Chapter 3 - THE LAST PIECE OF CARMEN
The crash came on a Tuesday afternoon.
Valentina hurried toward the kitchen.
Tomás stood frozen in the doorway.
Mateo was inside.
Glass covered the floor.
Golden syrup spread between his boots.
A broken jar lay beside the table.
Valentina looked toward the pantry.
The shelf was empty.
The last jar.
Carmen's last jar.
Tomás's lower lip trembled.
“It was Mom's.”
Mateo looked horrified.
“I didn't mean—”
“It was the last one.”
“I know.”
“You broke it.”
“I know!”
Mateo ran outside.
Tomás remained staring at the floor.
Valentina lowered herself carefully.
“Don't touch the glass.”
She began picking up the larger pieces.
Tomás watched.
“Now there's nothing left.”
Valentina looked at him.
“That's not true.”
“The preserves are gone.”
“The preserves are.”
She picked up another shard.
“But what she taught you isn't.”
Tomás frowned.
Valentina pointed toward the sticky floor.
“Did your mom make these?”
Tomás nodded.
“Did you ever watch?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then part of the recipe is still here.”
She touched his forehead gently.
Tomás looked toward the door.
“Mateo won't help.”
“Then we'll start without him.”
That afternoon, Valentina found peaches in the storage room.
Her grandmother had taught her how to make preserves when she was nine.
She peeled the fruit.
Tomás stirred the pot.
Halfway through, Mateo appeared.
Nobody invited him inside.
Nobody asked him to leave.
He stood there for several minutes.
Finally he said, “Mom added cinnamon.”
Tomás looked at him.
“How much?”
Mateo shrugged.
“Not much.”
Valentina held out the jar.
“You decide.”
Mateo hesitated.
Then took it.
That evening, Rodrigo came home and stopped in the kitchen doorway.
A new jar sat in the center of the table.
Mateo tasted it.
“It doesn't taste like Mom's.”
Valentina waited.
“But it's not bad.”
Rodrigo looked at his sons.
Then at Valentina.
Something softened in his expression.
Later, after the boys went to bed, Rodrigo found Valentina washing dishes.
“Thank you.”
“For preserves?”
“For not trying to replace her.”
Valentina turned.
“I couldn't.”
Rodrigo looked toward the empty pantry shelf.
“Carmen died eighteen months ago.”
It was the first time he had spoken his wife's name to Valentina.
“Cancer.”
Valentina said nothing.
“The boys watched her disappear a little at a time.”
His voice lowered.
“I think Mateo decided loving someone means eventually watching them leave.”
Valentina rested one hand over her belly.
“Maybe that's why he wants me gone before he likes me.”
Rodrigo looked at her.
“Maybe.”
May you like
Neither noticed Mateo standing in the dark hallway.
Listening.
