The Divorcee Murder Club

Veintidos ~ 22

              The greasy and savory aroma of chorizo sizzling in a pan floats through the air as a breeze pushes past the open window in the kitchen. On Sundays, I try to visit my mother and spend time with her like a good son. 

Little does she know, I've been dropping by more often to check on Richie.

As I sit at the table against the meringue-yellow wall, I study her. My mother is so short and petite that when she hugs me, her head rests on my stomach. It’s a mystery how she gave birth to big ol’ me. Except, once you get to know her, you learn she’s a damn warrior, just in a small package, and I’m glad she found her voice after what happened with my step-father.

“Quieres más?” she asks over her shoulder. "You should eat more. You look skinny."

However, I'm not paying attention to what she's asking because my thoughts are lost on a memory of being ten years old and Chuck, my stepdad, scolding my mother for making the bacon too crispy. I remember him heaving the cast iron skillet at the wall, catapulting bacon and grease through the air. And like an ax, the pan wedged into the wall, creating a hole. As I sat there wide-eyed, he grabbed my mother by her beautiful dark hair, walked her across the checkered linoleum floor to the fridge, and demanded she make a new batch of bacon. 

I was too small and weak back then. Ten-year-old me didn't have the strength to stand up to Chuck. Of course, that all changed.

“Mijo, quieres más?” she repeats.

“Hmm?”

“Do you want more?” she says with her thick accent and walks across that same linoleum floor with a pan of Gallo Pinto—a mix of rice and red beans. But I push away my plate.

“No, I’m getting full.” 

“But you not have chorizo yet.” Her brows furrow. “You too good for my food now?”

“No. Just not that hungry.”

“You getting skinny. Eat more.” Before I can argue, she adds more Gallo Pinto to my plate. 

“Skinny? Ma, I’m far from skinny.” I lift my shirt and pat my abs. But she’s not impressed.

“That’s nothing. Your father looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger!”

“Ah, come on, I work hard for this.” I flex, and she smirks.

“You should work harder at finding a girlfriend. You are getting old.”

“I’m thirty-four!”

“Exactly.” She wags her finger. “I had you when I was twenty-three. But, ay Dios mío, by the time you have babies, I will be dead.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I just want you to find someone nice and be happy again. It makes me so angry how that woman wasted twelve years of your life.” 

“Well, we don’t have to worry about Celia anymore. And I have found someone nice.”

“Really?” Her eyes brighten, and she takes a seat.

“Her name is Mindy Arora. I met her at that divorcée support group.”

“Really…” she leans forwards with elbows on the table. “Tell me about her.”

“She’s beautiful. Looks like a Bollywood Princess.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes.”

“Ok, keep going," she urges.

“She also has these gorgeous hazel eyes, and sometimes they look green, but other times they look like honey. She’s sweet, kind, a good listener, and reminds me of you.”