It was a dark and stormy night.

Scratch that.

I’ve heard that line before.

It was raining outside, lightning lit up the sky and the thunder kept Butch-Cassidy running around the house in hysterics.

“Calm down crazy.  Why can’t you be calm like The Sundance Kid?” I pointed at the fish tank where The Sundance Kid swam happily.

He stared at me, and for a moment I knew he understood me.  He knew exactly what I was saying and was upset at me.  Mothers should never compare their children to each other.  I felt like in that one look he was threatening to eat The Sundance Kid while I watched.

And then he barked and ran around the coffee table.

“Idiot.” I rolled my eyes.

“Geni, stop talking to the dog and tell me where the coffee can is at.”

My mother was over “taking care” of me.  It was more like keeping her eagle eye on me at all times to make sure I didn’t do anything silly like, try and off myself again.

I could understand her concern.

No parent can get the call telling them that their child was found half dead in a pool of her own vomit and not be a little worried about their general welfare afterwards.

It was eight at night and my mother wanted to make coffee.  She was just as much of an addict as I was.  We could both drink coffee and still fall asleep immediately.

“Ma!  It’s behind the giant apple shaped cookie jar in the cabinet next to the fridge.”  I yelled.

“Ya busque ahi!”  She yelled back.

 “You didn’t look hard enough, it’s there.”

 “Stop yelling and come here.”

 My mother was notoriously bad at finding things.  Something could be right in front of her and if she wanted you to get it for her she would be unable to see it until you got up and pointed it out to her.

 I got up from the couch with a disgruntled sigh.  “Voy!”  I walked into the kitchen to find my mother standing there with her arms crossed.

“I found it, but I can’t reach it.”  She pointed in the direction of the cabinet with her lips.  “Get it down.”

My mother is 5’1 and she has trouble reaching things on the top shelves.  It was kind of hilarious, especially when I was younger and already taller than her.  Thank God I had my father’s genes and was tall.  Well, taller than her.

I went to get the can and I could feel my mother’s eyes on me.  I’d been wearing the same thing for the past week: a hoodie I stole from Steven and a pair of pajama shorts with hot pink paw prints all over.  I hadn’t left the house and hadn’t had the energy to shower either.  I’d taken to pinning my hair up in Princess Leia-esque buns to keep it from bothering me.

I could feel the disapproval oozing from her eyes.

“What is it mom?”

“Mi’ja que es esto?”

“What is what?”

“This.  This look you have going on right now.  Get in the shower y para de ser cochina.  When you get out I’ll have come coffee made and something sweet for you to eat.  Andale, bañate, y dame esa ropa sucia para quemarla.”

“I’m going, I’m going, stop calling me a pig.  And don’t burn my sweater, I love it.”

She rolled her eyes at me and went to make the coffee.

“Mami?”

“Hmm?”

“Mami, do you believe in miracles?”

She turned around and looked at me with a sad smile on her face.

“Mamita, you don’t need a miracle.  What you need is time.”

I shook my head and fought back the tears.  “What if time isn’t enough?  What if I’m defective?  What if there is something wrong with me?”

She crossed the kitchen and wrapped her arms around me.  “Chiquilla, it doesn’t take a miracle to heal a broken heart.”  She let me go and smiled up at me.  “Now go bathe, you smell.”