This is from Maria's Perspective
Rosalina left with Tome despite my fervent pleas for her to stay safe within our home. The world outside was a whirlwind of chaos. I didn't want her to have to experience or witness the worst parts of humanity. Though her job in the emergency department showed her plenty, this was worse.
But she was determined to help get the medication for people, so what could I do. I tried to convince her, to make her see the danger, but she was unyielding. So, I did the only thing I could - I prayed for her. I prayed for her safety, for her courage, and for her swift return.
Then there was Derrick, who decided to accompany the uncouth Gator after patching him up. I had a sinking feeling about this. Gator, with his blatant racism and crude demeanor, was a sparkler of insults. And Derrick was a powder keg waiting to explode. Well, he wasn't one to back down from a fight, at least. I could only hope that Derrick wouldn't kill Gator. I wasn't even hoping that there wouldn't be more work for Rosalina when she got back.
With Derrick and Rosalina gone, the only ones left were the four children, Mr. Allen and his wife.
I took a moment to say my prayers, to seek solace in the comforting words of a psalm. Then, with a deep breath, I got to work. Ideal hands were not something that I liked have. Not that there was a lack of things to do.
I took a slow walk through the apartment. My mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, but I knew I had to prioritize. With the electricity gone, our food storage was at risk. We had already cooked everything in the small freezer, its contents providing us with dinner and breakfast. Now, it was time to confront the chest freezer.
As I approached it, a cold and wet sensation seeped through my sock. Looking down, I saw a shallow pool of water surrounding the freezer. My heart clenched at the sight. Dread chilled my hands.
With a deep breath, I lifted the lid, its usual frosty gust replaced with a damp coolness. I squinted into the interior, the dim light filtering from the window to the far end of the kitchen, barely illuminating the inside. A closer look confirmed my fears. Things were defrosting.
Before I could even begin to salvage what was left in the freezer, the harsh, grating sound of Mrs. Allen's voice echoed from the living room, "This is all your fucking fault, you worthless shit stain excuse for a husband!"
Mr. Allen's response was a plea, "Honey, please, we're all under a lot of stress. Let's try to stay calm."
But Mrs. Allen was having none of it. "No! I will not calm down!" she retorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm and mockery. "You don't fucking get to tell me to calm down."
I left the kitchen, making my way towards the source of the commotion. Seeing them embroiled in their heated argument, again, I tried to intervene. In the gentlest tone I could muster, I said, "Mr. and Mrs. Allen, I must ask you to stop this shouting match. Please remember that there are children present."
As Mrs. Allen turned her wrath towards me, her face twisted into a mask of pure hatred and resentment, a sight I had seen all too often directed at her long-suffering husband. But her anger didn't faze me. I had seen worse, weathered more, and her words were just that - words.
She screamed at me, her hands curling into menacing claws, her fake-painted nails glinting in the dim light. Her words were a spray of venom, each one punctuated with a spit flying in every direction. "You don't tell me what to say, or do or act. You're just the fucking help. I tell you what to do and how to do it. The only reason you have your shitty job is because you're so old and unfuckable. The only reason I've not made your life a living hell is because you keep those cumstains in line for me, so I don't have to worry about them. So keep your mouth shut and your nose out of my business, got it?"
I waited for her to finish, for her to take a breath before I responded. My voice was calm, steady in the face of her tirade. "Ma'am, you are in my home. I'm not in yours. You are here because I am showing you mercy. As for your beautiful children, I will happily take care of them at the instructions of your husband, who signs my paychecks in the direction he wants me to take care of them. As for everything else, it doesn't matter since the only man I have ever wanted was my late husband, so my sexual appeal doesn't apply here. All of that being said, please, if you must fight, do so outside."
As Mrs. Allen advanced towards me, her face was a livid mask of fury, her hands clenched into tight fists. I braced myself, ready to stand my ground. But before she could reach me, Mr. Allen stepped in between us, his voice firm as he said, "Enough. We're taking this outside."
In response, Mrs. Allen swung her hand, landing a harsh slap across Mr. Allen's face. I winced at the sound, a sharp crack that echoed in the room. It wasn't the first time I had witnessed such an act, but it never got any easier to watch. Mr. Allen clutched his reddening cheek, his eyes filled with a mix of pain and regret as Mrs. Allen stormed out of the house.
Mr. Allen turned to me, his voice filled with remorse. "I'm sorry, Maria. I'll do my best to prevent this from happening again. I'm so sorry she treated you that way."
I could only respond, "Me too," as I watched him hurry after his volatile wife.
With a heavy sigh, I shook my head, ready to return to the kitchen and the task at hand. But as I turned, I froze. There, in the hallway, were all four children. They had heard everything. Their wide eyes were filled with a mix of confusion and fear, their innocence shattered by the harsh reality of the adult world. My husband rest in peace, and I protected them from this side of married life, potential. We never fought. Even our disagreements were behind closed doors.
And now my kids were thrust into the worst example possible of it.
Sofia's voice trembled as she asked, "Is that normal? Does that happen often?" Her wide eyes were filled with fear and confusion, a polar contrast to her usually cheerful demeanor.
Emma, the oldest and unfortunately more accustomed to these outbursts, responded softly, "Yes." Her voice was choked with unshed tears.
A surge of anger welled up within me. That vile excuse of a woman, with her thoughtless words and actions, had hurt my children. But there was nothing I could do about her. All I could do was to continue loving these children and help them navigate through their emotions.
Gabriela, stepping into the role of protective older sister, looked as angry as I felt. She approached me, her brows furrowed in concern. "Are you okay, Mom?" she asked. I nodded, forcing a smile onto my face before turning back towards the kitchen.
"Do you want help?" Gabriela asked, her voice softer now. She looked at me with a mix of sympathy and concern.
I didn't want her pity. I didn't want any of them to worry about me. So, I put on my bravest face, my smile warm and reassuring. "If you're offering, we need to rescue the food in the chest freezer," I said, grateful for my precious daughters.
Gabriela strode ahead of me into the kitchen. Before I could warn her about the puddle surrounding the freezer, she stepped right into it. A small yelp escaped her as the cold water seeped into her socks, too.
I couldn't help but smile at her reaction. She quickly shook off her surprise, her irritation melting away as she opened the freezer lid. "What do we do first?" she asked, her eyes scanning what was inside.
I let out a sigh, "Let's get everything out first, and then we'll figure out what to do next." I reached under the sink for some floor towels and tossed them onto the puddle.
The first thing Gabriela pulled out was a tub of now-melted ice cream. An idea popped into my head, and I called out to the kids, "Sophy, Emma, Michel, would you like something sweet?" Like magic, the children materialized in the kitchen. I poured out the melted ice cream into cups and handed them over. Sophy led the trio to the table, their faces lighting up at the unexpected treat, banishing the bad emotions from their tiny hearts.
As Gabriela and I surveyed the freezer contents, we quickly sorted the items into two piles. The meats, raw tortillas, and other perishables that needed immediate attention were placed in one pile. At the same time, the rest, like the tamales that could be reheated for lunch, were set aside in another.
Working side by side, we fell into a rhythm, a well-oiled machine in the kitchen. We cooked the meats and tortillas on the flat iron stove, the sizzling sounds and the aroma filling the kitchen. Once cooked, we stored the meat in covered containers, preserving it for our dinner later.
The tantalizing smell of cooking food wafted through the house, reaching the noses of the children. Their little voices soon filled the kitchen, declaring their hunger. With a soft chuckle, we started reheating the tamales. The children's faces lit up dancing tamales, reminding me of watching my Abuela when I was that age.
Just as I was taking the last batch of tamales off the stove, the front door opened. Rosalina walked in, her face a mask of exhaustion. The timing couldn't have been more perfect. The food was ready, and the children were eager to eat. But as I looked at Rosalina, I could tell something was wrong. Her usual spark was missing, replaced with a look of worry.
Once the children had finished their food and scampered off to play, Gabriela chose to stay behind in the kitchen with Rosalina and me. The air was heavy with unspoken words, and I decided to break the silence. "How did it go at the pharmacy?" I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.
Rosalina's face fell at my question. She glanced at Gabriela, a flicker of hesitation in her eyes before she responded. "It wasn't quite what I was expecting," she admitted, her voice a hushed whisper.
I followed her gaze to Gabriela, weighing the pros and cons of letting her hear the harsh reality. "Did you manage to find everything you needed?"
Rosalina nodded, her eyes distant. "Yes, we got all the medications we needed. Even picked up a few extras, just in case. We should be good until the power comes back on," she trailed off, her gaze unfocused as if she was seeing something far beyond our kitchen.
Gabriela, ever the perceptive one, picked up on Rosalina's evasion. "You don't have to sugarcoat it. I'm not a child," she declared, her voice filled with a mix of indignation and forced maturity.
Rosalina turned to look at Gabriela, her eyes filled with a sadness that made my heart ache. She reached out, her hand gently caressing Gabriela's cheek. "Yes, you are," she said softly. "And you don't need to know just how bad the world can be. I pray you won't have to witness the kind of death and despair that lurks under the surface of society, held back only by comfort. I hope you can hold onto your innocence, your childhood, just a little bit longer."