With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Blood Boil
“Crazy-ass woman. Thinks just because she’s an insurance officer at some hospital she can treat me like I’m an idiot.” Mrs. Palmer always makes my blood hot. It’s like she’s a wooly mammoth whose most comfortable seat is my last nerve. Even after all this time, I feel inadequate anytime I speak to her.
Where is ’Buela? She always knows how to smile at Mrs. Palmer, and nod, and pleasantly still get her way. For a moment I’m mad at ’Buela. If she had picked Babygirl up like she was supposed to, this wouldn’t have happened. But then I have to remember ’Buela isn’t Babygirl’s mom.
I sit Babygirl in her booster seat and pour some fresh juice into her sippy cup to help her with the taste of the medicine. She must have picked up a bug at the ice show this past weekend. All of those people in one space, sneezing and stuff. And it was chilly when we left. Her coat is pretty thick and I had her bundled up, but maybe she was just out too long. I need to put towels around the window or call the landlord to turn the heat up higher.
The door snaps open and ’Buela bustles in with her cheeks pink from the cold and mouth red as if she’d been rubbing it. She stops at the door of the kitchen. She has grocery bags in each hand. She must have done rollers late last night because her hair falls in soft waves around her face. She looks pretty, her eyes twinkling.
And the moment I see her I start to cry.
Not even angry, silent tears, but straight-up chest-heaving, face-uglying, snot-immediately-dribbling-into-mouth crying. I put Babygirl’s sippy cup on the counter with a trembling hand and wipe my face.
Her bags fall to the floor but I don’t see them land because I’m covering my eyes trying to push the tears back in.
“Emoni! ¿Qué te pasa?” ’Buela pulls me to her. “What’s wrong?” She holds on to my wrists and tries to peer into my face until I drop my hands and let them hang limp at my side.
“Where . . . were . . . you?” I finally get out through my sobs.
“I had a doctor’s appointment, m’ija, and they needed to reschedule it a bit later.” She lets me go and walks to the fridge. “I left you a note.” She holds up a bit of paper that she’d attached to the fridge with an alphabet magnet.
“’Buela, you asked me to pick up groceries.” She looks at me blankly, the smile falling from her face. “I didn’t get home until four thirty. Babygirl has a fever and they were calling from the daycare. They said your phone was turned off. Why would you leave a note on the fridge but not text me?”
She glares at me. “I did text you.” ’Buela rushes past me and runs upstairs. When she comes back down she holds two little pink socks she slides on Babygirl’s feet. She then picks her up and cuddles her close, tight under her chin. “We need to force her to break the fever. Did you give her medicine?”
“Yeah, Mrs. Palmer bought some Children’s Tylenol. And she was nasty to me as usual and she said I was irresponsible and talked about custody and I didn’t know where you were.”
’Buela’s mouth becomes a hard, white line. “You called Mrs. Palmer? And she said what about custody?”
I sniffle back the tears. “No, the daycare called Tyrone. Tyrone called his mother. They didn’t know who else to contact. And I think she was just being mean, not serious, but she did mention something about my being unfit.”
We stand there unmoving. Unblinking. Babygirl breaks the silence with a sniffle, her little face scrunched up into a red and silent cry. ’Buela reaches for her, but I get there first and pull Babygirl out of her grasp. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here. Mommy’s here.”
I begin to carry her out of the room but turn around before walking through the doorway. “’Buela, why have you been going to the doctor so much?” I raise myself to my full height. I can take whatever she throws at me.
’Buela fiddles with her wedding band before looking at me. “I’m not sick, Emoni. I’ve lied to you. I haven’t had all those doctor’s appointments. I just needed a private afternoon with my thoughts where I’m not in this house. Where I’m Gloria again, and not only ’Buela. I don’t know how to explain it. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
I bury my face into Babygirl’s neck so neither one of them can see the tears in my eyes, the relief laced with hurt.