by Mariana R. Villanueva
“Do you think we’ll make it in time, Dad?” Lorena asked.
“The doctor said this morning that he’d give her forty-eight hours.” My esophagus tightened painfully. “I called just before your plane arrived. Your tía Ester said your grandma was coughing and having trouble breathing, but holding on.” I cleared my throat in an effort to make the pain vanish.
Lorena shifted in her seat but said nothing. She’d been mostly quiet since we left the Guadalajara airport. A tear fell from behind her sunglasses, and she turned her head to look out the car window. I wondered if I should ask her if she was all right. As the tears welled up in my own eyes, I decided to give her space for now.
In my head, the thoughts became rampant. My mother is about to die. This wasn’t supposed to happen yet. She lived a tough life.
Above it all, one thought haunted me. Not everyone is here. I was one of thirteen children, and my mother had so many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I am here to say goodbye, and my oldest daughter came, but what of my other children? What of my grandchildren? Shouldn’t the entire family be here? We were all finally supposed to have been together after I moved back to Tangamanzalca, everyone was supposed to have come visit. As I drove through the countryside, I lamented that that was beginning to seem more and more like a fantasy.
* * *
From the age of sixteen to nineteen, I traveled from Tangamanzalca to California, Arizona, Oregon, and Washington with my father and brother. I picked grapes, lettuce, broccoli and apples six days a week from dawn until dusk. I grafted an innumerable amount of roses. We were gone about five months out of the year, but we returned with much-needed American dollars.
When I got married at twenty, my brother-in-law had been working in Illinois. He raved about how much more money he could make working in a steel mill rather than working as a migrant farmworker. It might have been enough money to provide for my newly formed family. To provide for Lorena.
The farming had been enough for my father. He left to work in the fields – despite his back and knee pain – sometimes for up to six months, for twenty-five years. He always returned and always provided. When he was home, he tended to his cattle and farmed his own land.
But I didn’t have my own land, not yet, and I didn’t have the heart to leave my newly-formed family for so long year after year. So I took my brother-in-law’s advice and moved to Illinois. The goal was always to return, to build my own house, to live out my last days here, peacefully, surrounded by the land, people, and culture I loved. When I had finally accomplished that goal, though, it looked very different than what I had thought it would look like. I was a widower, and my children were grown. I was alone.
* * *
“I can’t believe it’s been almost twenty years since I’ve been here,” Lorena said, as she gazed across the verdant mountain to her right.
“I’ve told you over and over there’s nothing to be scared of,” I said, after seeing the look in her eyes.
“Right.” She sighed. “And I’ve told you over and over that you must not have watched the news lately.”
I didn’t want to talk about this again, so I kept my eyes on the road.
Lorena’s voice had been distant since I picked her up. It lacked the enthusiasm with which she usually greeted me – such a stark contrast from when I last visited her in Phoenix. It had been great to see her, then. We had gone to the zoo, hiked, and kayaked with her kids. I enjoyed spending time with my grandchildren. I only got to see them when I traveled to Arizona.
This visit would be nothing like that.
I reached for the radio dial and turned it on. Classic songs by Luis Miguel, Ana Gabriel, Los Bukis, and many others played on the Viejitas Pero Bonitas de los 80s show. They helped take my mind off the inevitable and focus on driving.
We traveled past countless hills and mountains: the lush green valleys varying from the green of corn stalks to the green of newly-sprouted tree leaves in the Spring. The perfect rectangles delineating where one farmer’s land ended and another’s began.
Tranquil bucolic fields splayed before us only to be interrupted by interspersed villages and small towns. I noticed Lorena taking it all in.
These towns teemed with activity as we drove through them: mothers sweeping their sidewalks, boys playing soccer on cobblestone streets in front of brightly-colored houses, dogs strolling alongside women who walked with baskets and bags, men working on the second story of a house as they listened to loud Banda music, the occasional food stand set up outside homes, their customers awaiting their meals. At times, the smell of birria and carnitas wafted in through our open car windows. Ocotlán, Jamay, La Angostura, Ixtlán de los Hervores – almost three hours worth of vibrancy. Tangamanzalca, too, had that vibrancy.
We had just entered the town of La Sauceda when Lorena suddenly gasped. She gripped the armrests and moved her foot as if to stop the car with imaginary brakes.
Up ahead, stopped on the left side of the road, was a dark pickup. I could see four men in the bed of the truck. They wore blue under their charcoal Kevlar vests, as well as helmets and black ski masks. Two of them were sitting, talking to each other. The other two stood, watching the road. Assault rifles hung on their back.
“Relax, those are the good guys,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“Policía Federal,” I pointed, “it says it right there, see.”
“Thank God.” She took a deep breath, and let out a long, slightly audible exhale.
“I told you it’s safe.”
She didn’t respond to my assertion.
“How could they be wearing those masks? It’s so warm.” She asked after we passed them. She sounded concerned for their health.
“Maybe it’s too dusty for them,” I chuckled. I tried to sound convincing. I knew they wore them to hide their faces in case they came across the cartels Lorena had confused them for. They wanted to protect their families by protecting their identities.
“Sure, it’s just ‘cos it’s dusty.” She relaxed her hands and let go of the armrests.
* * *
Lorena was smart and I was proud of her for that. I was proud of all my children. They were the reason why my decades at the steel mill had been worthwhile.
I had retired only a few years ago, after thirty-five years of grueling work in that screeching, iron-smelling steel mill in Chicago. Even when the temperature outside was below zero, the steaming heat of melting metal was always the same, hot as the sun. I worked the second shift: 3pm – 11pm. I missed a great deal of life during that shift, including many of my kids’ soccer and volleyball games. I found comfort by convincing myself it was necessary. At least they were getting an education. They wouldn’t have to work in the fields; they’d have a better life, more opportunities. My brother-in-law had told me that, too.
What neither he nor anyone else told me was that the place I left as a young man wouldn’t be the same upon my return forty years later.
* * *
Lorena and I finally arrived in Tangamanzalca. People walked to and fro on the barely-there sidewalks as we entered. She commented that the streets were narrower than she remembered.
“That’s where I got Japanese peanuts with Adelita,” she pointed to a storefront whose name, Abarrotes García, was painted above the doors in red. She smiled.
We drove past the perfectly-manicured town plaza: its rectangular trees surrounded the gazebo in the center. Two water fountains were on opposite sides of the gazebo, and around them were several white steel benches with intricate floral designs. On them sat older men wearing palm straw cowboy hats, leisurely chatting with each other.
We turned the corner toward my mother’s house and passed the market where two native Purépecha women with long braids were picking up the unsold vegetables they’d laid out on the floor in piles. They were so close to the street that I could see one of the women’s chapped hands.
“That’s where I would get a strawberry milkshake in a plastic bag with a straw,” Lorena said with a smile. Her spirits seemed to lift during these recollections. “And that’s where I would get ice cream in a cazuelita.”
I wondered if they still had the same waffle bowls at Helados Hermanos López. The ice cream shop had a line of customers waiting under the portico.
Before my children got older, we visited Tangamanzalca every year during the Christmas season. It made me happy that she remembered these places.
We drove the last few blocks and finally arrived at my childhood home. The exterior of my parents’ flat-roofed house was two-toned, the bottom was navy blue and the top was teal. I’d never wondered until this moment if residents took note of the color of their neighbor’s home before deciding on the color of their own. Peach and cream, pink and maroon, yellow and violet, painted on a continuous stucco wall. All the homes were connected. Perhaps mismatching was the goal.
There were lots of parked cars, but we managed to find a spot. Not only were we going to see my dying mother, but also a house full of relatives who’d come to say goodbye.
“Are you gonna be okay, Dad?”
Tears filled my eyes once again, and Lorena placed her hand on my shoulder. I took a breath and placed my hand on the steering wheel, as if that would force the tears back inside my head. “I’m okay. She lived a good life.”
That was the truth. Despite not having had an easy life, my mother was still the most grateful person I’d ever met. Even when having to place her newest baby on the floor inside a chest drawer, or walking to the mill at five o’clock in the morning to get masa, or staying up late into the night to wash the dozen or so 30-liter rustic metal jugs so they’d be ready for the cows’ milk the next morning, she was filled with gratitude. After her arduous days, she knelt in front of her altar and gave thanks. Always.
On Fridays she gathered as many children and grandchildren as possible and prayed the Rosary, her voice bursting into song between each mystery. No child was too young to join her, even if they were rambunctious or displeased at the idea of praying for an hour and hearing her tell them how good God had been to their family.
It was easy to be around her regardless of the occasion. Her laughter infected everyone with love. Joy abounded in my mother’s life. It oozed out of her being. She was thrilled that her family was growing, that her grandchildren bore her more great-grandchildren every year. “God wants us to bring life to the world,” she would say. She thanked God every day for all the blessings He bestowed upon her family. She was 82 years old. She felt that she’d lived a good life. She was at peace. I genuinely believed it, just as much as I believed I wasn’t.
Lorena and I knocked on the frosted glass of the brown steel door.
My sister, Cristina, opened it. She raised her arms and grinned – a genuine deep-set crow’s feet smile – and exclaimed, “Lorena!” before embracing her tightly. She greeted me and hugged me as well.
Questions for Lorena followed: how had she been, how were her kids, how was her husband, how were her siblings, when might she bring the kids – all strung together, as the more than a dozen relatives followed with hugs.
Lorena seemed to genuinely enjoy these embraces. I saw her smile with each hug. She answered their questions swiftly, but to the final question replied, “They’ll come sometime in the not-too-distant future.” She glanced at me momentarily, as if apologizing for the dishonesty.
Noticing the glance and recognizing the uncertainty, Cristina said, “Your dad said you were scared. You shouldn’t be.”
“I’ve told her multiple times,” I said to Cristina, before turning back to Lorena.
“It really isn’t dangerous. If you’re not involved, you won’t get hurt,” I placed my arm around Lorena’s shoulders as we entered the house.
The second part of my answer wasn’t a lie. To say that it wasn’t dangerous, though, was debatable.
* * *
When I’d first moved back, I’d been ecstatic to finalize the yard of the house that I’d saved up to build over the years. One morning, after purchasing some rose bushes, I was pulled over by an unmarked car whose driver had suddenly placed a siren on its roof. He came over to me and asked where I came from, why I was in town, and how long I would be here. I had been warned something like this might happen.
The drug cartels were in charge in Tangamanzalca now. They knew who lived in town and who didn’t. They required a quota from all vendors. Everyone learned, over time, that it was not optional to pay it. Even doctors, if they were asked, had no choice but to be driven out to a remote location to cure an ailing parent of a cartel member. If people didn’t abide by the rules, families might be threatened or even kidnapped. Some people opted to leave town, or even the country. My nephew and his wife did just that.
You were not to disparage them, and most importantly, one should never get involved. If you followed those rules, no harm would come to you. If you didn’t, you might be the next body found shot in front of the police department one morning.
* * *
“It’s so nice to see you all,” Lorena said, and then asked, “can I see Mi Abuelita?
My sister, Ester, said, “Yes, she’s in her room and she’s awake. Some of your cousins are there now; go right in.” Ester pulled back the sheet that hung in the doorway.
Lorena looked at me. She took a deep breath. I followed with my own and reached for her hand. We walked in together as the spicy aroma of pozole wafted from the kitchen.
My mother looked frail. She lay on her side, the bed centered under a crucifix on the avocado-colored wall. Her long gray hair was tied back, and she held a white handkerchief in her hand. She lifted it to her mouth. My nephews, Alberto and Armando, stood on her left, while two nieces, Yesenia and Marcela, stood near my mother’s home altar across from her bed. She coughed a few times and realized Alberto and Armando had turned to greet us. She looked at us.
“Look who came to see you, Mamá,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “Lorena,” she said. Her voice was a whisper. She coughed again and smiled. “Is that really you?” She brought the handkerchief back to her mouth. I noticed blood on it.
“Yes, Abuelita. It’s me. It’s wonderful to see you.” Lorena walked toward her, acknowledging and smiling at her, and at her cousins she hadn’t seen in decades. She pointed at the empty chair to the right of the bed as if asking her cousins if it was okay to sit. They nodded. She sat, leaned in, and gently held my mother’s hand between both of hers.
My mother turned to me, “Why didn’t you tell me she was coming, Salvador?” She coughed.
“I wanted to surprise you.”
She slowly wiped around her mouth with the handkerchief. “I guess this is really it. If I’d known what it was going to take to see my grandchildren, I would have gotten deathly ill years ago.” She giggled as best she could between a bit of wheezing.
“Lorena,” my mother said. Her face beamed. She set the handkerchief on the bed and tried to sit up. My nephews rushed to each side of the bed and gently lifted her to a sitting position, using the folded sheet underneath her. Lorena, who had gotten up to get out of the way, sat back down.
My mother gathered strength and said, “I’m so glad you came. You all have to visit your father. He says you’re scared, but don’t you know you have our most loving God to protect you?” She lifted her right arm and pointed to the altar. Her words were tender and full of conviction.
A tear trickled down Lorena’s face.
The room was silent until my mother said, “Don’t cry hija. Do you remember when you and your sister would pretend to make me enchiladas?” She paused to cough. She wiped her mouth before resuming. “You’d take leaves from the guava tree and dip them in water you’d reddened with red brick shavings, and you’d fill them with mud, pretending it was mashed-up potato and cheese. I loved watching you play. I hope your daughter makes pretend food for you, even if it’s hamburgers or whatever else you eat over there in el Norte.”
“I remember.” Lorena giggled. “And do you remember when we went to the Paricutín volcano? We rode those super skinny horses, but only for a little bit before going the rest of the way on foot because we felt sorry for them?” Her was voice less quaky toward the end of the sentence.
My mother laughed a gargled laugh before pausing to take two deep wheezing breaths.
Lorena looked at Armando, “You were there, remember? You must have been around ten years old then.” He nodded and smiled through watery eyes.
“That was fun,” my mother said. “There were a lot of us that day. Your grandfather was still with us.” She paused as if imagining my father on that day.
“I have a picture of you on that skinny horse in my living room. You have the best smile in it,” Lorena said. She caressed the top of my mother’s hand as she spoke.
“Oh, I hope your company doesn’t ever get scared of that old lady.” She flashed another smile.
“Never,” Lorena continued, “I tell people that she’s the best grandmother ever.”
“I don’t know about that. I did my best to live the way God wanted me to live.”
She paused, and in the moment of silence, I thought of all the stories my family had been telling over the last few days, of all the joy we’d experienced in this house. One of my sisters had retold the story of how at a family party, my mother had volunteered to perform in a skit, per usual, with a few of her young grandchildren. She had, inadvertently, ended up getting a meringue pie in the face. It was supposed to have been a funny skit, but seeing the beloved matriarch’s face as she laughed herself to tears made it all the more hilarious.
I remembered our visits on Christmas eve. The house – and courtyard and street – came alive, not just with my parents and my children and my twelve brothers and sisters, but also with aunts, uncles, and countless cousins, old and young, from far and near. Loud voices, laughter, and the smell of tamales filled the home. Cinnamon fragrance was in every room as we drank the hot punch filled with guavas, apples, prunes, and sugar cane, warming our hands in the crisp night. I remembered when the famous torito made its appearance toward the end of the evening. Only the bravest of cousins mounted the bull shaped contraption on his back, zigzagging through the crowd. Everyone ran and squealed in delight as the small spinning fireworks and sparklers lit up on the fire-spitting bull.
Before those jovial Christmas Eve celebrations ended, the courtyard served as a place for all to gather around as we passed a ceramic baby Jesus from person to person at midnight, giving each an opportunity to voice our gratitude to Him for the blessings He’d given us that year. Those nights were the best.
My mother had tears in her eyes, now. She looked back to the altar. It held five lit candles with pictures of various saints as well as the Virgen de
Guadalupe. On the wall above it, there was another crucifix, a picture of Joseph, and an image of the Divine Mercy of Jesus. A small statue of the Virgin Mary holding a rosary was front and center.
“I hope I did enough to meet Him soon,” she continued.
“Not so soon, mamá. We’re not ready for you to meet him yet,” I said. She lifted her hand and flicked it down as if to dismiss my comment while smiling. Even now, as she lay weakened, she made us all grin when she flashed her own beautiful, wrinkled smile.
Here it was, that same house that witnessed so much happiness, now saw siblings, nephews, and nieces going through a palpable melancholy intertwined with an understated joyous acceptance. My family members still laughed. The perpetual murmur throughout the house rose and fell as stories were shared. It was a happy sadness.
Ester walked in and said it was time for my mother’s breathing treatment, and that we’d have to leave the room. We told my mother we’d be back to see her later. Lorena and I stepped into the kitchen to chat with the family members who were meeting their obligation of eating whenever a female family member has cooked and insists that you eat, whether you’re hungry or not.
My sister, Teresa, set two bowls of pozole on the table covered with a brightly-colored flowered tablecloth. She demanded we sit and enjoy the pork and hominy soup sprinkled with oregano, cabbage, and radish. Lorena remarked that the chile ancho aroma conjured the memory of family parties. To me, it tasted like home. We ate and caught up with those in the kitchen: Teresa, my brother-in-law José, my nieces Lupita and Elena, my nephew Luis, my cousin Raúl, my brother Víctor, my uncle and mother’s brother Rafael, my sister Mónica, and three others.
We finished and offered to go pick up pan dulce a few blocks away, since Teresa mentioned it would be good with coffee for everyone later tonight. Lorena and I made our way toward the front door. I pointed out the many pictures of family members, those alive and those no longer living, as we made our way out.
“There’s you and your family. At least your grandma got to see your kids in a picture.” This last comment sounded bitter. That had not been my intention. Lorena noticed and quickly turned to me, squinting her eyes and making a straight line with her mouth.
My cousin Antonio, my aunt Benita, more nephews, and more nieces were in the living room waiting to see my mother, so Lorena and I stopped and caught up with them as well.
We finally made it out the front door and into the car. As soon as Lorena shut the car door, she said, “What was that about?”
“What?” I said.
“The way you said, ‘at least she got to see your kids in a picture’.” The skin between her brows crinkled.
“It’s true. At least she knows what your kids look like since you never bothered to bring them to meet her.” I started the car and began to drive.
“What?” Lorena’s voice went up by decibels. “Are you serious? You think I didn’t want to bring them, that I couldn’t be bothered with it for fifteen years?” She waited for my response.
I didn’t have one.
“You don’t think I would’ve loved for my kids to experience the unmatchable love that woman gave me? That I wouldn’t have loved to bring them here and show them where they came from. That I wouldn’t have loved to demonstrate to them that having little money doesn’t equal little happiness.” Her voice cracked. “That what they have in American suburbia is beyond what any blessing my grandma could have prayed for.”
She took a breath and lowered her voice.
“That they stand on the shoulders of generations of people who broke their back to create better lives for their families.”
She began to sob. I pulled over and stopped the car, realizing that we’d only traveled a little over two blocks.
She wiped her eyes with the bottom of her palm. “Of course I would’ve loved all of that.” She whispered, “I know that you would have rather been here, but you had to stay there for us.”
“If you wanted all of that, then why didn’t you at least teach them Spanish?” The question seemed irrelevant, but it’d been inside me for years.
“I tried!” She yelled. “I did speak to them in Spanish for the first few years, but I think in English and Mike doesn’t speak Spanish. It was just easier.”
My stomach knotted up. I didn’t like seeing my daughter this upset. “Look, I’m sorry, but I just wish you would’ve believed me when I told you it was safe – that you would’ve come at least once in the four years I’ve been here.”
“Safe? Why do you keep saying that Dad? You’re in denial.” Her voice was loud again. She brought both arms in front of her with her palms up, as in disbelief.
“Just last week, the news said that the state of Michoacán is one of the most dangerous places to travel in the world. It’s equal to Afghanistan. Do. Not. Travel. – Level 4!” She put up four fingers as she slowed the last words down.
“It’s not true. It’s not dangerous.” My voice matched her loudness. My words were quick and now my right hand pointed at her. “That only applies to Americans and you’re Mexican.”
“I’m Mexican-American, whether you like it or not. You chose it. I didn’t.” Lorena tilted her head back on the headrest. Her chest rose and fell.
It was true, I did choose it. Was it naïve of me to believe that I could move my family to another part of the world and not have them be influenced by that new world? I suppose it had been.
“Look dad,” Lorena put up one finger, “cartel members tried to take Alberto’s car in Ixtlán while he was inside the doctor’s office with grandma.”
She put up two fingers. “Susana told me they stole my Tía Gaby’s friends’ cars while they were out having a picnic. Yes, they weren’t hurt, but masked cartel men with big guns took all three of their cars – while their young children watched.”
Lorena had three fingers up now. “And I recently saw on Facebook that they found a body outside the police station. How is any of that safe?”
“They may have taken their cars, but they weren’t harmed.”
“Okay but do you understand the psychological ramifications of that experience on children?” Her entire body was turned toward me.
She spoke loudly but slowly. “You have to understand that I can’t put my family in that position. And I -,” she paused as if trying to formulate the sentence in her mind before it exited her mouth, “– I don’t understand why everyone keeps saying that it’s safe.” She stopped, then began again with an almost inaudible whisper. “Your cousin’s husband was killed. That was family.”
“Like I’ve told you before, if you’re not involved, you won’t get hurt.” I glanced at the side mirror.
Suddenly, my heart dropped to my stomach. I saw Alberto and Elena frantically flailing their arms. In an instant, I put the car back in drive and turned the car around.
Lorena and I ran inside the house. Everyone was up in the living room, crying and hugging each other. I knew then that my mother was gone. I held Lorena as we both cried. After a minute, Ester pulled back the sheet in the doorway and many of us walked in.
I stopped in front of Ester and placed my hands on my sister’s shoulders. “She just suddenly stopped breathing,” she cried.
Crying was all around me. Cristina sat and held my mother’s hand and whispered to her as tears slid down her face. Behind her stood Luis, Armando, and Mónica, huddled together, weeping. Yesenia and Lupita hugged each other in front of the altar. The room was filled with grieving family members.
Amid the cacophony of sobs, Lorena and I knelt along the foot of the bed where my mother lay. I knew immediately upon seeing my mother’s still warm body that she would soon be with her beloved God.
To my right, my beloved daughter struggled to contain the hurt from exploding out of her body. I felt the same struggle. I saw her hands tremble as they clenched the purple-flowered quilt. She buried her face in the lavender petals every few seconds. I rubbed her back. Her crimson tear-streaked face reminded me of when she was born. I’d felt so much love that blissful evening as I held my firstborn in my arms. My mother had shed tears of joy upon holding her first grandchild.
I, too, wept. I wept for my mother, yes, but I believed her when she said she was ready. I would miss her, but I knew she must be thrilled to finally be face to face with God after living an extraordinary ordinary life. So I mostly wept for me, for what I had done, or perhaps for what I had failed to do.
My kids have college degrees; some, doctorates, even. My grandchildren will likely have them too. But will they be humble? Will they be kind? How will they know about their culture while in their fancy houses? They never met my father. How will they know that he had felt a great sense of pride at being the farmworker who picked the most heads of lettuce per day? They never met my mother. Will they love like she did? Will they know what it cost for them to get there? Will they know what it means to be Mexican?
Even though they are scattered around the United States, they could have come and seen with their own eyes. But this is a dangerous place.
I slammed my fists into the mattress and rubbed my forehead on my mother’s bed. Through tears, I looked up and glanced at Lorena’s latest family Christmas card sitting on the dresser. I saw my granddaughter, Alma, and was taken aback by how much she resembled my mother when she was younger. They shared more than just a name. They had the same high cheekbones. The same beautiful smile.
My body began to calm, and the intense pounding in my heart stopped momentarily. My mother is already part of my granddaughter, I realized, and maybe a part of the rest of my grandchildren. I felt a sense of peace come over me.
– –
My name is Mariana R. Villanueva. I took the Beginning Creative Writing course (95051) taught by Joseph O’Connell at the ACC Round Rock Campus. I took it as a Continuing Education course in the Spring of 2020. I am a novice writer.