Rosa

CW: Themes of violence and mental health issues.

Rosa was sitting in her living room when the knock came at the door. The sound jolted her out of a trance she didn’t know she was in.

How long have I been sitting here, she thought.

The knock came again.

She got up wincing at the ache in her knees, and hips, and spine.

She opened the door to see her son, Jorge.

“Hi, ma,” he said.

“Hi, mijo,” she replied, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

She watched as Jorge sat down on the couch.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“No,” he replied, “I need to tell you something.”

“But I made arroz con pollo,” she said.

“Fine. OK,” he said, fidgeting with his clothes, his hair, his face.

Rosa walked into the kitchen where there was a pitcher of iced tea she didn’t remember making.

On the stove was food she didn’t remember cooking.

She grabbed a plate and cup for Jorge and went back out into the living room.

“Smells delicious,” Jorge said.

Rosa watched as he picked at the food, barely eating, which she knew was unusual.

Jorge usually inhaled his food, gulped it down as if he hadn’t eaten in days; a behavior she felt was inherited from his father.

She watched him now as he poked at the plate with his fork, nibbling like a squirrel.

“What do you have to tell me?” she asked.

Jorge looked up at her with narrowed eyes and she could see he was deciding whether or not to speak.

To confess.

To confess to what, she didn’t know.

She didn’t want to know.

She knew.

Of course she knew.

“I…I left Lucy,” he said, casting his eyes down to his plate of food.

Rosa sat across from him and reached for his hand and felt her chest constrict as he looked back at her with tears in his eyes.

“And why did you do that?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

She’d known the answer for years.

Maybe she wanted to look away.

Maybe she didn’t know how to face it.

Maybe it was easier to blame her husband.

“I’m…I’m gay,” he whispered.

She stood and went over to him, taking him into her arms.

“It’s ok, hijo,” she murmured, “It’s ok.”

“It’s ok?” he asked, looking up at her.

She nodded.

“But-“ Jorge sputtered, unbelieving.

“I’ve always known,” she said.

“Always?” he asked softly like a child.

Like her little boy.

Instead of answering, she squeezed him tightly. Completely. Pressed his head to her chest in the hopes that he wouldn’t ask her why she never stood up for him, fought for him, why she never told him that she knew.

That she’d always known.

Rosa held emptiness in her arms.

She looked around, certain that someone had just been sitting at the table.

Jorge, she thought.

Where is he?

A knock came at the door.

She walked over and opened it and there he stood.

“Hi, mijo,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

Rosa looked around, “Where’s Lucy?” she asked.

She watched as Jorge’s face turned red.

“Well, actually,” he said quietly, “I came over to talk to you about her. About her and I.”

“Oh,” Rosa responded, feeling a tightness in her chest.

“Let me get you some cocido,” she said.

She went to the kitchen before he could respond.

There was a pitcher of lemonade she didn’t remember making.

There was soup on the stove she didn’t remember cooking.

She grabbed a bowl and a cup and brought it out to her son.

He picked up a spoon and stirred the soup without eating.

Which was strange.

Jorge usually inhaled his food, barely chewing.

She watched him now barely sip, barely slurp.

It was odd.

Yet familiar.

She watched him, waiting for him to speak, wondering if she would be the one to have to speak first.

“You can’t get a divorce,” she said, not being able to stop herself.

“We have to ma,” he practically whimpered.

“Why?” she asked, “You were so in love.”

“No,” he said, “We were friends. Good friends. She’s my best friend, really…but I’m…I’m gay.”

Rosa stood feeling like he had just punched her in the gut.

“Gay?” she questioned, as if she didn’t know what the word meant, as if that couldn’t be right.

“Gay?” she said again.

Jorge stood and tried to reach out for her, but she backed away.

“How could you do this to Lucy?” she asked, continuing to step away from her son.

“I feel awful about Lucy,” Jorge said, tears beginning to run down his face, “But I can’t live like this anymore, ma. I can’t.”

Rosa planted herself and put her hands against Jorge’s chest and shoved him as hard as she could.

She watched as he fell backward, as he hit his head against the corner of the table, as blood spouted from his temple like a chocolate fountain.

Rosa stared at the carpet.

Was that a bloodstain?

She couldn’t tell.

She looked around, knowing that something was missing.

Something wasn’t right.

Jorge.

Where was Jorge?

She sat down in her chair.

The large armchair that gave her comfort.

That gave her peace of mind.

A knock came at the door.

She looked toward the sound but didn’t move.

She didn’t want to move.

She didn’t want to have to deal with whoever was behind the door.

But what if it’s Jorge, she thought.

The knock came again, louder this time.

She got up and went to the door and opened it and there was no one there.

She looked outside, at her porch, at her neighbors’ porches.

No one.

There was no sound. No wind. No birds.

She closed her door against the silence.

There is something wrong, she thought.

Everything was so quiet.

Like a deafening nothing.

A nothing so loud that she felt like she was standing on the edge of gravity.

Like her world was off its axis.

A knock came again.

Rosa backed away from the door. She looked at her chair, at her carpet, at her kitchen, anywhere but the door.

The knock came again, louder than before.

She looked at the ceiling.

If she looked far back enough, she could see the thoughts in her head.

Like marbles, they were. Floating around her brain. They were red, and purple, green, and blue. They bumped against one another and their colors mixed together and she wondered what would happen if she shook her head hard enough. Would they come out through her eyeballs? Would the colors drip from her eyes like tears?

Would she cry in rainbows?

And would that be ironic or sad or beautiful or all of the above?

The knock came again.

“Ma? Ma, are you in there?”

It sounds like Jorge, she thought, but is it?

She went to the door, she opened it and there he stood.

She fell into his arms.

“Ma?” he asked, troubled by her response, “What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” she said, “Everything is wrong, but I don’t know how. I just know something is wrong.”

Jorge stared at her, eyebrows furrowed, lips twisted.

“Ma, we need to get you help,” he said slowly, “You’re not well.”

“I’m not,” she agreed.

She didn’t know much but she knew that.

She could feel that.

Something was wrong.

And maybe it was her.

Or maybe it was the world.

Either way something had to change.

“Are you gay?” she asked, startling herself with the question.

Jorge laughed, “Yes, ma. I’m gay. You know that already.”

“I do?” she asked, trying to remember.

Why couldn’t she remember?

That was huge wasn’t it?

To be gay?

She pushed the thought away.

If he was gay, he was gay.

It was like being born with a gap in your front teeth.

It was genetic and fine.

Just fine.

She thought of her husband and what he would say.

What he would have done.

What he did do because he knew.

Because he didn’t want to know.

Because he hoped his beatings would be the cure.

She pushed her husband far from her mind.

Best to keep that forgotten.

Jorge’s eyebrows furrowed again, “Yes…I came out to you years ago.”

“What about Lucy?” she asked.

“Who’s Lucy?” he replied.

Lucy.

Who was Lucy?

Rosa stared into space.

Lucy.

The name conjured the face of a young girl holding her son’s hand.

Kissing her son’s mouth.

Walking down an aisle.

Loving her son almost as much as she did.

And the image quickly faded away into the fog.

Lucy.

There was no Lucy.

She looked at the carpet. She looked at the couch. She looked at the ceiling. Anywhere but Jorge’s concerned face.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, was it?

Shouldn’t she be the one in control?

Shouldn’t she be the one making sure that he was ok, that he had everything he needed, that he was fed and loved and protected?

When did the roles switch?

How long ago was it?

Years, days, seconds?

Jorge took her in his arms and held her.

“It’s ok, ma,” he said, “It’ll be ok. I want to take care of you.”

She pushed back so she could look at him, “You do? Even after what I did?”

Jorge narrowed his eyes, “You didn’t do anything, ma.”

But she did, didn’t she?

Hadn’t she?

Chocolate fountains.

They were delicious weren’t they?

Jorge sighed and placed his hands on her shoulders, “Everything is going to be ok. I’m going to handle it, alright?”

Too full of love to speak, she nodded.

Jorge looked around and grimaced at the sight of the house, “Ma, when was the last time you cleaned?”

Rosa looked.

Piles of papers were everywhere, dirty dishes stacked in the corners of the room, blankets lay on the couch with holes and balls of dust that were begging to be thrown away.

She hadn’t seen the mess before now.

She hadn’t noticed.

When had it gotten so bad?

She used to be so neat, so clean, scrubbing the dust away every single day.

She looked back at Jorge and said nothing.

He nodded.

“I’m going to clean some dishes, ok?” he said, “Don’t worry about a thing, ma. I got you.”

He kissed her cheek and Rosa watched as he went into the kitchen, carrying bags of groceries.

She sat on her chair.

She felt nervous and doubtful and wondered if this would last.

Had he had groceries with him when she answered the door?

She couldn’t remember.

She stood and was relieved to hear the sound of running water, the stacking of dishes. The soft singing coming from her son’s angelic throat.

And then everything stopped.

And then a knock came at the door.