Pretty Hurts (Left 1.50)

“Tell me about her.”

“Her name is Efia, and she’s a stylist and a make-up artist.”

My mother frowns.

I click my tongue. “No, don’t look like that, Ma. She’s a good woman. She volunteers with cancer survivors to do their make-up for photo shoots to boost their self-esteem. She’s a wonderful friend, intelligent, and beautiful.”

“Ahh, finally we’ve come to the good stuff. Is she as conceited as that last one? Couldn’t find her too far from a mirror or without her face on.”

“No.” I shake my head and clear throat. “She actually has something called Alopecia.”

“Where they lose their hair?”

“Si.”

“Oh, poor thing.”

“Yes, it was a shock, but she’s dealing with it well. We met when Houston brought her into my shop to cut off her hair.”

Her brow furrows. “I can’t imagine how difficult that must’ve been.”

“She’s had a hard time, but she’s regrouping now.”

“And you were there to help her through this?”

“I was a friend, and yes, I’ll still be here, too. I know this is a lifetime battle.”

“You speak so easily about being in her life.”

“You don’t let a woman like this go, Ma.” I shake my head.

She places a plate down in front of me. “I like the sound of this Efia. But I worry about you, mijo.”

I know without asking she’s thinking about how badly I handled my breakup with Marilyn. “Efia is very different. Her beauty comes from the inside. She has a smile that can light up a room, a big heart, and a clever mind. I think you’ll like her, and I want to bring her by.” His mother had never really liked Marilyn. Mom played nice with her, but a fiancée who had no interest in a family, cooking, or cleaning didn’t earn any brownie points with her.

“You’ve talked her up so much. I can tell you feel strongly about her. We’ll welcome her with open arms here.”

I smile as I take a healthy bite of my tamales. The spiced bite dances on my taste buds and I close my eyes. This reminds me of dinners with the entire family back when my father was alive. It was his favorite meal.

I chew slowly, savoring the taste before I swallow. “Thank you, Ma.”

“Always, mijo. I worried for you, but now I see a sparkle in your eyes that wasn’t there. Perhaps this woman, Efia, will be good for you. Certainly, she must be strong to deal with this disease so courageously.”

“It does nothing to dim her beauty,” I say, feeling protective.

Mom smiles. “I never said it did, mijo. The beauty of one resides within the soul.”

As always I’m comforted by her words. No one can love or communicate like one’s mother. It’s something I learned fast once my father passed. People spend their youth taking their parents for granted, never realizing as they grow up their parents are growing older. I’ve no problems being called a mama’s boy because I know the bleakness that’ll enter my life once she’s gone. It was always a bone of contention between Marilyn and I. She never understood the sense of duty I felt in regards to my family. My mother, especially. If she needed something, as the eldest male it was my duty to provide it. We’d been through hell and back together. Our bond is a strong one.

“Next Sunday we have mass with the family and then lunch. Bring your young lady.”

I wash down the tamales with water before I speak. “I think I will. Now, tell me, how have you been?” I ask, studying her face. She looks well rested, and in high spirits.

“Good. I keep busy with my Red Hats and the grandkids.”

I can’t say how grateful I am for the Red Hat Society and their numerous outings. They keep my mother connected with friends and out and about in the city. She’d seen plays, gone to costume parties during Halloween, and played card games regularly.

“And your job?”