far off the mark. Although Mom’s not Colombian like the character, she’s drop-dead gorgeous with a voice that could shatter every plate in a china store.
Blabbering on in Spanish, she hugs me tight enough to restrict my airflow, then drags me down the hall toward the kitchen. “Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“On his way home from the hospital. He just finished surgery, so expect Grumpy Papa tonight.”
I’m used to Grumpy Papa. Some surgeons ride a high after they operate, but Dad is always exhausted after a long surgery, and he gets cranky when he’s tired. Like a toddler. But he deserves to be cut some slack, because—hello—he just saved somebody’s life. Brain surgeons are allowed a free bitchiness pass, as far as I’m concerned.
“Are you hungry?” Mom demands, then answers her own question. “Of course you are! Sit down so I can feed you, mami. How is school going?”
“Good.” I fill her in on my classes and the project with Hunter, while she unloads Tupperware containers from the fridge.
If my visit hadn’t been last minute, I have no doubt she would’ve cooked me a feast. Instead, I’m relegated to the leftovers from whatever feast she cooked for Dad yesterday. And it’s spectacular. Soon the cedar work island is laden with dishes, most of them Cuban, with a few of Dad’s American favorites sprinkled in.
My mouth waters as each new item emerges from the microwave. There’s shredded beef seasoned to perfection with veggies and olives and served on brown rice. Cuban chicken stew with raisins to give it a bit of sweetness. Stuffed peppers. Fried beans. The roasted potatoes and garlic carrots that Dad likes.
“Oh my goodness, Mom,” I declare while inhaling her food. “I’ve missed your cooking so much.” Pieces of rice fly out of my mouth as I talk.
“Demi,” she chides.
“Hmmmm?” I mumble through a mouthful of spicy beef.
She flips her glossy brown hair over one shoulder. “Of all the traits you could’ve inherited from your father, his poor table manners is what it had to be?”
“What? You should take it as a compliment that we both enjoy your cooking.”
“Maybe you can enjoy it with your mouth full,” she suggests. “And leave some carrots for your father.” She slaps my hand when I try to stick my fork in the carrot container.
Speaking of my father, he appears in the doorway without warning. I hadn’t heard him come in. Granted, that’s probably because I’m chewing so loudly.
“Hi baby,” he says happily. Enormous arms encircle me from behind as he places a kiss on the top of my head
“Hey Daddy.” I swallow some more rice.
He greets my mother, which is always a fun sight to see. Standing at six foot five, Dad is a bald black guy with arms like tree trunks, palms like oven mitts, and long but surprisingly delicate fingers. Or I guess not surprisingly, seeing as how nimble digits are required when poking around in somebody’s skull. And then there’s Mom, who’s all of five feet, with huge boobs and shiny hair and the Latin temper she passed on to me. They’re the cutest couple ever, and I adore my little family. Being an only child means I don’t have to share anything with a sibling, including my parents’ attention.
Dad joins me at the counter and digs into the leftovers. Mom, who has trouble staying still, eventually sits down too and nibbles on an olive while Dad tells us about his surgery. The patient was a construction worker whose skull nearly got crushed by a falling steel beam. He wasn’t wearing his hardhat, and now he might have permanent brain damage. It’s heartbreaking. Which is one of the reasons I’d never want to be a surgeon—that and I don’t have the hands for it. My fingers get trembly when I’m nervous, and I can’t imagine a more anxiety-inducing situation than sawing into a human being’s skull.
The topic once again shifts to my classes, which I list for my father. “Organic Chem, bio, math, and Abnormal Psych.”
“Organic Chemistry was always a favorite of mine,” Dad reveals, sipping on a glass of water Mom gets for him.
“It’s my least favorite,” I confess. “Right now I’m having the most fun with the psychology class. It’s so fascinating.”
“Are you taking physics next semester?”
I grimace. “Unfortunately.”
Dad laughs. “You’ll enjoy it,” he promises. “And then wait till med school! Everything you learn there will be fascinating. Have you given more thought to that MCATs tutor? I have a good one lined up—just say the word.”