Ch 48 - Rico
R ico set down another plate on the kitchen table under his sister’s wary gaze. It was Sunday night. He should be on his way back to San Diego by now, but it’d taken him half the day to shake off the atrocious hangover he’d woken up with this morning. His mouth still tasted like ash.
Note to self, alcohol is mean.
Since Rico hadn’t been able to drag himself to church, his mother had insisted he stay for dinner as penance. The aroma of sizzling beef filled the small kitchen, and his mother hummed and bustled between simmering pots.
After a delightful night spent on his knees paying homage to the porcelain throne, Rico’s stomach had been doing internal roller coaster laps all day. Now, at last, his guts were finally starting to settle down. In fact, he found that he felt famished. Probably ’cause he’d vomited up everything he’d ever eaten and possibly also his immortal soul last night.
Elena was still staring.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re setting out the dishes,” she stated from her place at the table .
“Yeah, so?”
“Just wondering if the pod people have finally landed.”
Rico rolled his eyes. “Mom’s been cooking for hours, and you were teaching ESL classes at the library. This is the least I could do.”
Elena stood. “That’s it, I’m buying a shotgun and searching for higher ground.”
Rico groaned.
His sister smiled as she dropped back into her seat. “She’s been really good for you.”
“Who?” Rico knew the answer of course.
“Jax.” Elena folded her arms over the old T-shirt she wore. “She’s somehow managed to turn you into an actual human being.”
The sound of Jax’s name was a gut punch with brass knuckles. Rico forced himself to breathe. “I thought you said I was a pod person.”
“Right. Well, is it okay if I like Pod Rico more than Original Rico?”
“No.”
“Too bad.”
Rico had to smile at that even as his heart ached. He’d been checking his phone nearly every five minutes today, but his new friend Everly had been radio silent. The gregarious cat lady had promised to cook up the perfect grand gesture for him. Rico knew he had to be patient. After all, it’d been less than 24 hours since their race to the bottom of their margarita glasses, but every moment was torture.
He needed to fix things with Jax.
He should change the subject. Only he couldn’t. Jax invaded every waking thought. Hadn’t helped that he’d caught her byline at the top of the latest story on the East County Caller . . . probably ’cause he checked the website religiously every morning upon waking.
“I saw Jax’s write-up about you in the East County Caller ,” he said to his sister. “It was good.” Understatement, of course. The piece had been brilliant. Deft and witty, deep and poignant.
“It wasn’t really about me.” Elena ducked her head, causing her dark curly hair to spill across her face. “I was just a stand-in. But she did a brilliant job of showing how complicated life can be as a DACA recipient.”
Complicated was one way to put it. Without using Elena’s last name or revealing identifying details, Jax had shown how Elena lived on a tightrope, balanced precariously between two cultures. The winds of the political landscape whipped around her, always threatening to flip the rope and topple her to the ground below.
Through a beautiful tapestry of words, Jax had also highlighted Elena’s grit and determination, the strength of character Rico had always appreciated in his sister. As a reader, he couldn’t help but root for Elena and fume that the United States could ever turn its back on someone dedicated to making a positive difference within its borders.
The story had hurt, too. Because in every word, Rico could practically hear Jax’s voice speaking to him. He could feel her earnestness breaking through the shield of sarcasm she hid behind. Her writing was where she was the most free, the most authentic version of herself. And it was beautiful.
“Lista, hijos” his mother sang. She reached for the massive tray of enchiladas on the counter, but both Rico and Elena moved as one, each grabbing the heavy dishes and pots. Their mother watched, pleased, as they brought the food to the table.
Once seated, Sarita led them in an enthusiastic prayer before allowing her children to dig into the mouth-watering heaps of food.
Elena watched as Rico shoveled two enchiladas onto his plate, each dripping in cheese. Pod person, she mouthed to him.
Out loud, she said, “Jax is doing some amazing journalistic work, but I can’t say the same for you.” His sister wrinkled her nose. “What’s with your sudden obsession with baby giraffes and dance-a-thons?”
Rico paused, a huge scoop of beans quivering in a serving spoon above his plate.
“Actually, I’m going to give up the investigative beat,” he said, forcing the words out through a tight throat. “Tomorrow, I’m going to ask my producer to keep me on human-interest stories permanently.”
It was the only way. Swimming on the heady waves of alcohol last night, he’d made the decision, even if it crushed him like a two-ton boulder. He had to protect his family. If Mayor Bishop could find out about his mother’s undocumented status, so could another enemy in the future. As long as Rico made himself a target, his mother would be vulnerable.
Not going to happen.
Elena actually dropped her fork. “Okay, what’s really going on, Rico?” Her eyes widened with real fear. “Is it cancer? Do you have cancer? Is it testicular?”
Why in the hell did everybody suddenly think he had cancer?
Rico turned the spoon and watched the beans tumbled onto his plate. Suddenly, he didn’t feel the least bit hungry. “It’s just . . . something I’ve decided to do,” he managed.
“Bullshit,” Elena responded, never one to bother with silly things like politeness or social niceties. “You’ll never get an anchor chair if you only do human interest stories, and all you’ve ever wanted since you went to college was to anchor the news. Plus, you hate human interest stories. Like, with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.”
“What is really wrong?” their mother asked in Spanish. She couldn’t have understood every word of their conversation, but she’d gleaned enough .
Rico looked into his mother’s loving eyes of steel. Just let it go, he begged through his gaze.
Sarita was having none of it. “La verdad,” she commanded. The truth.
Rico sighed. In halting Spanish, he explained that the subject of a recent investigation had found out about his mother’s illegal status and had threatened to expose her. He didn’t give names or specific details. No need to unleash Elena against Mayor Bishop. That’d only make things worse.
The point was, Rico explained, his job had put his mother in danger.
“I can’t do that to you,” he said to his mother. “Not after everything you and Dad did to give us a better life.”
When he was finished, his mother put her hand over his and sniffled. “You are a good son,” she told him.
Even Elena wiped at her eyes beneath her glasses. “Why did you have to finally learn to be selfless, you asshole?” she croaked. “God, this sucks.”
“I’ll go back to Mexico,” his mother announced in Spanish. “Then los malos can’t blackmail you.”
Rico shook his head vehemently. “I won’t let you do that. You love living here. And Mexico can be dangerous.”
“I’ll live with my sister,” his mother insisted. “Her city is very safe. I’ve sent her money now and again, and now that her son is married, she has an extra room.”
“No!” Rico made his voice firm.
“Sí!” his mother responded.
They stared at each other with identical brown eyes. Rico had always assumed he’d gotten his stubbornness from his father, but maybe he’d been wrong about that.
“As fun as it is to watch this battle of wills, there is another way,” Elena spoke up.
Rico and his mother turned to look at her.
“It’s not going to be easy or cheap,” she explained in Spanish, “but we can start Mom on the path to citizenship.” She looked to their mother. “You’d have to return to Mexico and live there for a few years to re-establish your residency. Then Rico could apply for a green card on your behalf. You could eventually receive your citizenship through his sponsorship.”
“Not this again.” Rico crossed his arms. This wasn’t the first time Elena had suggested this plan. “Mom would have to uproot her life and live in Mexico for God knows how long. And the citizenship process takes years.”
“This is a great idea,” their mother gushed, clapping her hands. “Yes, let’s do this. I’ll call my sister after dinner. She owes me.”
“Mom!” Rico exploded. “No!”
His mother reclaimed his hand in both of hers. She pulled it to her chest just above her heart.
“It’s not your decision, hijo,” she said gently. “You’re right. I do enjoy living here, but I also miss Mexico. I miss my family, my language, and my culture. Your father and I came here to give you a better life, and we did that. I’m so proud of both of you.” She sniffled again. “I don’t mind going back, especially if it means you can keep making your stories. We can do the process right this time. And when I come back, I won’t have to be afraid so much.”
“Mamá . . .” Rico’s voice trembled. His eyes burned.
“There are many parts of Mexico that are very safe. Safer than some of the cities in the US,” she told him, and patted his hand.
“I’d miss you.” Rico’s voice cracked.
“Then visit me . . . and work on your Spanish. ”
Rico laughed. And cried a little. Okay, a lot. He stood up and wrapped the small, amazing, courageous woman in a tight embrace.
“Gracias,” he whispered to his mother. “Te amo.”