Chapter 2 #2
I continue my stride, rolling my suitcase behind me, as I turn the corner that leads to the front door.
Everything is just like I remember, only more weathered.
Four plastic milk crates, spray-painted red and blue, sit around a small square wooden table.
Pothos still decorate the coral walls, along with some other plants I can’t recognize. Not like I know many anyways.
Finally, I step inside, taking in a shaky breath, as the cold draft from the AC greets me along with two cats that curl around my feet. One black and the other calico.
“Prima, didn’t think I’d see you here,” my cousin, Ruben, says from behind the counter, while setting down the deli meat he was slicing and removing his gloves.
I crouch down and gently pet the soft fur of the two little felines that demand attention, happy to see that the cats are still allowed inside like when Neno was alive.
“Hey, Ruben,” I say with a smile, as the black cat purrs against the palm of my hand, while the other one winds lazy eights around my ankles. “How are you?”
He steps around the counter, still as muscular as I remember, if not bigger, which makes him look like a giant teddy bear.
With his soft facial features and his tall stature, the guy is around 6’4 and has the build of a house.
His polo shirt clings tight, the collar popping at his neck.
I shake my head, and amusement slithers its way into my heart as I picture the meme people on social media use to make fun of the way Dominican men dress.
I want to laugh, but I hold back the urge.
“How have I been?” Ruben chuckles, a deep and growly sound. “How are you, cuzzo? You left us all here.”
“I've been better,” I reply honestly, tired of pretending after years of wearing a mask. The only logical solution at this point is to drop it. After all, I came here running from who I’ve become.
I need honesty in order to try to find myself again.
My eyes trace the tight aisles, shelves crammed with products, most brought back from D.R.
Then it clicks—I’m not looking for anything on those shelves.
I’m looking for my mother, who clearly isn’t here to greet me back home.
How silly of me… it’s not like we talk. Of course, she doesn’t know.
A sigh escapes me, and with a deep groan, I rise to my feet.
Ruben clasps his hand around my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “She’s not here.”
“Clearly,” I say bitterly, even though I should’ve known that she wouldn't be here. It didn’t stop me from expecting it.
Just like when I was kid and would come back from playing outside, she would always be inside waiting for us with a snack.
When Neno died, she waited for days in the very same spot.
Refusing to even claim his body. “He’s coming,” she would whisper. “My boy is coming home.”
He never did and, to this day, his death is something she refuses to accept.
Which led her to drugs. My mother learned to numb herself before she could bring herself to face the truth.
That night, I didn’t only lose my brother, but also lost my mother.
The only difference was that he was the only one who stopped breathing.
Leaving our mother lost in her own grief.
Neglecting the fact that I was still alive and also needed her.
The feeling overwhelms me, it's thick and gripping. Suffocating.
I shake off the negative emotions that threaten to surface and turn my attention to my cousin instead. My eyes dart towards the three small wooden steps that lead to the main house.
“How’s Abuelo?”
Ruben looks down and, with a sad smile, mutters, “I think the old man has one summer left in him.”
I nod, already expecting that answer. He’s been sick for so long that I’m not sure how he’s had the strength for all of it.
“Then let’s make the best of it.”
Ruben opens his mouth to speak, when my aunt—his mother—Tia Miriam's voice rings out from behind him. She’s an older version of my mother, both of them sport the same dark waves, hazel eyes that almost look like honey, and light brown skin.
Her voice raspy from years of smoking when she says, “Mira quién está aquí… mi nina…” *
And just like that, Ruben steps away, allowing my aunt to sweep me into her arms. She squeezes me so tight that I wheeze.
The smell of smoke and grease fills my nostrils and I nearly cough.
Thankfully, she pulls away to study me. Only for me to regret it the moment her gaze roams over me, like I’m cattle and she’s evaluating my worth.
I shift on my feet and murmur under my breath, “Good to see you too.”
My aunt chuckles, her usual throaty hehehe, and the smell of smoke clings to me as she continues to inspect me. I continue to shift on my feet, feeling like a teenager all over again.
“Tás muy flaca,”* she declares, her tone dripping in disapproval with a tinge of judgment.