Read Online Girl in the Mirror by Mary Alice Monroe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Alice Monroe
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come too far, to play any more roles. When he saw his father, mother, sister and brother, he would make them see, this time, who he was. Now. Michael took a last look at the fading sunset, then shook his head as a bittersweet smile hovered at his lips.
He might as well try to catch the hem of the angels.
Once he passed the borders of his father’s property, he saw visible signs that the business had taken a bad turn. The outbuildings were slipping down, the stock was sparse and what was left didn’t have the luster and vigor that Mondragon plants were known for. His brow knit, but he traveled without pause past the hilly slopes of viburnum, euonymous and evergreens to the small stucco house with the red tile roof a hundred yards beyond. His father’s Chevy pickup was parked in front beside a few newer, full-size American cars. He recognized his sister’s wedding garter hanging from her Mercury’s rearview mirror.
The house looked pretty much as it always did. Mama’s bright yellow front door was trimmed with fresh pine boughs and holly, and behind Mama’s lace curtains, the lights were blazing and Papa was playing mariachi music. His heart skipped with anticipation—no, he had to admit, eagerness. No sooner had he pulled the car to a stop than the front door of the house flung open and his father stepped forward, both arms stretched wide and a toothy grin on his weathered face. Michael felt childishly pleased knowing that they’d been on the lookout for him.
“He’s home!” Luis boomed, his voice like thunder in the valley. “Everyone. Come out. Miguel, he is home at last!”
Behind him came the high-pitched welcomes of his mother and his sister, Rosa, and behind them, Rosa’s children. More slowly, his brother Bobby sauntered forward. As he embraced them one by one, he could smell the heady scent of a Mexican Christmas on their clothes, in their hair and lingering in their kisses. Dark chocolate, vanilla and oranges.
Once inside, he was tempted to walk around the family home, to peek into bedrooms and closets, to see if he still had a room. He felt nervous. Out of place. The family clustered around him, however, chatting amiably, reminiscing over events that were far sweeter in memory. After a few minutes the conversation slowed, but this was to be expected. After all, it’d been several years since he’d been home. His ear was quick to pick up the soft, intimate sounds of Spanish, the language of his family. Michael could feel his tongue stumble around the vowels and consonants as he struggled with his broken replies.
“Little Francisco speaks better Spanish than his uncle Miguel,” his mother teased. Michael only smiled. This was an old stalemate that had begun when Michael, the only Mexican in his suburban first grade class, announced one night at family dinner that he would only speak English as the nuns had instructed him to. His mother, hurt and confused, had ceased her fluid flow of Spanish and met his announcement with obedience. “If the nuns said so…”
His father had responded typically, exploding in anger and casting him off to his room, where Michael preferred to be, anyway. It was the beginning of the unraveling of his ties to his family. The first step in the distance he was to create between them.
Tonight there was no criticism in Luis’s eyes, however. He beamed at his youngest son.
“Rosa,” Luis boomed to his daughter. “Settle your children. I want to talk to Miguel alone for a moment.” He guided Michael to the large family kitchen. Closing the door, he paused and sighed a bit theatrically. “Ah, some peace and quiet, eh? If I could harness the energy of those bebés, I could live forever! But—” he shrugged with his whole body, arms and palms lifting upward “—I’ll settle for a small glass of beer.”
“Ah, Mama,” Michael said, accepting a bottle and sniffing the air. The familiar scents of Mexican cooking, mingled with the sounds of children laughing
He might as well try to catch the hem of the angels.
Once he passed the borders of his father’s property, he saw visible signs that the business had taken a bad turn. The outbuildings were slipping down, the stock was sparse and what was left didn’t have the luster and vigor that Mondragon plants were known for. His brow knit, but he traveled without pause past the hilly slopes of viburnum, euonymous and evergreens to the small stucco house with the red tile roof a hundred yards beyond. His father’s Chevy pickup was parked in front beside a few newer, full-size American cars. He recognized his sister’s wedding garter hanging from her Mercury’s rearview mirror.
The house looked pretty much as it always did. Mama’s bright yellow front door was trimmed with fresh pine boughs and holly, and behind Mama’s lace curtains, the lights were blazing and Papa was playing mariachi music. His heart skipped with anticipation—no, he had to admit, eagerness. No sooner had he pulled the car to a stop than the front door of the house flung open and his father stepped forward, both arms stretched wide and a toothy grin on his weathered face. Michael felt childishly pleased knowing that they’d been on the lookout for him.
“He’s home!” Luis boomed, his voice like thunder in the valley. “Everyone. Come out. Miguel, he is home at last!”
Behind him came the high-pitched welcomes of his mother and his sister, Rosa, and behind them, Rosa’s children. More slowly, his brother Bobby sauntered forward. As he embraced them one by one, he could smell the heady scent of a Mexican Christmas on their clothes, in their hair and lingering in their kisses. Dark chocolate, vanilla and oranges.
Once inside, he was tempted to walk around the family home, to peek into bedrooms and closets, to see if he still had a room. He felt nervous. Out of place. The family clustered around him, however, chatting amiably, reminiscing over events that were far sweeter in memory. After a few minutes the conversation slowed, but this was to be expected. After all, it’d been several years since he’d been home. His ear was quick to pick up the soft, intimate sounds of Spanish, the language of his family. Michael could feel his tongue stumble around the vowels and consonants as he struggled with his broken replies.
“Little Francisco speaks better Spanish than his uncle Miguel,” his mother teased. Michael only smiled. This was an old stalemate that had begun when Michael, the only Mexican in his suburban first grade class, announced one night at family dinner that he would only speak English as the nuns had instructed him to. His mother, hurt and confused, had ceased her fluid flow of Spanish and met his announcement with obedience. “If the nuns said so…”
His father had responded typically, exploding in anger and casting him off to his room, where Michael preferred to be, anyway. It was the beginning of the unraveling of his ties to his family. The first step in the distance he was to create between them.
Tonight there was no criticism in Luis’s eyes, however. He beamed at his youngest son.
“Rosa,” Luis boomed to his daughter. “Settle your children. I want to talk to Miguel alone for a moment.” He guided Michael to the large family kitchen. Closing the door, he paused and sighed a bit theatrically. “Ah, some peace and quiet, eh? If I could harness the energy of those bebés, I could live forever! But—” he shrugged with his whole body, arms and palms lifting upward “—I’ll settle for a small glass of beer.”
“Ah, Mama,” Michael said, accepting a bottle and sniffing the air. The familiar scents of Mexican cooking, mingled with the sounds of children laughing
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