Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

40 | After The First Crash

JUEVES
1:08 PM

Dahlia Gray

I rest my head against my mother's shoulder, lapping my arm around hers. "Pensé que su hermano murió, ¿cómo volvió?" I thought his brother died, how did he come back? I ask my mother, holding the phone projecting the telenovela at a safe distance for the both of us to watch.

"No, era su hermano gemelo. Este es su gemelo separado al nacer en el orfanato." No, that was his twin brother. This one is his twin separated at birth at the orphanage. My mother assures, leaning her head on top of mine. The telephone rings in the office, as we sit in the waiting room of my mother's doctor appointment, and one of the receptionists picks it up with a perky hello.

My brows furrow together, watching the scene unfolded and the twin brother aims a gun at a woman. "¿Y está a punto de matar a la esposa de su hermano?" And he's about to kill his brother's wife?

"Porque la esposa de su hermano se acostaba con su abogado, y su hermano le pidió que la matara si alguna vez lo engañaba. Así podría conseguir la herencia." Because his brother's wife was sleeping with their lawyer, and on the will of his brother, he asked his twin to kill his wife if she ever cheats. He could then get the will. My mother recaps, causing my lips to part in realization.

"Nunca me di cuenta de lo dramáticas que son las novelas." I never realized how dramatic novelas are. I said, just as the man shoots his brother's wife. I stiffen a laugh, just watching the dramatic fall and the gunshot wound situated above her breast, which allows the camera to capture—and replay—the fall three times. I wanted to burst out laughing. "Mami, ¿Cómo te interesa esto?" How does this interest you?

She takes the phone into her hand and shoves me off her shoulder, my laughter vibrating through the rest of my body. I can't take this show seriously, it's so dramatic and the acting is plausible at best.  "Si no vas a mirar, déjame mirar en paz," If you're not going to watch, let me watch in peace, she said in a playful manner, shooing me away with her free hand and turning to the side, theatrically.

I laugh, but I let her be. This is clearly one of her only sources of entertainment and I have millions to comfort myself. Though, being stuck in a waiting room with people over the age of forty isn't the best occasion to be stuck in—I have to do what I do.

For the past ten years—since I was eight—I've been my mother's personal translator and official document-filer. Ever since I could read a lick of English without referencing back to a dictionary book for Spanish speakers, my mother dragged me along doctor's appointments, tax returns, banking statements—you name it.

It gets tiresome, and I get annoyed, but that's just the way life goes. I help my mother anyway I can, knowing how she lives. She's a single mother (practically) living on her own, trying to account for everything. She doesn't know English, and most times her dialect of broken English is hard to comprehend with her accent bearing so thick.

My father could've helped when he was discharged from the military, but he didn't. He's impatient and complains about the long-wait, bearing emotional labor onto my mother. She'd rather have me, than my father who huffs and sighs every step of the way.

I lean back against the seat, my arm still hooked around my mother's as a sign of comfort. The nape of my neck presses against the top rail of the plastic chair, watching the blank ceiling. While I hear Spanish music played at a low volume and dialogue being thrown back and forth, I consider my limits and imagine the stars.

Then, I start imagining Harlow.

My stomach immediately reacts with a flutter of butterflies, releasing like a jar opened in a meadow. A group of fireflies blooming with yellow lights and my stomach twists at all the wild thoughts that consume me. I conceal a smile, struggling in my seat, and grit my teeth in response.