by Jamie Lake
No, he wouldn’t do this to himself. He had enough to deal with. He pushed his troubled feelings down again, stuffed them into the box he’d reserved in his heart for the past, and sealed it shut. “Just some old papers, found your mother’s doll and a letter and a-”
She cut him off. “Letter?” she said, as if she had cherry-picked that word despite his attempt to bury it in a long list of objects.
He shrugged. Maybe if he acted like he didn’t care, he could convince her.
“From whom?” she asked, her old grammar school ways perking right up. She’d always taught him to speak properly. “Just because you’re from the barrio, doesn’t mean you have to sound like you are,” she’d tell him in her strictest school teacher voice.
“Just…you probably don’t even remember her anyway. It was a letter from Maria,” he said. He hurried to turn the TV on. He needed a topic change and fast. “Betty la Fea is on. How about that?”
“Remember her? I’m old, not senile. Of course, I remember her. How is she?”
Years ago, his mother had forbidden him to speak Maria’s name in her house. But now she asked like she was really interested, which surprised Mario. Her eyes bore into the back of his head until he was forced to turn around and face her.
“I don’t know. The letter was pretty old.” he said, not really wanting to talk about it.
“Well, haven’t you written her back?” she asked.
“Mami, that was ten years ago. Like you said back then, if it was meant to be, it would have worked out.”
“I never said such a thing. That’s nonsense,” she said defensively.
He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. The words were probably better left unspoken. He didn’t want to argue with her, not with her in the condition she was in. But the fact that she denied saying something that had had such a profound effect on his life and cut him so deeply at the time, made his blood boil.
“It was a long time ago,” he said softly, looking at his shoes. He fiddled a thread that was unraveling from the hem of his shirt. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”
“Well, from what I remember, you and she were pretty hot and heavy,” she quipped.
Reducing their true deep love; something that happens only once in a lifetime to “hot and heavy” disrespected it but he wasn’t about to take this conversation any further than it needed to be.
“We were young. It was a teenage love affair,” he said, managing to grin as he flipped through the channels.
“Age is just a number. Love is love. Your father and I met when we were just 15,” she said, as if comparing his relationship to hers was a badge of honor. What she didn’t say was that Mario’s father had left her when he was 17 and only ever came back for Christmas and Mario’s birthday—to eat, to make the headboards quake and then leave her alone again.
“I don’t really want to talk about it, Mami,” he said, sitting down at the end of the bed.
“And why not?” she demanded.
Her ignorance was making his temperature rise again. It was her favorite pastime to push his buttons, but he wasn’t going to give in to her and lose this battle of will. “How about I make you some tortillas with beans that should help your stomach a little,” he said, getting up and starting to walk out.
“You’ll only burn it,” she said, and continued pushing the subject. “I don’t understand if you love someone that much, why you didn’t keep loving her and marry her, or whatever it is you young people do nowadays.”
“Because you needed me!” Mario exploded, the boom in his voice ricocheted off the walls surprising both him and his mother. As much as they had argued in the past, he had never raised his voice at his mother before. Instantly, he knew it was a mistake. But it was too late. The lid had popped off. Her denials of what she put him through all those years, of how she tried to drive them apart, of her ruining his one and only chance to finally run away together with Maria and now, pretending that nothing happened, only brought back the years of pent of frustration and volcano of anger. He felt all of the turmoil boiling inside of him and put his hand on his chest, sure he would be able to feel the heat on the outside.
His mother’s eyes, wide with shock at first, now narrowed in anger. “Now, you listen to me,” she said in a growl. “I’m still your mother.”
“How could I forget?” he said. He tried to swallow down his anger, forget the rest of the words he wanted to shout at her, but now that they’d pushed their way out it was hard to make them go away again. He had been repressing his feelings for Maria, trying not to feel, for years now. But he’d only been fooling himself.
“Mario, I’m not dead yet. If you want to take that tone with your mother, you can at least wait until the coffin is nailed,” she said. “Sit down.” Her voice resumed its usual bite.
Even though Mario was a grown man, he knew not to disobey his mother. He’d already crossed the line. He may have been over six foot tall and she as small as a bird, but she had a commanding presence and a temper that everyone in their village knew not to cross. He sat back down, his nostrils flaring, staring at the floor.
Deep breaths, he told himself. In. Out. He counted his breaths until the anger started to subside.
“Look at me,” she told him and he reluctantly did so. His anger was still dangerously close to the surface. “Now, we all make choices in our lives and I haven’t always made the best ones. Things were different back then. Times have changed and I … well, I just don’t want you to miss out on something that could be good for you.”
Mario was speechless. That was as close to an apology as he’d ever heard from his mother. For as long as he could remember, he hadn’t heard her say she wanted anything good for anyone but herself. She could dish out criticism far and wide, but this angle was a new one. He looked at her skeptically and wondered what her ulterior motive was. She was a master of manipulation. He waited, wondering if this kind speech was yet another insult in disguise. He couldn’t ever let his guard down with her.
“Now, listen up,” she said. Her wheezing was starting to get the best of her and a cough erupted. He leaned forward, concerned. No matter how angry he was, she was still sick, and seeing her like this tore him apart.
“Mami, I’m sorry. Are you alright?” he said reaching for her.
“I’m dying, what do you think?” she cut in. “Don’t interrupt. Now, you love that … that Maria of yours, you gotta write her back. Tell her how you feel.”
“Mami, I keep telling you. That was ten years ago. She … she’s moved on.” Saying the words burned him like a fire consuming him.
His mother looked at him, raising her eyebrow, “She …?” his mother said emphasizing the word, with a smirk on her face. It made something in Mario jump, and his body felt cold all over. Did she know?
“If you love her like you say you do, and if she loves you like you always said she did, time won’t mean a thing. Now, I want you to go over to my nightstand and pull out a pen and pad. You’re going to write that letter, young man, and you’re going to read it to me before you send it. Lord knows I’m not going to have you mess up yet another thing before I die.”
For a minute, Mario just stared at her, shocked at her words. Then, he went to the nightstand and began rummaging around for the pen and pad. Evidently, he took too long to do what he was told, because she barked, “Well, do I have to write it myself?”
“No, mother,” he said, sitting back down. The pen was heavy in his hands and the pad felt foreign in his lap. Strange how something so part of his everyday life could feel alien to him in the moment. It’d been years since he’d written anything. Something that was such a big part of him, a part of him died with the last letter to Maria.
“Now, sit back down and you write your heart out. You always were good at that writing thing, don’t know why you stopped doing it.”
Perhaps because you told me it was a hobby and a waste of time, he thought to himself, but he didn’t dare say that
out loud. He had his temper in control again and he didn’t want to risk it.
“Not sure how to start,” he said, toying with the pen in his hand.
“What do you mean ‘Don’t know how to start’? How about ‘Dear Maria’ for starters—or whatever the name is…”
That comment seemed to be weighed with meaning, as if she indeed did know something—a secret she’d toy and tease him with, like you’d tease a kitten with a piece of string, until he confessed. He ignored it.
She can’t know, he told himself. How would she possibly have found out? He’d been so good at hiding it all these years, he’d almost believed the lie himself. He swallowed hard, cleared his throat and leaned over the pad on his lap to start the letter. He began to write, laboring over each word.
“Read it to me,” she demanded. Why was she suddenly so concerned?
“But I've only written…” he started to say in his deep voice.
“Read it to me, dammit,” she said, coughing and reaching for her glass of water.
“Dear Maria, how are you? You’ll never guess what I found in the garage…” he started to say. It sounded silly even to his own ears, but then again, it was obviously hard writing a letter to your long-lost love with your mother practically hanging over your shoulder.
The only reason their love affair had worked out in the first place was because they’d been so far away from anyone Mario knew. There had been no way for anyone there to stop him from following his heart, other than Maria’s family. Not like now, when he was here in his childhood home, face-to-face with a woman who had made it her lifetime mission to condemn him no matter where he went.
“Is that how you’re going to begin it?” she asked, “Lord, so glad we didn’t waste any money sending you to university. Son, if you’re going to write someone you love, someone you haven’t spoken to in over ten years, then you have to write from the heart, you have to pour your soul out on the paper like you mean it. And if you’ve fucked up like you fucked up…”
“Mother!” He was shocked at her language.
“Let’s face it, you fucked up royally,” she said matter-of-factly, “So you’ve got to say it. You’ve got to say you did exactly that. Do it over again and toss that kaka you call a letter away.”
He smiled and shook his head. His mother had certainly never had a problem speaking what was on her mind, but this time he had to admit she was right. So, instead of writing what was in his head, he began writing what was in his heart:
Dear Maria,
Ten years. Ten years is a long time not to be with the one you love. Not to be with the one you swore your life to, not to hear their voice, or feel their skin against yours, not to taste their lips or see your future in their eyes. That’s what I think of when I think of you.
Maybe I’m coming on too strong, maybe it’s too much to say to someone who probably doesn’t even remember you, from someone who hurt you so deeply the only cure was to forget them, bury the past and move on.
They say destiny rules all and I must have been a very bad man in a past life for destiny to play such a nasty trick on me, to keep your last words to me hidden all these years. Had fate not intervened, had I not seen your letter buried under those boxes in the shed, I never would have had the pleasure to reach out to you. I would never have been reminded not only of how we were painfully separated but of how much I loved you, how much I still love you.
Maria, I know it’s been a long time and if you’re still angry with me or hurt, you have every right to be, but please, hear me out. If you are still reading this, know that not a day has gone by the last ten years that I haven’t thought of you.
It was only now that I saw your letter. Had I seen it before, so much would be different now. Know there hasn’t been a time when someone has uttered the word partner, savior, lover or soul mate that your image doesn’t cross my mind. Know that if I could turn back the hands of time and take back what I said, just for one more moment with you, I’d do it.
There is so much to tell you, so much that has transpired the last ten years that I want share with you under the moonlight in the barn or at creek in our place, just like we used to do when I’d read you my poetry. You were always so encouraging. Know that you are and have been in my prayers at night, know that you’re in my bloodstream, a part of me, and know most of all that I love you and always will.
If you’ll have me, my dear Maria, if you’ll have me, I’d love another chance just to see your beautiful face one more time.
Love,
Mario
The words he had written broke his heart as he read them aloud to his mother. He hadn’t wanted to dig so deep, to reach for everything he resolved; he had worked so hard for so long to keep himself callous, to keep himself from feeling. But in the last few hours, his walls had disintegrated into dust. He was defenseless, he was vulnerable before those memories and the fear and the possibility of what could come.
He braced himself for his mother’s usual caustic criticisms. They would sting even more this time because he was so raw inside, raw from years of keeping the anger and hurt from eating him alive, raw from the memories he’d crammed in his brain and raw because for the first time in a long time, he’s picked up a pen and written something, a dream of his that had died when he wrote that last letter to Maria.
Slowly, he raised his head to look at his mother. She was clearing her throat—not because of her illness, not because she’d caught something in her throat, but because she was touched by the letter. She dabbed her eyes with a corner of the bed sheet and said, “Terrible allergies in this room.”
“Are you alright, Mami?” he asked, trying to hide a smile. Usually, he was the one crying because of her, macho as he was, even if it were in secret where no one especially her could see. He’d never seen his mother touched emotionally by anything, not even a movie, and in this moment, he felt incredibly moved.
“Open the window and get some air in here,” she demanded.
“I thought you said it was too much sunlight, Madame Vampire,” he teased.
“I said open the Goddamn windows,” she repeated.
He got up and yanked on the curtains and unfastened the windows, letting the fresh breeze come in.
“Terrible, terrible allergies,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “So, when are you going to send it?”
“Do you think it’s all right?” he asked. He felt unsure now, lost at sea, a little boat bobbing on the waves. He could deal with love, he could deal with loss. He could deal with anything that was certain. But now that the tides had changed and the response was uncertain, he felt like he wasn’t anchored to anything.
“Better than nothing. It’ll have to do,” she said. That was high praise coming from his mother. “There’s a roll of stamps in the kitchen cabinet next to the refrigerator,” she continued. “Be sure to send it out right away before the mailman comes today or you’ll have to wait another day.”
“All right. I’ll take care of it a bit later,” he said. He wasn’t going to admit it, but the idea of actually sending the letter scared him. “Are you thirsty-?”
“Now, dammit. Do it now,” she demanded.
Why did she care so much? It wasn’t like her. His mother could be moody and had become even more so as she got older, but she seemed to be anxious about this whole thing. He didn’t know if he should be concerned or flattered that she was finally taking an interest. For so many years, he’d longed to have a relationship with his mother where he could speak to her about anything, especially his love life, but she’d made it pretty damn clear from the beginning that if he didn't end up with someone she approved of, she’d make sure that person never felt welcomed. She’d stuck to her word, and when she heard about Maria, she never let him off the hook for it.
After that, he had stopped talking to her about his life. When he saw how his friends leaned on their mothers, depended on them, confided in them, he always felt jealous. Even his friends, who were embarrassed to talk about
their love lives with their mothers, could still count on them when things went wrong. Mario had always craved that kind of support system.
Heading into the kitchen, he yanked open the cabinet where the stamps and envelopes were, still suspicious of his mother’s motives, still wondering what game she was trying to play. Why was she pushing him to fix something from the past that was probably unfixable? Why had she never shown this type of love and support for his relationship with Maria when it had actually had a chance? What did she imagine would happen if Maria got the letter?
As little hope as Mario had, he realized that his strong-willed mother was dying, and he had better do what she said. He folded and refolded the letter until it fit neatly in the envelope. He found himself creasing the envelope before licking it, wanting everything to be perfect. He knew very well that even if Maria did somehow get the letter, there was little or no chance of her answering, not after this long. But he realized that obeying his mother’s orders wasn’t his only motivation in sending it. He had to know. He’d give Maria an ultimatum—the same ultimatum she had given him in that lost letter: one month. If I don’t hear back from her in that time, then I know her answer, he decided, scribbling his address and Maria’s on the envelope and sticking the stamp on it before he could change his mind.
The letter felt heavy in his hands. It carried the weight of ten years with it after all. Mario ran his fingers along the smooth edges of the envelope, felt the smooth paper underneath his fingers. This one small thing, this single sheet of paper, had the potential to save his life. After this, he would either be the happiest man alive, travelling to a new life, or a ruined soul, tumbling into the depths of despair. One little square sheet of paper had the power to decide his fate.
His heart pounded with every step on the long, hot walk to the mailbox. He shoved the letter inside and slammed it shut. When he returned to the kitchen, he found himself lingering at window, watching for the mailman. He always came promptly at 2:15 and always had for as long as he remembered.
