chicken, rice and?—”
My father grabs my mother by the arm and spins her around. “I told you I don’t want any more of that spic food in my house.”
“But, Dad, it’s good and?—”
My father’s hand lashes out, knocking me to the floor. “Shut up. When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”
He reaches for the stove, grabs the handle of the pan, and pitches it across the room. “I told you I’m not eating that shit.” He slaps my mother, and she falters against the counter. He sneers down at her, then storms out of the kitchen.
My mother reaches out and hugs me to her. “No te preocupes.”
“When I get older, I’ll get you away from him.” I hug my mother tight. “I’ll make enough money for both of us to go far, far away from here. I promise.”
“My mother deserved way better than she got.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I never got to keep that promise.”
“That promise molded your whole life,” Samson said. “It made you tough and hard, and willing to do anything for your version of success. Unfortunately, along the way, you convinced yourself that money brings happiness.”
I can’t look away from the desperation in my mother’s eyes. It mesmerizes me until I can’t bear it any longer.
“I don’t wanna see any more,” I whisper.
“Sorry, that’s not how this works,” Samson says.
I blink, and we’re outside on the sidewalk of the same apartment building. Only this time, I’m eighteen.
I swallow hard, knowing what’s coming, and turn to Samson. “I’m not going in there.”
“You got no choice.”
The summer air is hot and sticky, like walking through water, and unless you were from Brooklyn, you couldn’t know it. On nights like this, everybody hung out on the front stoop because their tiny, airless apartments were stifling.
I climb the stone steps, and the animated crowd becomes silent. They stare and whisper behind their hands, and I know something’s wrong.
The cops block my entrance, asking if I know anything about domestic fights, yelling, and screaming. I know too much about it.
“Please make it stop,” I plead to Samson.
Arms hold me back, but I break free and follow the trail of yellow crime scene tape to my mother—dead on the kitchen floor. My heart shatters into pieces, but her bloodied face and broken body aren’t a surprise.
“It’s too much.” I swipe away the tears leaking from my eyes.
