InsaneJournal

oh when it all, it all falls down
Who: Chris.
What: With few other options, Chris goes home on Christmas.
Where: Chris’ childhood home in L.A.
When: Backdated to Dec. 25.

Chris pulled up in front of the pueblo-style, one story house, put the car into park, and killed the engine. He sat for a moment, studying the front that was at once both eerily familiar and yet so distant: the black, iron bar gate over the door, the neatly cleaned windows that had, at one time, flowers hanging from their frames. The stucco-style walls, their yellow-orange color, the red tile roof. The front lawn was gravel, an attempt to save on water costs in rain-starved southern California.

He was early enough that his mother’s car was still in the drive way, a practical four-door hatchback in faded gold that had seen a few owners before its most current. He pictured his mother puttering around in the kitchen inside, finishing decorating tortell or cookies or tamales or whatever she’d decided to take to the nursing home before collecting his abuela for Christmas Day mass. Chris sighed, straightened the tie he’d picked out (burgundy that stood out on the soft cream of his shirt, both peeking free of the black jacket hugging his body), and got out of the car.

He’d opted for his brace for this visit, to keep things simple. It strained against the dark gray pants he was wearing (new, barely broken in and thus unyielding against the metal as it tried to stretch the fabric) as he approached the front gate and the screen and door behind it. For a minute, he thought about ringing the doorbell, but that would only be acknowledging the distance he’d allowed to grow between himself and everyone around him. He pulled the gate and screen doors wide, and then let himself inside his childhood home.

Everything was where it had been the last time he’d seen it—the front door led directly into the living room, a beaten off-white couch set against one wall, diagonal from the small TV on an oak stand. A multicolored blanket was thrown against one corner of it, over an arm. Pictures of Chris, of him and his mother, of her and him with his grandparents, hung at random places on the wall—him as a smiling child, precocious, leaning toward the camera eagerly as he lapped up the attention. He paused in the entryway, immediately assaulted by the smell of warm ponche, making him salivate.

“Mama?” He called out, his shoulders shifting awkwardly under his coat. Dishware settled hard onto countertops in the out-of-sight kitchen, and then there was nothing for a moment; then his mother, Maria, leaned to one side, just visible through the doorway, stunned. She didn’t look old enough to be Chris’ mother; maybe sister, or an aunt. Still, the family resemblance was clear, even if Chris’ skin was a much lighter shade. Chris cracked the slightest of smiles on one side of his mouth, hoping he wasn’t about to be ejected.

Maria moved away from the counter and slowly approached the doorway, surprise still vividly clear on her face. Then she shook her head, moving carefully toward Chris and throwing her arms wide to pull him into a hug.

“Mijo, you should have called, if you were coming I would have made you breakfast. I’m just about to leave for church.” She pressed a sloppy kiss to Chris’ cheek, her hands pausing on his shoulders as she looked down to see his well-pressed and carefully selected outfit. “Where are you going, all dressed up like this?”

“I was…kinda hoping I could go with you,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other. Maria noted the movement and ushered him into the living room and to sitting on the familiar couch he remembered was a favorite of his abuelo. He remembered sitting on the floor, his back to the foot of the couch, his abuelo with a beer in hand as they both watched the telenovela’s his abuelo would complain endlessly about to his mother and abuela. When they came into the room, he’d switch it to a football game, then switch it back once they’d left, but Chris never imagined they didn’t already know. The house was so small, how could they not have heard the raucous sounds of cat fights and whispered words of amor?

“Of course you can come, you know your abuela would love to see you. You don’t visit her half enough, mijo,” Maria replied, taking a seat next to him. Her hand stayed on his shoulder, eventually patting down his arm as though to convince herself he was real. “You don’t come by the house as much anymore, either. Was starting to wonder if you’d just disappeared.” She laughed a little, softening her words and the worry that Chris could read as easily as clouds in the sky.

“I’m OK, mama,” he said, just as softly, though he couldn’t completely dispel the shakiness of tears that threaded through his voice. Maria squeezed his arm, her hand slipping down to his wrist as her brow furrowed.

“What’s wrong, mijo?”

Chris waffled, a million excuses immediately rising to his throat. His eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, as his gaze moved to and from her face.

“If I told you something, you wouldn’t… You wouldn’t be angry with me, right?”

Maria’s brows rose, the incredulous face reminiscent of Chris’ in certain choice moments. “Mijo, I don’t know what you could do these days that would make me mad. But out with it—you know I’m here for you.” Her thumb drew circles on the back of his hand. Chris took a deep breath, and exhaled.

“I should’ve told you this a long time ago, but, I’m… I’m gay.”

Maria’s eyes went wide, making Chris’ heart sink. He immediately prepared himself for the inevitable rejection—it was hard enough dealing with the day to day condemnation he felt from others in his community, but from his own family? That would be a different test altogether. But then, instead of the hot, angry words he expected from his mother, Maria suddenly laughed.

“Is that all? Ay, mijo, you always made such a big deal out of everything.” Her hand squeezed his wrist again, a smile sliding over her mouth as she watched his turn to be surprised. “Cristobal, I’ve always known you were going to be different. You were my son, after all, but you were mine. And you can love whoever you want to love, but just make sure you use a condom, ay?”

Chris’ face immediately reddened, the mischievous expression melding onto Maria’s face as equally familiar as her former one. “Come on now, mijo, you’re a little old for that conversation. Really, though,” she scooted closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I don’t care, honey, if you decide you wanna wear llama skins and go live in the hills. I just want you to be happy, and in one piece.” Chris immediately thought back to the first time Maria had seen him with his limp, the frightened look of disappointment crossing her face—one that had also been slightly relieved, thinking that maybe his father would be done with him once and for all.

“Now, what brought this on?” She squeezed him again, Chris melting against her familiar form once more. His lip trembled, and a few tears escaped that both his hands and hers immediately rushed up to wipe away. “Ay, mijo, que pasa?”

Chris pulled himself together, nodding. “It’s… I’m fine, mama, really, I just… I kind of expected that to go differently.”

Maria grinned. “With me? Psh, you know me. With your grandparents, well…” She rolled her eyes. “It’d be a little harder. You know they love you, though, god rest your abuelo.” She made the sign of the cross, kissing the curve of her forefinger as she looked toward the ceiling. Then she brought her attention right back to Chris.

“Now. What happened?”

Chris sniffled, nodding his head again. “I just did some more stupid shit, mama. I… I put some people in danger. I can’t… I can’t explain everything, but Kal’s mad at me, he’s barely speaking to me—”

Maria clucked her tongue. “Mijo, that boy’s always had a temper, but he’s always had your back, too. Whatever you did, I’m sure he’ll forgive you, in time. But you’re damned stubborn, you get that from me, and we’re also both very good at making the worst choices. If he knows you at all, he knows you’ll make it right in the end.” She squeezed Chris’ shoulders once more. “Is that all? You two had a fight?”

Chris shook his head; she made it sound so small, like a tiff between children. From her perspective, without all the context and the lies, it was easy to see it like that.

“I hurt someone else too. My… my boyfriend. I guess, ex-boyfriend, now.”

Maria blinked, taken a little aback. She shook her head. “Tsk, dating and you don’t even bring them home? What kind of son have I raised.” Her hand smoothed up and down his arm, still holding him as though he were a little boy again. “Like I said, mijo, you’ll make it right. And either they’ll forgive you, because they love you, or they won’t, and you’ll know it wasn’t worth your time.”

Chris listened, swallowing, letting a few more hot tears slide down his cheek.

“What if I don’t even know how to start making it right?”

His mother shook her head, smiling. “Mijo, that’s the hard part. I don’t have all the answers. But if it was worth it to you, you’ll figure it out. If you’d tell me a little more about what you did, I could help, but…” She held her free hand up in a helpless gesture, her shoulder shrugging. “It is what it is, mijo. Now, we’d better get going or we’re going to be late, and you don’t want to get your abuela started on being late…”

She leaned forward, pressing another sloppy kiss to Chris’ cheek, and then helped him rise from the couch.

“You can carry the tamales, yeah? And you’ll feel better after the service. It’s a pretty liberal church—I don’t think your abuela is too happy with it, but it’s the closest one to her nursing home… and she’ll be so happy to see you…”

Maria kept talking as she disappeared into the kitchen, her tone and body language no different from when he’d lived there. Chris felt himself relaxing, tension from days past leaving his shoulders as he walked into the entryway. The whole idea to go home had seemed like a random, wild gesture, a stab in the dark to find some way to start making himself better. He didn’t realize how much he’d needed this.

“…she’s going to tell you all about how much her roommate is keeping her awake at night with the snoring, but abuelo could fell trees with how loud he got at night so you’d think she’d be happy with how things fell out since Senora Carter passed…” Maria came out of the kitchen, carrying a brownie pan of tamales covered with tinfoil. She handed them off to Chris, and then went to a small hallway closet to grab her jacket, still talking. Chris smiled and listened, bathing in the sound.

“Mama?” He said, finally, interrupting her in the description of how unhappy she was with the food at the nursing home and was planning on volunteering the restaurant to donate weekly meals. Maria stopped, glancing at Chris expectantly. “Thanks.”

Maria smiled wide. “Of course, mijo. Now, go get in the car.” She pulled her jacket on the rest of the way, and then started half-pushing him toward the front door. “And when we get home, there’s ponche and you’re going to tell me all about this boyfriend, ex or otherwise. Comprende?”

“Si, mama,” he said, his cheeks flushing a little pink as they both headed back out into the semi-cold December day.