Wanted by Heidi Ayarbe

niece and nephew—both recently arrived from Mexico. They giggle every time I try to say something in Spanish.
    “You never learned your Spanish.” Mrs. Mendez tsks.
    I’m a little embarrassed. Lillian left Mexico behind and never spoke Spanish at home because she did all she could do to put a sea between us—first Mom, then me—and Guadalajara. It’s weird not to have roots in a place that’s full of what I could be. Lillian washed the Mexican away.
    The only thing that lingers in our home is a candle she lights to the Virgin of Guadalupe some days. It’s the barometer to her stress, and when it hits the fan, the candle comes out on the kitchen counter with a small statuette. “Old habits,” she says.
    Mr. Mendez smiles when he sees me, patting me on the shoulder. “It’s been a long time. How is Lillian?”
    “Good,” I say. “Thanks.”
    Mr. Mendez wears a tired smile and kisses Mrs. Mendez on the forehead, washing his callused hands in the sink before sitting down. He smells like car grease and petroleum jelly.
    “Dad’s got a new job,” Moch says. “It’s kicking his ass. They’ve got him hauling heavy machinery—stuff he shouldn’t be doing at his age. Salud to Ellison the Great.”
    I wince and feel embarrassed and defensive at the same time. Josh isn’t all that bad.
    Mr. Mendez shoots Mocho a look, narrowing his eyes just a bit, then cracks a smile—two missing teeth on the left side of his jaw, making him look almost cartoonish. “My job puts this food on the table and in those pots. Be grateful.”
    Moch turns away, his anger clouding his six-word memoirs, covering the aromas of chocolate and chilies, grilled meat and plantain. The cousins start to giggle, and the tension dissipates.
    I’m passed steaming plates of shredded meat, spicy green salsa, and thin homemade tortillas heated on the stove. They warn me away from a plate of hot chilies and all laugh when my eyes tear just by smelling them. Even Mocho.
    Everybody talks over everybody, and I catch some words in English, none in Spanish, and the rest of the time feel like even though I’m not understanding ninety percent of things, I’m part of it—part of this table.
    Mrs. Mendez stands to sweep the dishes off the table, pauses, and sits.
    “You okay?” Moch looks over his glass of water, his forehead a washboard of worry.
    “ Borracha ,” she says, “but without the tequila. Better get a pregnancy test,” she says, and laughs.
    “Ma!” Moch says.
    Mr. Mendez looks pale, like he needs to sit down, too. Except he’s already sitting.
    She looks at us, her mouth a straight line, smooth chestnut face glistening with sweat.
    Time stops.
    “Just kidding. You’s funny. You need to look at your faces right now. So so funny.” She dabs her forehead with a tissue, her laughter filling the small kitchen. It’s almost as if the walls seep up the laughter and happiness, giving them texture and life. “ Embarazada ? Ha!” She winks at Mr. Mendez, who turns from pale to crimson in about two seconds.
    “ Por dios, Ma.” Moch rolls his eyes.
    I laugh so hard, Moch’s cousins jump in their chairs. “What would Lillian say to that?”
    “Ahh, Liliana,” Mrs. Mendez laughs, sweeping the dishes off the table.
    I rush to the sink. “Please,” I say. “Let me wash dishes. Sit down.”
    She bumps me away. “Come back next week.” She pinches my arm and tsk tsks . “You girls all want to be skinny these days. Flacas .” She wrinkles her brow and shakes her head.
    I swallow a laugh. Skinny I am not. But I revel in the fact that somebody out there thinks I could use more calories.
    “You come back to eat. You wash dishes. Bring Liliana.”
    “I’d like that,” I say.
    She motions to a plate and I pass it to the table. We cut the sweet empanadas in half and a burst of flavor fills my mouth—sweet raisins, cinnamon, and a twist of lime in a flaky crust. Mrs. Mendez slaps Mocho’s hand away from the last one on the plate.