by K. Osorio-Teamer
She heard them in the car while driving through highway loops; at work when there was enough free time to watch a show; in the living room-turned-dance floor while she drank an overpoured glass of wine; in the garden while picking the round, red chiles off her tree. In some spaces, they roared while in others, they were barely audible. They boomed in the car and garage, and if the woman put music on, the voices would grow louder. If they were particularly pleased by a song, they would sing along. Selena was a favorite.
The first voice she heard was her father’s. Crisp and clear, as if he was sitting right next to her. The woman didn’t tell her mother. She didn’t know what would be worse – her mother believing her or not believing her. Her mother passed away about a year later without ever knowing her daughter’s connection to the after. Heartbroken but curious, the woman waited. She cried, spoke to her mother’s picture, and waited. She lit the candle, replaced the glass of water on the altar, and she waited. She cooked, read books on the back patio, watered the plants, and everything else Mom liked to do. But nothing. She would ask her father’s voice for answers, but he never gave them. Four months and a badly overcooked turkey later, the woman finally heard laughs she hadn’t heard since her father became a voice. The woman’s parents were reunited once again and ready to micromanage her life for eternity.
At first, they worried her. The voices. The first time she heard one, she was sure it was a mental breakdown. One morning on the way to work, she heard her father say, “you should slow down on this turn, you don’t want to flip the car over.” Out of reflex, she eased her foot off the gas slightly, slowing the car as it curved around the tight corner. The woman quickly realized she should be alone and he should be dead. She checked the car for any murderous back-seat drivers in vain. She knew it was his voice. Finding herself frightfully alone, she rationalized it as a result of her imagination and grief playing a cruel and convincing con on her. The past nine days had been a blur of black and perpetual weeping. She had been talking to her father’s picture every day since he died, so she wasn’t surprised that she was imagining his voice. Then she heard him again while she sped over a particularly deep pothole. “Slow down! That’s a lot of wear and tear on your tires.”
That day, the woman nearly hit another car while trying to park. She cried just as she had that morning. And the night before. And every day since he died. This was her first day back at work and all she wanted to do was run into the arms of her bossy, backseat driving dad. She was sobbing in the full parking lot, drowning in the memories that crashed down one right after the other. Days in the garage with Papi as he stood next to her battered, green Nissan and attempted to teach her to change the small tires and check the leaky oil. “Papi,” the woman managed to gurgle through the tightening knot in her throat.
“Ya, chavala. It’s ok. I’m here with you.” A whisper into her right ear, steadied her head. He wasn’t gone. Real or not, it was comforting. After four years, she’d grown accustomed to the resonance of their suggestions and reprimands. They were the loudest in the places they spent the most time. The woman complained about their nagging at times, but she knew she would never sell the home. The garage was her father’s favorite spot dead and alive. Regardless of the room, he was always the loudest though. Once the woman’s mother stopped giving her the cold shoulder, she didn’t waste time with comforting words, silly commentary, or loving encouragement like her father did. She was curt and to the point.
In the kitchen, her mother was but a whisper. The woman was not the best cook, and she always wished her mom would speak up a bit more. She stood in her nearly silent kitchen, staring at the list of ingredients and their manifestations on the counter before her. She had written out the recipe herself. It was one of the few dishes she could remember her mother cooking from start to finish. Her mother usually made it for birthdays or Christmas dinners, so it felt fitting to make it for her husband for their first anniversary dinner tomorrow. She felt confident about it until she stepped into the small, windowless kitchen. The plan was to prep as much as possible today, so that tomorrow would run smoothly, but upon scanning the recipe, the woman felt adrift in a sea of worcestershire and tomato sauce.
Arroz a la Valenciana
Ingredients
- White rice
- Chicken breast
- Smoked sausage
- Carrots
- Celery
- Peas
- Corn
- Onion
- Garlic
- Raisins
- Olives
- Worcestershire Sauce
- Tomato sauce/tomato bouillon cube
- Vegetable oil
Directions
- Dice the carrots, celery, onion, and garlic.
- Steam white rice.
- Boil chicken breast.
- Shred the chicken once cooked.
- Heat the oil in a cooking pan. Once hot add onion and garlic until cooked.
- Add shredded chicken, sausage, carrots, celery, peas, and corn. Mix.
- Once thoroughly mixed, add worcestershire sauce and tomato flavoring of choice.
- Mix in the rice.
- Mix in raisins and olives.
- Enjoy!
This is all she could pry from her muddled memories. Out of habit, she had the water running in the sink as if she were moments away from starting the cooking process. Bitterly staring at step number ten, she realized she was nowhere near ready. The woman was oblivious as to how much rice or chicken to cook. In fact, she didn’t know how much of any ingredient to use. She shut off the water to wait for the whispers. Her mother never said much in the kitchen, but today she was bizarrely quiet. The woman rolled her eyes. She was desperate for a helping hand! Anything at all! But no, there was no box with little cards for reference and no elder to seek guidance from. Even her father had stopped talking to her in the kitchen since her mother joined him in the audible world.
The woman’s rancorous eyes found mercy on the page. In bright red ink, the familiar curly calligraphy materialized in the margins next to step 2.
Make rice & chicken 1-2 days before cooking the dish
The woman stared at the seemingly fresh ink and ran her finger gently over the final word. It smeared. She didn’t look around for any intruders or search for the red pen. She began pouring rice and water into the cooker and turned it on. Thankfully, she had a good enough instinct to start on the dinner today. She went back to the list to check off step 2 when she noticed more crimson cursive had appeared.
Add a bit of oil to the rice
The woman smiled as she opened the lid of the rice cooker to pour in a “bit” of oil. Just as in life, her mom wasn’t giving any measurements or other specifics. Regardless, the woman was grateful that she finally had some real help in the kitchen. Since that awful Thanksgiving, she had only gotten a few morsels of culinary guidance from her mother. The woman never received written messages from her father, but she wasn’t at all surprised by the lengths her mother would go to to keep up a good cold shoulder.
The woman filled a large pot with water and a bit of salt, and then set it to boil. She rinsed the chicken in the sink and set it aside as she watched the water warm. Once all the bubbles swarmed to the top in a chaotic dance, the woman slowly lowered the chicken breasts in. She washed her hands and looked at the recipe once again, curious if any new messages had been left. Next to step 1, the woman read:
You could cut these today, too. If you feel like it, huevona.
The woman rolled her eyes at her mother’s passive aggressive nickname. Huevona – lazy – was what her mother would call her nearly every day. The woman never argued about the legitimacy of the statement. She was, in fact, lazy, but she hated how often her mother felt the need to bring it up.
“Could you just help me, please? You don’t have to be like that, Mama!”
The woman waited for a response but not a sound could be heard in the kitchen. Resigned, the woman reached for a carrot but it moved just out of her reach. The woman blinked and reached for it a second time, but once again it moved. She reached for a different carrot, but it moved as well. Carrot after carrot scurried away from the woman’s reach every time. Flustered and frustrated, the woman gave up on the carrots entirely and reached for the onion. The yellow sphere moved so quickly, the woman had little time to move out of the way before it hit her between the eyes. She fell back with a screech – half surprise, mostly rage.
The woman got up and ran into the garage. “Papi!” she shouted as soon as she reached the cement floor. “Papi, you have to talk to Mama! This is gone on too far.”
“Y ahora qué?” Now what happened, Papi’s ethereal sigh filled the garage. “I thought I’d get some rest from this once I died!.”
“No, that’s it! We all need to talk.” The woman was pacing from her green Nissan to the wall of overflowing shelves. “Mama! I know you hear me. This is a family meeting.”
“No way, huevona, I call the family meetings around here.” Her mother’s voice was commanding and fiery.
“This is my house now! You left it to me.” The woman shouted at the ceiling, pointing her finger in every direction. “So if you get to throw onions and carrots in my kitchen, I get to call a family meeting!”
To be continued…
biSKITs & gravy 