On the

My eyes opened to the sunshine streaming through the window. A rainbow of colors was reflected onto the floor beside me from panes of the wavy glass. Stretching awake, I smelled the familiar scent of coffee and looked around the room. Everyone was gone except for Purrito, who slept curled up near my feet. The memory of the past days came back to me. A gasp erupted from my chest before I could stop them tears ran down my cheeks. The kitten mewed and crawled into my arms.

Barefoot, I walked into the kitchen in my nightgown, petting the cat.

“Buenos días!” I said.

Señora Teresa and Alma were tending to breakfast. 

“Do you know anything about Suzanna and my father?”

They lifted their eyes with an answer. Once again I couldn’t hold back my tears this morning. The kitty leapt to the floor. La Señora Teresa, in her bight blue embroidered apron, embraced me, while chanting, “dios te bendiga mijita,” over and over, until my tears dried and I heaved a sigh. She pulled out a chair for me to sit.  

 A short stack of warm tortillas sat inside a square basket near the stove. “Alma, don’t let the tortillas burn. Ruth, pobrecita you must be hungry,” she said while pouring me a glass of milk fresh from the pot where she had boiled it earlier. The creamy skin plopped into my glass. “See, you lucky, you got the nata from the milk. Make you healthy. You feel better once you eat. Apurense muchachas con los tortillas. Hurry up, girls, we need more!”

Drying the teardrops that lingered on my cheeks, I looked hungrily at the glass of milk on the table. My mother had taught my manners, but the milk teased me. I could feel my palm itching to grab the glass and take a sip.

Alma patted out another perfectly round tortilla, flipping it between both hands. She placed it on the smoking hot blackened comal. Within a minute or two, she flipped the tortilla over and finished cooking it on the other side. Señora Teresa placed a few of the tasty thin corn cakes before me. They were wrapped in a hand-stitched napkin to keep them warm, and she served me a bowl of pinto beans and scrambled eggs. I stared at my bowl. What an odd breakfast, but I was overwhelmed with hunger.

The rest of the family came in, chattering in Spanish. After they prayed a prayer I couldn’t understand, Mateo playfully blocked his brother so he could grab the first tortilla off of the stack. Señor Abel passed along a large bowl of pickled chiles with bright orange carrots, onion, and some fresh crumbled cheese they told me was called queso fresco.

Mateo handed me a rolled tortilla filled with the cheese. The chile was just a little spicy, and I slurped down the bowl of beans with its little green bits, taking bites of the tortilla.

I’d visited their house many times to study with Alma. But, I’d never stopped to notice the earthen clay pots on the kitchen shelves that sat ready to be filled with chiles and peppery stews. The room was spicy, like the food. The walls were painted the color of terra cotta tile. Clusters of dried chiles, flowery chamomile, and herbs hung from a rafters above. Señora Teresa had painted a large bright sunflower directly on the wall behind me. The table was covered with a blue and white checkered tablecloth dotted with embroidered pink flowers. So colorful in comparison to my mother’s bland kitchen with her dishcloth curtains.

“When you finished,” Señora Teresa said, “we go check on you family.”

I washed my plate in the sink and placed it on the dish rack to dry. “Thank you for breakfast. It was delicious. Señora Teresa,” I said. “I’m almost ready to go.”

Their outhouse had not been blown away like ours, so I did my business and washed my hands and face in the spigot outside. Alma offered to brush my hair in the bedroom, and she braided it into pigtails. 

Señor Abel leaned in the door, “Lista?”

Although I didn’t understand, I nodded my head.

“It means: Are you ready? You’ll learn,” Alma said.

“Spanish comes easy, now English—that’s like a bullfrog trying to catch a bumble bee!” Señor Abel said.

“Esta bien, déjenla en paz, Leave her be. Mi papa is always teasing.”

They always spoke a mixture of Spanish and English. I found that sometimes, I could follow a bit of what they said. 

“Vamanos,” Señor Abel said.

“I’ll meet you there.” Doc’s house wasn’t far. Suzanna should be awake by now. After a brief sprint, I took the stairs two by two up to Doc’s entry and knocked on the front door. Through the lacy curtains that covered the panes of glass in the surgery I could see Suzanna lying on Doc’s table. She wasn’t moving. Disappointed, I wondered when she would wake up.

Once again, an ugly little thought pestered me and wouldn’t leave me alone. How could I have left her, out in the storm? If it had only been me lying on the table.

Miss Marilyn opened the door and wiped her hands on her flour-covered apron.

“Come in, Ruth,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am, may I?” My mother met me at the door and wrapped her arms around me. Father was already dressed. A wad of gause bandage wrapped tightly around his stomach, stretching his shirt until it pulled tightly at the buttons. He patted his tummy.

“It must’ve been all Miss Marilyn’s baking that did it.” Father made light of his injury, I feared, hoping to make me feel better, but it only made me sadder still to see he had suffered, at my foolishness.

By this time, Señora Teresa and the children had caught up. Shouts of, “Te toca! You’re it!” rang out, from the garden below the windowsill, while la Señora joined us.

“How is she, Mother?”

Her face paled, “She has taken a turn for the worse. She spiked a fever last night.”