Big Chicas Don't Cry(4)
“Thanks, guys. Guess we might as well go inside.”
All of us turned to look at the beige-and-brown single-story house behind the white wrought-iron gate. The lawn was neat. The plants and bushes expertly trimmed. I couldn’t help smiling at the juxtaposition of such a tidy exterior with the chaos that I knew was waiting for us on the inside.
“Is it too late to spend Christmas in Italy?” Selena groaned as Gracie grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the driveway. I followed behind and pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head as far as it would go. Too bad the sun wasn’t up yet. Sunglasses would have come in handy right about now.
Gracie pushed open the door of the enclosed outside patio, and a familiar Christmas carol that was way too cheery for five thirty in the morning greeted us. Different conversations bounced around the room. It was chaotic and noisy, and it hurt my ears. And even though it still felt like a vise was squeezing the sides of my skull into my brain, I smiled.
Christmas Eve morning had officially arrived.
As my cousins abandoned me to greet the rest of our family’s female members, I snuck into the house. I wasn’t ready to receive kisses on the cheeks—or worse, worried looks because of my appearance.
Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons crooned “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” from the small CD player on the counter as Welita stood at the stove stirring something in a big silver pot.
“Siéntate, mija,” she told me after I stopped to give her a kiss on the cheek. Wafts of cinnamon, chile, and Ponds face cream danced across my nose. Almost immediately, the pain in my head lightened.
After taking a seat, I watched as she pulled bowls from the cupboard and then moved back to the stove. Her long white hair was twisted into its usual thick braid, and she wore a white-and-yellow flowered housecoat with a red Christmas tree apron over it. I knew she’d already been up for hours getting everything ready for the tamales. Even though she was almost ninety-two, she was just as sprightly and active as ever.
Gracie and Selena joined me at the long kitchen table a few minutes later.
“I’m in desperate need of coffee,” I said as I reached for one of the empty Christmas mugs arranged next to the coffee carafe in the middle of the table.
“How much did you drink last night anyway?” Gracie asked. She tried to cover it, but her judgy tone came through loud and clear.
I spooned some sugar into my coffee and began to stir. “Let’s see. I started with a couple of beers after that very fun phone call with Greg. And then I hit some tequila shots after the ass”—I glanced at my welita, who was grabbing spoons from a drawer—“jerk left. I might have had a few glasses of wine right before going to bed also.”
“Jesus, Erica.” Selena laughed, but I could feel the judgment from her as well. She was one to raise eyebrows. The woman could put away her liquor with the best of them, and I’d held her hair more times than I could count when her fancy martinis came back with a vengeance.
“Anyway, I’m done with alcohol . . . and men,” I said firmly. “This is it. No más.”
Gracie rolled her eyes, and Selena chuckled. I was about to call them some not very nice names when Welita placed a bowl of menudo in front of me, bent down, and whispered in my ear, “No más.”
A smile formed on my lips. She understood in more ways than one.
Gracie also got a bowl of menudo from her, while Selena was served her usual cereal. She never touched the traditional Mexican soup made with hominy and tripe. In fact, she couldn’t even look at it and focused on her cornflakes way too intently.
“Listen, Erica,” she said after swallowing her first bite. “I know you’re sad right now. But you really have to think of this as an opportunity to focus on yourself. You’re twenty-eight. This is when you’re supposed to be figuring out who you are and who you want to be. But you can’t do that if you always stick to what—or who—is comfortable and safe. Do things you’ve never done before. Experiment a little. Take charge of your life. Be a . . . um. What’s the word you use? Chicharona?”
I almost fell out of my chair. “Are you trying to say chingona?” I finally said after laughing so hard.
Gracie hissed, “Shhh. Don’t cuss. Welita is right there, remember?”
“It’s not a bad word anymore, Gracie,” I said. “It’s like calling yourself a badass bitch. It’s empowering.”
“Exactly!” Selena agreed. “Be empowered, Erica. Be the chingona of your own life.”
I could always count on Selena for a good pep talk. She was right. I needed to take this time to focus on me and what I wanted to do with my life.
But I wasn’t going to figure that out today. At least not before ten a.m.
“Can we change the subject now?” I asked after taking a sip of my menudo. The hot spicy broth instantly warmed my chilled skin and comforted my broken heart.
“Well, I just want to say that you are both going to love what I made you this year,” Gracie said with a huge smile. My cousin was the queen of hobbies, which meant our Christmas gifts usually reflected whatever activity she’d taken up that year. Last year we got pretty earrings made with colorful beads. The year before that it was hand-painted ceramic mugs. I knew she was getting pretty good at crocheting and had a feeling that a new scarf or beanie was in my future.