My mother never made mention of my late arrivals.
She had stopped attending church, and her moods had been more jagged lately—the ups and downs of the past seemed like rolling foothills compared to the cliffs she seemed to scale and fall from daily.
She’d rant about what a pain her children were, how much she wanted us gone. I might come home from school to find all my belongings thrown onto the porch. She’d never say what it was that I’d done, just that she wanted me out.
I stayed out till morning and missed school, but it was never those things that seemed to bother her. Either way, after I’d stayed with Annmarie for a few days, she’d let me back home, the reason for her change of mind as mysterious as the reason for my dismissal.
Most of her free time was spent in bed, wishing everything away. I might come home to a dark house, my younger sisters sitting in front of the downstairs TV or off with friends. Or, more rarely, I might find the house full of light and music, my mother singing while scrubbing vigorously in the kitchen.
This was the case when I arrived after midnight carrying a loaf of French bread, a drunken gift from Ruben. He had insisted on it, pushed his arms round my waist and walked me through the all-night market until I’d chosen just the right thing. I’d pushed away from the beer and cheeses, and headed toward the bakery.
“Ah, aquí está,” he said, “here we have it!”
He grabbed a warm loaf of bread and set it in my arms like a baby.
Walking into my mother’s kitchen carrying my bread, I saw she was awake, and feared she might ask why I’d been out so late. Instead she only looked at the loaf and asked where it came from. She laughed at my response.
“Ha!” She yelped, and slapped a wet rag to her knee.
She was clearly high and the loaf of bread seemed like comedic genius to her. “That’s just the guy we always end up with,” she said, “the one who makes a gift of bread.”