Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 101254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
She smiles again. It’s weak but genuine. “Okay. Have a seat.” She motions to her small table where two place settings are set.
Glasses of water are already poured, and she picks up my plate, serves me some enchiladas and a glop of refried beans, and sets it back down. She serves herself and sits down across from me. She closes her eyes for a few moments, then opens them.
“Dig in,” she says.
“Were you…praying?”
Her cheeks blush a bit. “Yes and no. I already told you I left my parents’ religion long ago, but I like to always express gratitude before I eat. I’ve gotten out of the habit, but it seems more important than ever now that I express gratitude for everything I have. I want to remember that no matter what struggles I’m having, my life is actually pretty darned good, and I’m grateful.”
“Your heart still beats,” I say softly.
“Yeah.” Her brown eyes are warm as she looks at me. “You told me that on the plane going to Jamaica.”
“I did.” I pick up my fork and look down at my plate. “Something I have to remind myself of a lot. Especially lately.”
“Something going on?”
I smile. “No. Everything’s fine.”
I can’t burden her with my problems. I could make them go away in an instant with money, at least for now, but then they’d only come back to haunt me again.
I have to figure out a better way.
“Tell me more about your religion while you were growing up,” I say.
She lifts her eyebrows. “Are you sure you want to hear more about that?”
“You look surprised.”
“I am. You don’t seem the religious type.”
“I’m not, but I find it interesting. I told you we went to church on Christmas and Easter before my mom passed away, but that was about it. I believe in a higher power, but I don’t follow any particular religion. So yeah, I’m interested.”
“My parents were very devout Catholics,” she says. “They were both raised in religious families. Irish Catholic and Mexican Catholic. And then there was my grandmother.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I told you about her altar. She studied all the saints, taught me a lot about them. But there was also a mystical side to her religion. She used to say it was Santeria.”
“I’m not sure I know what Santeria is.”
“I’ve never quite understood it. It literally means ‘the way of the saints.’ Her mother—my great-grandmother—was Cuban, and she practiced Santeria, but what Nana did was really Catholicism with some mystical stuff thrown in. She sought personal relationships with God and the Blessed Mother and the saints through prayer mostly, but also through some divination. But she didn’t worship other gods.” Tessa smiles. “I remember one time she thought the remnants of enchilada sauce on her plate was an apparition of the Blessed Mother.”
“You mean the Virgin Mary?”
“Yeah. I thought Da was going to pee himself right at the dinner table, he laughed so hard. Nana didn’t speak to him for twenty-four hours after that. But she loved my father. Absolutely adored him. She forgave him.” Tessa laughs, but then her face twists slightly. “I haven’t thought about that in forever. His humor was so much a part of him. I miss him so much.”
Her laugh pleases me, but I feel the pain of her missing her father. “I know. I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head. “I’ll be okay. He’ll always be here.” She places her hand over her heart. “But anyway, Nana didn’t indoctrinate me into religion or anything, but she and I were very close. When I was little, I thought it was really cool to watch her light her candles, pray to the saints, do her rosaries.”
Her stories warm me. “I’m glad you were so close to her.”
“Yeah. I never really knew my grandparents on my father’s side. They both died when I was quite young.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She shrugs. “I suppose you can’t miss what you never had. Anyway, my grandmother was always my safe space. When I sat on her lap, no harm could come to me.”
“And you were named after her.”
“Right. Teresa Maria.”
“It’s a beautiful name.”
“I always kind of hated it.” She chuckles. “Even though I loved my grandmother who also had the name. But I like the nickname I got—Tessa. It was different and unique. I’ve never known another Tessa in all my years of going to school and in being in the workforce.”
“It is unique.” I gaze into her eyes. “And it’s beautiful. It suits you.”
She looks down, her cheeks turning a beautiful rose. “Thank you.”
I finally take a bite of enchilada. The flavor explodes on my tongue—the creaminess of the cheese, the smoke and spice of the sauce, and the subtle sweetness of the corn tortilla. “My God,” I say. “This is delicious.”
“Better than Aunt Lily’s at the funeral?”
“Doesn’t even come close.”