Father

UNO

"Can you please pick up your teddies, Paola?" My mother huffed, wiping the beaded sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. She had written on it in fading black biro, and mixed in with the 'fruits of her labour', it had wiped off like a bruise right across her face. A loose strand of hair hung in front of her somber eyes, and she stared cross-eyed, but did not give in to remove it. "Paola, if I have to move again..." she said, voice now almost silent, exasperated breaths moving the hair strand like a wilted piece of straw, though straw did not hold the peroxide hue that my mother's hair had. Dyed within an inch of its life. The chemical smell tingled in my nose every time I thought of her, making me sneeze, irritating everything from my lungs outward, like moths were flying around inside me. "I swear, on my mother's life..." she whispered, scrubbing at the stain on the floor that to me, was either fake tan or brown sauce, but I wasn't going to kneel and sniff it to make sure.

It had crusted over and cracked to the touch, under the blazing morning heat, and the ceiling fan being on its way out had done nothing to protect it. The day that I discovered the stain was the morning I resorted to wearing flip flops in the house, even though they would slap against the orange tiled floor, and the noise would rip through me like someone was constantly slapping me. Hiding from my chores, or 'duties to be close to God' in my mother's screeched anger, I stood in front of the stain and nudged it with the front of the peeling rainbow flip flops I had acquired one holiday. The fan whizzed above me, beating hot air down and bringing sweat to my skin akin to my mother's, and I carefully stepped over the crust and placed my cheek against the fridge.

Our landlord had not been round to fix the fridge, and so it was leaking. My mother said I was wrong, and that it couldn't leak cold itself, but it did. The relief washed through me as I placed my skin to the worn cream surface, condensation taking the sweat away and making my body a liveable temperature. In fact, our landlord, Mr Alvarez, had not stepped foot in our apartment since before the summer sun. My mother would sit by the window, a cigarette in one hand, and the house phone in the other, crying to Mr Alvarez about what had gone wrong this week. Most recently the fridge.

"That fucking man won't even answer my calls now." She said from behind her veil of smoke, scented of stale mints, it following her as she walked onto the balcony and ignored me as I snuggled the fridge. "Some bullshit landlord he is."

I gasped and looked over at her as her chair creaked, tapping the cigarette ask over the side of the balcony wall, bronzed skin aching as the sun burnt into her. My mother never swore, or at least not in front of me, because she said that every swear word stained your ears and that when you meet God, he looks inside and sees if you are clean. She must have heard me gasp, that half-bat woman, and she glared at me like I was Mr Alvarez. "Paola, Paola, Paola." she said, looking towards her ashtray, banging her fingertip onto the cigarette with every mention of my name. "I didn't see you there."

It was when she noticed me that I brought my face away from the plastic ice face. I scrunched up my toes in my flip flops, grating the already worn out soles, awaiting certain punishment. Stomach dropping, I was sure that she would make me lick up the stain and call it my dinner. 'Extra protein in times of need always comes from the dirt.' "Mama" I whimpered, bringing my hands into tiny fists, shaking like the trees would when the wind returned. "Mama, I'm sorry."

"For what, Paola?" She asked, walking over to me until she was so close, her breath met mine. I could feel her eyes burning every inch of me, as she brought her palm across my chest and my sweaty blue vest top. "For what?" She repeated, angry by my silent reply. I began to cry, the salty tears rolling down my tanned cheeks and hitting her arm. She began to mumble to herself in Spanish, pushing me harshly back and returning her chapped lips to her cigarette. She reminded me of a dragon. One that had lost it's fire and could only choke out smoke.

"I'm sorry, for hearing you swear and not covering my ears." I replied, wringing my hands as I began to shake again. "For eavesdropping."

"Better." she nodded, stubbing out her cigarette onto the end of the table, even though the ashtray was right beside it, pristine. "Now, go and pick up your teddies before I throw them away. I can't afford to wash them anymore so you need to keep them well looked after."

With a small grumble, I ran up the winding metal stairs and up to my room, flip flops clacking on the metal grates. My room was small, but liveable and cosy, and the light streamed in through my net blinds onto the burnt orange wallpaper and my flowered duvet and pillows. I slept on the floor. My bed frame had been my mother's, but had broken due to years of wood rot and so I saved everyone the trouble and slept on a modest mattress. Plus it was cooler down on the ground.

I had seven teddies. One of which had a tattered red love heart in its paws that said I Love You, from which I assumed I had stolen from my mother at a young age. Another one spoke when you pressed into its stomach. Those two lived on my cabinet. I couldn't risk them being torn apart or hurt. The others sat along my mattress and I slept cuddling up to a rabbit teddy that I had affectionately called Mr Conejo. Not creative, but creative for a bilingual one year old.

The teddies in question from my mother's rants were my twin comfort teddies. My abuela had gotten me them when I first realised I had skin problems, and they were so soft that I would cool them in the fridge and hold them when my skin felt like hot coals. On my tip toes, I picked them up and placed them on top of my wardrobe to keep them safe, and jumped back down again afterwards, hoping it wouldn't wobble and fall like last time.

I heard the door go downstairs and so I rushed down, knowing my mother was spark out and watching her television programmes. Peeking through the self-installed peephole, I saw a heavy set man with the same skin colour as me, but darker than my mothers. "Paola, it's your new landlord. I'd like to just have a quick look around the property, just to make a quick checklist on any possible work."

His voice was shrill, like Uncle's, and he held his hands in a prayer like way over his chest. I reached up and undid the chain that protected us and hopped back, sweating again as the fan burnt out. "My mama is asleep."

"You're able to just watch, you are 15 after all. You're a growing lady."

Fifteen I was, but I was anxious and uncomfortable at the way that the new landlord looked at me. He wasn't like uncle at all. I rushed into the living room and jumped on top of my mother like a hungry stray, and shook her awake. "Paola?" she rubbed her eyes in a daze, looking around. She covered my ears. "Who the fuck are you?"

"New landlord. Now, can I see your kitchen?" He asked, not appreciating my mother's harsh language. I took the opportunity to lead him into the kitchen, and pointed at the oven, insisting that it gets fixed. He patted my head like I was a dog, and walked over, not noticing the stain.

He landed with a crunch. The same crunch that I heard when I nudged the crust in my flip flop. "Is this why Mr Alvarez never visits?"