Rosie Bear
Ten years old…
“Mamá, please,” I beg, doing my best to give her the puppy dog eyes she can’t ignore. Mamá may be hard around the edges, but she’s soft for me. My grandmother says it’s because Papá went to prison. Mamá has to be both a good mother and father to me. She’s firm when she needs to be but soft too. Always soft for me.
“I need to get ready for work,” she tries, but her dark brown eyes twinkle.
“Work isn’t for three more hours.” I scrunch my nose and pout. Plenty of time to go to Ciudad Juárez to my favorite restaurant just across the border.
She purses her lips and turns off the iron. My mother takes pride in ironing her uniforms she wears for the motel she works at. I love how pretty she looks before she leaves. The black dress hugs her curvy body and her white collar is always crisp. I notice men and women alike admiring my mother. It makes me proud because she’s so beautiful.
“Fine, mija,” she says, giving in. “Grab a jacket in case it gets chilly in the restaurant.”
“Yay!” I squeal and throw myself into her arms. She smells heavenly like lavender and her. There’s just a fragrance to her that makes her unique.
Thirty minutes later and we’re driving over the border into Mexico. We make this trip often and as long as we go during the day, we don’t run into any issues. Once, Mamá forgot to bring a second identification card and we got held up on our way back in. But Mamá always smiles real big and pretty to get her way. I try to smile big and pretty like her too.
“They’re so busy,” she complains as she circles the parking lot for a spot. “I hope the wait isn’t too long. I don’t want to be late for work.”
I frown, hoping we can get right in. Ana, the old woman who works the front counter, usually finds a place for us, though. I’ll give her one of the bracelets I made for my friend Amanda. Maybe she’ll find some chairs in the back for us to sit at.
“Ah, the luck!” Mamá cries out as a big truck backs out of a spot. I hoot in excitement as we pull in right in front of the building.
She calls after me when I burst from the car and run inside. As soon as I open the door, the spices fill my nose and my stomach grumbles. This is my favorite place. I love everything they make and could eat here every day. Mamá says if she eats here every day her butt will be bigger than Texas where we live. I just giggle, trying to imagine a butt that big.
“Dearest Rosa!” Ana calls out and opens her arms for a hug. I run into her arms and squeeze the woman who reminds me much of my grandmother. “How are you today?”
I beam up at her. “Great! Mamá thinks we’ll have to wait.” I tug a bracelet from my pocket and tie it around her old, wrinkly wrist. “But maybe you could find us a table,” I whisper.
She narrows her eyes as she inspects the bracelet. “You sure know how to drive a hard bargain,” she says, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “There’s a table in the kitchen you two can sit at. I’ll make sure Miguel cooks you up something special today.”
“Thanks, Ana,” Mamá tells her and tugs at my ponytail. “You’re spoiled, mija.”
I giggle as we follow Ana toward the back. She gets us settled at the dinky table in the corner. It’s exciting to be in the kitchen and watch the guys cook. Miguel is as old as Ana but real big and fat. I bet that’s because he eats all the good foods he makes. Maybe he’ll be as big as Mexico if he keeps eating like that.
“What are you laughing about?” Mamá asks.
I point at Miguel. “Look at his belly, Mamá!”
“Shhhh,” she chides. “Don’t be rude, Rosie Bear. That’s not nice.”
Pouting, I scan the kitchen, hoping to see something exciting. My eyes land on a man wearing a blue bandana. It reminds me of the pictures of my father. The pictures my mother only lets me see on occasion. Papá has tattoos on his neck and face like the man beside Miguel. Both he and my father have the same hard stares. I wonder if the man knows Papá. Maybe they were in the same gang? I’m about to open my mouth to ask when the man raises his voice at Miguel.
More men, dressed just like the man pour in through the back door. They all carry shiny guns and knives.
“You leave my restaurant!” Ana yells and points out the back door.
Mamá turns and lets out a garbled sound. She stands and presses her butt against me, squishing me against the wall.
“¡Este hijo de puta me debe dinero!” the scariest man yells at Miguel. This motherfucker owes me money!
Miguel mutters something about not having it. I blink, trying to see past my mother to watch.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Explosive gunfire shatters the air and Mamá pushes me to the floor, her body covering mine in a protective way. More shots fire, over and over again, and glass breaks all around the kitchen. I scream at the top of my lungs, overcome with terror. Mamá pushes her hand against my mouth, but her hand is wet.
Tears spill from my eyes and I try to hide from the scary men. They’re not like Papá. Papá would never shoot up my favorite restaurant. Papá would never yell at a nice cook like Miguel. I may not remember Papá, but I feel this in my heart.
“My sweet Rosie Bear,” Mamá whispers against my hair, her hand sliding from my mouth. “Be a good girl. I love you.”
I can hear screams within the restaurant but aside from some shuffling, the kitchen is quiet. Those bad men finally left.
“Mamá,” I whisper. “They’re gone.”
But Mamá is so protective, she keeps me smashed to the floor under her weight. Maybe her butt is going to be the size of Texas soon because she is heavy.
“Mamá!” I cry out. “Move, Mamá!”
She doesn’t move. She doesn’t speak. I squirm out from beneath her and my eyes land on Ana. She’s on the ground, a pool of blood around her body. Her arm lies twisted out in front of her, my bracelet I gave her soaking up blood. Everything is broken around me.
“Mamá!” I scream. “They hurt Ana!”
Mamá doesn’t care. She’s sleeping and I need her to be awake. I shove her over onto her back.
Blood.
Blood.
Blood.
No, Mamá, no.
“No!” I wail. “No!”
Bright red blooms of blood cover her shirt like big roses in several spots. She’s been shot all over her chest. Her eyes that always twinkle with delight are open but dulled. Mamá’s mouth is parted and unmoving.
My mother is not dead.
She is not dead.
“Mamá!”
She. Is. Not. Dead.