Abuela

ow

The throb in my head wakes me first. When my hand reaches up to rub my aching skull, it touches a damp cloth folded neatly into thirds. Stupidly I remove it and light pours in, causing me to wince at my foolishness.

I lie in a bed barely long enough to hold my toes, which curl out before the edge of the wood, bare and naked like my chest. As I roll over I see my shoes sitting neatly near a small door which I cannot recall ever walking through. My pants are still on, but that is all. My shirt lies stretched out in the sunlight on a chair by the window, and it looks far cleaner than how I feel right now. Grunting, I lurch upright and press the cloth back to my head, willing the pain to go away.

Soft footsteps and the sound of voices waft through the thin walls of the small house I find myself in. I can barely make out what’s being said when suddenly the door opens and a young man - at least five years younger than me, and unable to legally put himself in harm’s way as I have - enters and stares at me. At first he seems nervous, but then quickly he points to my head. “You - your head okay?”

I would nod but it would betray me. "Yes." I say, holding my head absolutely still. The coolness of the cloth comforts me.

He nods, and then leans back out of the doorway "Abuela! Esta despierto!" In the background a voice yells back at him, but I can't make it out. My host leans back in. "You hungry?"

Food seems to be the last thing I need. "Thirsty, maybe. Can I have some water or juice?"

"Un momento." The boy dashes off again, leaving the door swinging open. I decide I should probably put my shirt back on, since nobody needs to be blinded by my paleness this early in the day. Slowly, I stand up and stagger over to the chair by the window. The view outside amazes me - the sun bursts through a short, wide-branched tree that blows in the soft breeze outside. The adobe walls surrounding me feel warmed by its touch and small birds chirp in cacophonic symphony outside. I wonder briefly if I have died and gone to Mexico. Then I wonder what I did to deserve it - definitely not whatever I was doing last night. That would have landed me elsewhere.

My host returns holding a glass filled with a bright liquid that doesn't resemble O.J. "Aguas frescas." He explains. I take it with a slight bow for thanks and start to down it in one gulp before he taps me on the shoulder and holds up two white pills. "For your head."

"Muchas, muchas gracias," I manage in my horrifically flat American accent. God, Spanish sounds awful when I speak it. I'm hoping intent matters more than intonation. Downing the pills and the rest of the glass, I wipe my mouth and tug at my shirt. "This too, gracias."

Shrugging, he says, "Abuela cleans. You hungry now?"

Tired, I relent. "Okay."

He leads me out of the room into an even smaller hallway, padding barefoot down a worn wooden floor that gleams with sweat and polish despite its years. As we reach a small kitchen my nose fills with an overwhelming wash of scents moving through the churning blades of an ancient ceiling fan. Inside the kitchen the smallest woman I've ever seen, with a braid as long as she is tall, stands over an electric hotpot. She stirs up a dozen spices and aches within my abused gut. When she spies us, she points at a plastic-covered table and two wobbly chairs, silently commanding us to sit.

I follow my new friend and we settle in across from each other, separated by a stack of what appear to be fresh tortillas that convince me I must be dead. Nothing smells this heavenly on earth. Thinking it rude to just munch plain tortillas I wait patiently, my hunger now building as I listen to my hosts talk in Spanish. I cannot understand, so I zone out until the frying pan comes down in front of me with a heavy thud.

"Eat." the old woman orders. She picks up a plate and piles it high with scrambled eggs, imbued with diced tomatoes, onions, and chili. A bowl of beans appears seemingly from nowhere and she adds it to the side, sliding a tortilla on top.

I bow my head again, graciously I hope, and say, "Muchas gracias."

Grunting, she replies, "Eat." I soon realize this is the only English word she knows, or rather has any use for.

I dig in and the glorious flavors bring me back to life. The fluffy eggs melt on my tonuge as the chili kicks me in the teeth. I douse the heat with the blessed, sweet corn tortilla that pulls apart like a warm blanket in my mouth. My involuntary groan draws a grin from my young friend, who starts heaping even bigger servings onto his own plate. He chatters away at his abuela, who mutters and returns to a wash basin on the small counter filled with dishes. She adds the frying pan to the pile and makes sure the hotpot is turned off before returning to the soapy water.

I wolf down my food and hold up a hand. "I can wash." I offer, my mouth barely done chewing my last bite. "As a thank you."

"Eat!" Abuela orders again. My friend shrugs and smiles, pointing at the food still sitting on the table. It would take me hours to finish it, hours I would gladly spend in this kitchen. As I obey, the conversation falls to the soft chinks of plates and cups in the background and the quiet chewing between the two of us.

Finally, I pipe up, "How did I get here last night?"

Listening carefully, my friend swallows his bite. "You fell asleep at bus station. The men there, they rob you. Take your money. My father drives the bus, he finds you and brings you home. Here."

"Where are we?"

"Tecate."

I stare blankly. I remember drinking Tecate, but I've never seen it on a map. "How far from America?"

"Ten minutes, short time."

With a sigh of relief, I relax in my chair. My mind scrambles to piece the memories together. I remember the bar on the border town, where my friends took me for my "yay I quit my job" celebration. They had laughed and encouraged me to drink up on their tab, since I wouldn't be able to afford booze much longer. Then they'd slowly left one-by-one, and I must have decided to ride the bus home. I just ended up at the wrong kind of bus station.

"Is your father home? I want to thank him." I say, aware that the situation could have gone so much worse than it had. I could have lost far more than my money. Organs, for instance. Even as a man, there are things worse than identity theft or credit card fraud.

"He sleeps now, works at night. He will take you back later." My friend reassures me, and I have no idea what I've done to earn his good graces. "Abuela feeds you now, stay and eat."

Abuela appears at my shoulder and refills my glass then my plate, heaping it back to a second stomach's worth of food. "Eat, eat!" she repeats and I try to comply, taking a quick drink to cleanse my pallet.

"Thank you, and your family, so much." I say again between mouthfuls. I don't know how else to convey my gratitude, so poor rushed English between bites is all I manage. "I am very sorry you had to help me."

The boy laughs and shakes his head. "Father says every man will be stupid one day. We help you today, someone help us when we are stupid." Another spoonful of food disappears between his smiling lips.

For a brief moment, I imagine what would happen had someone like my young friend gotten drunk and passed out at a bus stop in my town. Would I have taken him home? I imagine my small, empty apartment and look up at the warmth of this abuela's kitchen. Would I have cooked him breakfast, and let him sleep in my bed? Would I have washed his clothes, and offered him a ride home?

Even if I had, my small apartment felt ridiculously empty and barren compared to this home. I had no abuela. My grandmother lived in Texas in a retirement center, with her arthritis and her bridge club. My parents had moved out as soon as they were able, leaving her to age alone until my grandfather died and she eventually gave in to assisted living. She would never have cooked a warm meal for a stranger I dragged home, she would have called the police. She wouldn't have known even a single word of Spanish to encourage that stranger to eat, either. Heck, she probably would have protested having to learn Spanish in the first place. I might have tried to persuade her when I was still seven, and her favorite grandson. But I've avoided her for so long now I'm lucky she still remembers who I am when I call twice a year.

As if sensing my inner turmoil, Abuela cuffs my shoulder and points to my unfinished plate. "Eat." Just one word. Maybe it's all she really does need, after all.

I finish every bite on my plate, just to make her proud.