“Mamá! Yo estoy bien. Es nada. No te preocupes! Mamá, por favor…” Maritza said, though she didn’t hold out much hope for getting through to her mother when she was worked up like this. She’d always been a worrier, certain every cough meant potential pneumonia and scratching a particularly annoying itch was either an infected bug bite or the onset of smallpox (the first—and only—time Maritza pointed out smallpox had been eradicated years before she was born, her mother lit into Maritza for calling her a liar and talking back). This particular day, she’d gone over to her parents’ for her weekly after-Mass visit so her mother could see that she was alive and healthy, and to play chess—she knew she’d probably lose, just like she usually did—with her father. Later, her oldest brother Carlos would show up for dinner with his wife and two daughters and afterwards, everyone would settle in front of the television to endure at least two of their mother’s telenovelas before pleading an early start at work the next day or a load of dishes still to be done and making their escape for another week before Mamá had a chance to protest. Maritza and Carlos’ other two sibs, Teresa and Vincente, had used college as an excuse to move out of state—another country, in Vincente’s case—and only visited with their families on major holidays. If their jobs hadn’t tied Maritza and her husband Greg to the City, she’d have moved to get away from her mother years ago.
She hadn’t even been in her parents’ apartment one minute (her father was still re-locking the door) before her mother decided she looked too pale and must be sick and started carrying on in Spanish about how Maritza didn’t take care of herself and didn’t eat enough so it was no surprise she was sick and Greg (‘este gringo estupido’ to her mother) wasn’t taking care of her and she’d tried to warn Maritza but she was a foolish girl and hadn’t listened and this is what happened to girls who didn’t listen to their mamás and married fools; they get sick and need their mamás to make them well again.
“Rosa, cayate,” her father said when he finished with the locks. “Be quiet! Our daughter is fine. Of course she looks pale. This is not Venezuela, querida. Everyone here is pale in March from being inside all winter. Or maybe—” he put an arm around Maritza’s shoulders “—she is pale because she is finally going to give us a grandson.”
“Nonsense! If she were with child, she would glow, not look mostly dead.” She turned to Maritza. “Are you going to give a grandson?”
“No, Mamá.” She resisted the urge to scream with frustration. “Greg and I—”
Her mother gave a derisive snort. “I would be surprised if he even knows how to make a baby. It is probably his fault you still have no child. If you had married a nice Latino boy, you would have many children by now. Maybe next month.” With a dismissive snort and a shrug, she gestured for Maritza to follow her into the living area. “Come, watch Un Amor por los Años with me. Have I told you how thrilled I am Papi finally agreed to get Dish Latino so I would not have to go to Angela’s every day?” Her mother beamed. “He is so good to me. Today is going to be so exciting! Natalia is going to find out her best friend Yolanda is actually her husband Pedro, who she thought was killed by kidnappers five years ago but it was all a trick because he was one of them and to fool the police they—”
“You already told me about this one,” Maritza interjected. It wasn’t exactly true; her mother hadn’t told her about this one specifically, but all telenovelas started to seem the same after a while, each plotline seemingly more outrageous and over-the-top than the last. American soap operas were prudish and dull in comparison. Three months now, how wonderful Dish Latino was came up at least three or four times and every time, her mother made it sound as her father had done it for no other reason than his wife’s love of telenovelas and home shopping programs. Not a mention of the fact her father had only gotten it so he could watch futbol after walking to the bar on the corner to watch the games started to make his bad knee hurt too much.
“I told you about Un Amor?” Her mother sounded confused. “When? They did not reveal who Yolanda truly was until yesterday.”
“My mistake. I must have confused Un Amor with another one that had a dead husband faking his death because he is the head of a notorious cartel and so no one recognizes him he pretends to be a woman. His poor wife finds out the truth when she, thinking his death has turned her into a lesbian and that is why she fell in love with her friend, starts kissing—whatever her friend’s name is and as they tear each other’s clothes off, it is revealed the friend wears a stuffed bra and has a lot of chest hair.”
“Cayate!” her mother snapped. “Pedro does not run a cartel; he was a vice president at Tocamundo, an oil company, and they had just found out he had embezzled millions.” She gave Maritza a dirty look. “You are a bad daughter, trying to ruin Un Amor for me.”
“Lo siento, Mamá,” Maritza said, trying not to roll her eyes and laugh. “I’m sorry I almost ruined Yolanda/Pedro’s secret.”
“You should be,” her mother grumbled. “Go get us something to drink. It is about to start and I do not want to miss a moment.”
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