I want to have that mother my friends do. The one I can gush all over Facebook about on Mother’s Day. The type of mother I can thank for giving me advice, taking me to lunch, and sharing her wisdom with me. I don’t have that kind of mother. But my God, I really want to.
My mother doesn’t give me advice. She gives advice to people who aren’t there. She rarely talks to me, but when she does, she calls me “Laurita” her dead sister. When she smiles, it’s because she sees something that only exists in her mind.
I handle it. All of it. And for the most part I think I do an okay job. But when she weeps . . . I feel those tears down to my soul.
My breath is visible as I hurry along. I step around a patch of ice, careful not to sink my new boots in the piles of snow pushed to the side. When I was little, I thought my mother was fun. She would play dress-up with me and pretend she was a famous actress or singer. But when I became a teen, she would still dress up, except instead of pretending, she believed she was that starlet, that person the whole world over adored.
She was the “eccentric” one for a long while. And for a time, we just accepted her as being quirky. It wasn’t until she attempted suicide that we realized just how sick she really is.
No. My mother isn’t well, and my heart breaks because of it.
I smile politely when I see Se?ora Estefan rush toward me. She was on “Flor watch” today, a job she takes seriously.
“Ay, ni?a,” she says, her hands falling to her sides when she sees me. “I’m sorry to text you, I know you’re working. But I couldn’t reach your Papi.”
“It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s likely not. “Where is she?”
She purses her lips, making a face that tells me that whatever she has to show me isn’t good. “She’s in Mr. Toleman’s backyard.”
My eyes widen briefly. “How did she get into his backyard?” I ask, allowing her to lead me forward.
“She knocked on his door, asking if she could pick mangoes from his tree.” Her eyes cut my way. “You know he doesn’t have a mango tree, right?”
It’s all I can do to keep my shoulders from slumping. “Si, Se?ora. I know.”
“Well,” she continues. “Since she was out on her own, he realized you and your father weren’t home so he invited her in until he could track me down. One thing led to another, and, well, you’ll see.”
Oh, no.
The crowd gathered near Mr. Toleman’s house part as I approach. It’s not a large group, only about seven of our elderly neighbors, but it’s a lot of people when you’re feeling self-conscious and a lot of eyes to have on you even during the best of times. And trust me, these aren’t the best of times.
I know they’re older and this is as exciting as their day gets for them, but I wish it didn’t have to come at my mother’s expense.
“Good morning,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and hang on to what remains of my polite smile.
“Hola, mija,” “Hi, Sol,” “Good morning”, they all say at once.
These are people who’ve known me all my life. People who bought candy bars and lemonade from me, and whose doors I’d knock on every Halloween. These were the neighbors who attended my quincea?era, friends who clapped for me when I stepped out of my house wearing my cap and gown, and who waved to me when I left for college. They’re people who care about me and who I care about in return.
Maybe that’s why it hurts to see them now, and for them to see my mother the way she is. I avoid their stares, however well-intended and however judgmental, and race up the steps when Mr. Toleman opens his front door.
“Hello, Mr. Toleman.” I put on a brave face because I can around him. This is the same man who high-fived me every time I made honor roll.
“Hi, Sol,” he says. He frowns at the people gathered at the bottom of his stoop. “Ya should be ashamed of yourselves. Get on outta here. Can’t you see this is a family matter?”
“It involves the neighborhood,” Se?ora Montes fires back.
“No, it involves Sol’s mama,” he points out.
His tone is firm, but I think it’s his words that cause the crowd to disperse. It’s all I can do not to hug him.
“Thank you for looking after my mother,” I say when he shuts the door behind me and Se?ora Estefan.
He nods, arthritis causing a limp to his step as he moves down the dark hall. Like the other homes on the street, there’s a living room to the left and a staircase that leads up to three bedrooms and a bathroom on the right. We pass a half bath, but as we reach the tiny kitchen, he pauses to glance over his shoulder. “She didn’t seem right when she came to my door. I was afraid to let her leave.”
“Okay,” I say like I understand, even though by now I’m out of my mind with worry.
He steps aside and opens the door to his small yard. For all I was prepared to see, I wasn’t prepared to see this.