I hang up Paco’s harness, put my shoes in the rack by the door, and wait for her scolding.
“You work too much.”
She says it every time. Both worry and a reprimand. I roll my eyes. Put her on speaker, as I need to start heating my dinner while I shower. She thinks I make a million dollars a year. Doesn’t understand how expensive it is to live in the city. I could move out, but that means even longer hours away from Paco and home. So, I sacrifice money for time.
“Mami, I need to jump in the shower. Can I call you back?”
She tsks. That sharp inhale through her teeth tells me I’ve annoyed her by asking. Both of us know I won’t call her back. Not tonight.
“I worry about you, Mija. You need to rest. Your eyes sound tired.”
I smile despite myself, rubbing at my face. I rummaged through my fridge for leftovers.
“Eyes can’t sound tired.”
“Of course they can. I’m your mother, I hear it. You don’t sleep enough. Every time I call, I can hear you walking. Even now, you’re walking.”
I glance down at my dog, who’s spinning in circles at my feet. Ready to eat his dinner. I close the fridge and move to his dog food, pouring out some for him and dropping a couple of treats on top to encourage him. He can be so picky sometimes.
“I’m walking because I’m feeding Paco and deciding what to make for dinner.”
“You didn’t make the soup I sent you the recipe for?”
That’s another thing. She loves to spend her days sending me recipes I’ll never make. Although I love to cook, who has the time?
“No, I didn’t.”
I lower myself onto the kitchen chair with a groan that I try to muffle. She clucks her tongue, clearly displeased.
“Mija, why? Why do you not care about yourself?”
There’s a pause. I should have expected this. She brings it up almost every time she calls.
“I care for people all day. I don’t have time to care for myself.”
The kid, Emilio Dimas, lying pale and stitched up in the ICU bed, pops into my mind. His brother has been glued to his side, reluctant to leave. Guilt covered his face when I sent him home, as if he were abandoning the other half of him.
From the second I glimpsed them, I knew they were trouble. Not the bad kind. The dangerous kind. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that dark hair and cinnamon eyes. Lady killers. Even sedated, my patient wore a reckless grin, as if he were dreaming while he slept. His brother was quiet, but he watched me with a steady gaze. I called him Papito without thinking. The word just slipped out.
He just looked protective to the bone. He didn’t even blink at the nickname, just gave me an exhaustive look and went back to watching his twin lie there. Like a shadow and a shield.
“You still there, Mija?”
Her raised voice pulls me out of the ICU and back to my apartment.
“I am.”
“Good. If you start chopping the vegetables now and throw them in the broth recipe, they will soften by the time you’re out of the shower. And if you take that leftover meat from the other night. . .”
Always giving advice. If she knew that I sometimes skipped meals or grabbed fast food on the way home, she’d die. We didn’t grow up that way, so she wouldn’t understand.
“I know, Mami. I will.”
Having drowned out the rest of what she’s saying, Paco hops into my lap after finishing his dinner. His wiggly little body grounds me while Mami continues her loving interrogation. Her voice is a tether to the island and a reminder of everything I left behind to be here. It makes me homesick some days.
With Paco tucked against my body, I get up and start on dinner. Inserting the occasion ‘yes’ and ‘of course’ to keep the conversation flowing. Even rolling my eyes, but I’ll stay on the phone until she’s satisfied I’m not wasting away. Having a nagging mother is more love than I get elsewhere.
And the thought of dealing with another lying, cheating man, even for something casual, has me wrinkling my nose. I’m tired of being told I’m too loud, too Latin, too much, and too everything. Do people tell men that? Never.
