Pretty Things
Mama's high heels
Cherry lipstick
And a goodwill dress
Play pretending
Dance for the mirror
A fairytale princess
The memory is fuzzy around the edges, soft like an interrupted dream.
She's six, seven, no more than eight, Theresa figures, and the red of the lipstick somehow makes her brown eyes stand out huge in her small face. The much too big heels clomp against the floor as she twirls her way toward the tall mirror, far from the satisfying click they make for Mama, but she isn't fazed in the least, her young mind and heart swept away to far-off lands.
She's a princess, just like Cinderella, and her prince awaits her.
Over her shoulder, Whitney's small face is pinched with worry, and her voice is a hushed whisper as she wrings her hands. "You're not supposed to…"
"Lady Whitney," Theresa cuts her off, tugging her forward with a giggle, the pair standing side by side. "Is my horse ready?"
Whitney frowns and corkscrew curls go flying as she shakes her head at Theresa, a protest on her lips that soon becomes trapped in her throat at the sight that greets them in the reflection of the mirror.
Simone's smile is wide, Kay's toothless smirk even bigger.
Only Miguel doesn't smile, his frown bordering on a pout. On his hands and knees, his eyebrows somehow manage to scowl at them beneath the fringe of his mama's new mop-head. Hanging loosely around his neck are pink ribbon reins. What looks to be a bath towel covers his back as a saddle. The biggest indignity though, is the feather duster tail pinned to the seat of his jeans.
Little hand to her mouth, Jessica giggles at them from the open doorway as Theresa greets her royal steed.
"Take me to my prince," Theresa commands, approaching her kid brother with her head held high.
"Aw, Theresa, do I have to?" Miguel whines, but nevertheless complies. A promise is a promise, just like Kay said, and anyway, he's sorely outnumbered, the only guy in the house with Luis not home. He grunts under Theresa's weight and nearly crumples to the floor weakly with embarrassment when even Whitney can't hide her smile, but he dutifully plays along, even mustering up a pitiful whinny, as he travels the endless hallway to Theresa's imaginary prince.
Unnoticed in the shadows, Mama watches them, fondness lighting her eyes and a smile threatening to break free.
The memory is fuzzy around the edges, and while she remembers Mama's arrival dispelling the enchanting spell of their play, she doesn't remember that and decides it must have been a dream.
The dress's green fabric is faded but it flutters and seems to float in the triangle of afternoon sunlight spilling in from the window.
Carefully folding it and holding it close, Theresa breathes in the faint scent of her mother's perfume. "Oh, Mama," she cries, while nearby, her prince waits patiently.
It's only natural
Tables turning
And gracefully I'll learn
How to cradle
The one who raised me
Who'll be too fragile for this world
Sheridan's voice is soft with a strangely musical lilt as she reads letters filled with childish scrawl. Full of tears also, for she stumbles over simple words and straightforward sentences, struggling not to show her grief.
Luis has already said his goodbyes, leading Marty out by the shoulder.
The sullen teenager act had only cracked when five year-old Sophie had climbed into Marty's lap, new shadows darkening her lively eyes, and sought out his much larger hand. Now he cries, in the company of his father, his sister, his cousins, and his friends, and struggles to find comfort where only sadness lurks.
The floorboards groan slightly beneath Theresa's heavy steps, and the rocking chair creaks as Sheridan rises. She can visualize the vivid splashes of color the bouquets paint the room with behind her closed eyelids as she accepts her sister-in-law's hug. She feels her heart twist as Sheridan bends to kiss the paper-thin cheek and leaves.
A feeble hand twitches, and the gasping breaths become uneven. Glittering dark eyes open and travel across the room.
Theresa recognizes the moment her mother sees her, witnesses the deep, steadying breath she takes before she lifts a hand to her face and pulls the bothersome tubing from her nose. Without thought, Theresa falls into the role of parent and gently scolds as she approaches the bed, "Mama, the oxygen's only there to make you more comfortable, help you breathe better." The graying hair is still thick beneath her soothing hands, but the voice that escapes the chapped lips is a pale imitation of the one Theresa remembers from her childhood. Still, an undercurrent of steel shines through, and she leans closer to listen.
"Mi hija." The whispered endearment scratches its way past a parched throat, and the hand that curves around Theresa's cheek is weak. "My Theresita."
The trembling smile claws at Theresa's defenses, and the first tears she has let her mother see since the terminal diagnosis mere months ago, spring forth, slipping down her cheeks. "Shh, Mama." Her mother's breath bathes the fingers Theresa places against her mouth. "Don't talk. Save your strength."
A harsh cough wracks the frail body then, and there is no protest when the tubing returns where it belongs. Thin shoulders curl into themselves, and the cough fades into a moan. Pained eyes find her daughter's face again and send out a wordless plea.
Theresa lets down the side rails with little difficulty and crawls into the bed, wrapping her arms tightly about her mother and cradling her close. "It's okay, Mama," she croons, lips brushing the damp forehead, her tone tight with tears. "I'm right here. I'm right here," she says, tucking the blanket around them both. "Did I tell you Jane gets her braces off next week?" She intersperses her words with kisses. "She can't wait to show off her new smile." She keeps talking, twin tracks of moisture traveling her cheeks. "You're the first person she wants to see it."
The shadows grow long, the breaths slow to fade into slumber, then rest, and there is peace.
Selfless and faithful
As good as you should be
Open and fearless
Oh what a gift you gave me
The green grass is damp with morning dew, and the birds twitter with song, their melodies sweet and reminding Theresa of the approaching spring. It's peaceful, blue skies and fluffy cotton clouds. Sophie's teddy bear smiles at her with button eyes from his guarding perch against the polished stone, and a bouquet of wildflowers seem to wave cheerfully as she kneels. The corners of Theresa eyes crinkle with fondness as she fingers the yellow rain slicker the bear wears, and she's laughing when she finally speaks. "Guess Sheridan and Sophie visited again. She's really growing up, isn't she, Mama?"
A gentle breeze strikes up, and the sun peeks out from behind a cloud.
The breeze feels like Mama's fingers lifting the hair from Theresa's neck, the sun like her smile. Settling back on her heels, Theresa returns the imagined smile. "She's got nothing on Jane though, Mama. And Little Ethan…isn't so little anymore. He's so tall. Taller than me. But Ethan likes to tease that everyone's taller than me."
"Who says I'm kidding?" Ethan emerges from the shielding shade of a nearby tree, a grin on his handsome face.
Jane shadows her father, all gangly arms and legs, dark blond ponytail bouncing with each step she takes closer to the familiar stone. Tucking her knees beneath her, she rests under her mother's sheltering arm and smiles brightly as she greets, "Hi, Grandma. Did Mom tell you it's Little Ethan's birthday?"
Theresa props her chin on the bony shoulder and looks into her daughter's sparkling eyes. "I haven't mentioned it yet."
"It's Little Ethan's birthday," Jane chatters on, oblivious to her parents' smiles. "And he got his learner's permit. Can you believe someone was crazy enough to do that?"
Theresa laughs softly at her mother's imagined response, and her teenaged son's real response, a mock outraged swipe of Jane's ponytail and a playful shove with just enough power behind it to send Jane toppling forward on her palms.
Giggling, Jane wipes her hands on her jeans legs, ignoring the very real glare sent her way via her brother. "He thinks just because he's legal now he's a good driver. Dad says he's worse than Aunt Sheridan, and Uncle Luis says she's plenty bad."
At Theresa's look, Ethan holds up a defensive hand. "Your brother said it not me." Crouching next to his wife and daughter, he picks a tiny bloom from the bouquet of wildflowers and twirls it between his fingers. "Don't worry, Pilar," he finally smiles. "It'll be a while yet before you see Luis in Heaven."
Theresa giggles beside him and Jane and, more covertly, Little Ethan soon join in.
The sun shines brighter, and the birds continue to sing as a contemplative silence falls upon the small family.
Little Ethan is the first to dare break it, a plea in his eyes as he meets his father's gaze. A grin transforms his boyish features as Ethan drops the car keys into the palm of his hand.
"Dad," Jane groans, standing up and brushing at her clothes. "Mom, maybe we should walk to the Youth Center. I know. I'll call Uncle Miguel to give me a ride on his motorcycle and you and Dad can risk life and limb."
Taking the hand Ethan offers her, Theresa stands, wearing a wry smile as she addresses her young daughter, "Do you know how many times Miguel has wrecked that motorcycle?"
"Didn't you wreck it too?" Little Ethan questions, dodging the playful punch aimed at him by his sister.
Theresa falters, but it's Ethan that poses the next inquiry, his grip on his son's shoulder solid.
"Who told you that?"
"Grandma," Little Ethan admits.
"What else did Grandma tell you?" Theresa wonders, casting one last look at her mama's stone before following behind them.
"Only that you used to pretend you were a fairytale princess in front of the mirror," Jane pipes up with a teasing grin.
"Uncle Miguel was your horse," Little Ethan smirks.
Ethan laces their hands together when she catches up to them, giving her a soft smile. He kisses the back of her hand, as the children hurry ahead of them to claim dibs on the radio station, his admission quiet and dear and voiced almost like an afterthought.
She kisses him before the words are completely out of his mouth, just to hear him repeat them, and repeat them he does.
"And I was always your prince."
***Lyrics are borrowed from a LeAnn Rimes song, Pretty Things. No infringement intended to her, her co-writers, or anyone else who has rights to the song. I'm not making any profit from this story nor do I intend to (ha). Just wanted to share the source of my inspiration for this story. And, it goes without saying, that I don't own Passions or any characters recognized therein.***