I
was 13 when she fell five steps away from the front door. I slept with my mom
in the front bedroom of the red-bricked Craftsman style house. The window was
open to let in the cool night breeze when we were awoken by a soft yell,
“Leticia!”
My mom woke
complaining, “’¿’Ora qué?”
I
sat up, rubbed the sleep from eyes, and looked at the clock. 2:15am. I jumped
out of bed and ran outside when I heard my mom yelling at my Ita though.
As
I helped her lift my grandma I saw she was covered in something red. The acidy
smell of tomato hit my nose and realized she had fallen carrying a glass bottle
of Clamato. The glass had broken against her left breast. Once we got her
inside I saw a deep slice close to the top of the soft skin and realized the
red stains were Clamato mixed with blood.
My
mom grunted and yelled as we sat her on the bathroom toilet seat. She stomped
down the hallway to her bedroom to get dressed, “Qué estaba haciendo, Amá?” she
yelled. My mom always lost her temper when we got hurt. The worry was often so
mixed with angry we couldn’t tell the difference. All Mom saw was red.
I
gently took off Ita’s drenched blouse and bra and wiped what I could away. She
held a towel against her boob to slow the bleeding. “I’m stupid, hu?” my Ita
slurred. She looked down at herself, pants and silver high heels covered in
tomato-y blood, “Tenía que ser la chichi buena.”
My
mom walked back and forth from the bedroom to bathroom to yell at my grandma
and ask if she was okay. I finally had to urge her, in a steady voice, to get
dressed so we could take Ita to Southwestern General, the closest hospital.
Once there, the doctor asked what happened. I stood next her while my mom
finished filling out paperwork. “I fell doctor, and I have to be honest. I’ve
been drinking since three in the afternoon,” my Ita replied her voice too loud
for the quite room. The doctor looked at me, and I smiled as I shrugged with my
whole body, hands in the air. She left with eight stiches and stern talking to.
Comments
Post a Comment