An Extra Pump of Sugar

Chapter 8

I glared at the Last Supper wall clock, begging the minute hand to hasten its voyage between John and Jesus. I even tried giving telekinesis a shot, just for the hell of it.

"You look healthy, Jailen," my grandmother said as she finished setting the table—two hours behind schedule. She'd invited the whole family over for dinner, and as much as I despised these god-awful gatherings, free food was a weakness of mine she'd learned to exploit early on in my college career.

Jay leaned back in his chair, raising his brow in genuine surprise. "¿O sí?"

"¡Sí, por supuesto! Your hair is growing back." She poked his stomach. "And you gained weight!"

"The treatment must be working," my mother decided, beaming at her brother, who shot her a close-lipped smile. She was ten years younger than Jay, but now that she was approaching sixty, she'd acquired a bold set of crow's feet and two defined smile lines. Her hair was still as black and shiny as ever, though, and age hadn't dimmed her vivacity one bit.

"God is looking out for him, mija," Lita insisted.

Jay winked at me. "Him and Ramona."

I offered him a feeble grin, but the deception gnawed  away at Carl. How long would Jay be able to keep his lie intact before the family discovered his charade? Would he ever tell them the truth about his cancer treatment? Or would he die with his secret and leave me to drown in the ensuing chaos?

We both knew the longer the lie lived, the heavier the bombshell would be. And I did not want to get caught in the shrapnel.

After taking her place at the head of the table, my grandmother reached for Papá Noe's hand, then her daughter's. Stifling a sigh, I linked hands with Jay and my father as my mother proceeded to say grace. "Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord."

I looked at Jay, the only other family member with his eyes wide open. We shared a knowing smile before glancing back at our steaming bowls of pepián de pollo—partners in crime, teammates in apostasy.

I was really going to miss that.

My mother paused. "Please, Lord, continue to watch over our family and guide them through these challenging times. Let us live happily and healthfully in Your Love. Hear our prayer, loving Father, for we ask this in Jesus' name. Amen."

"Amen," the rest of us said in unison, and I immediately began stuffing my face with rice, stew, and homemade tortillas. I'd hoped my famished display might postpone my inevitable interview, but after a few minutes of our collective praise for the traditional Guatemalan meal, Lita turned to me excitedly.

"How is e'school, Ramona?" 

"It's great. My next semester starts Monday, so I'm just getting prepped for that."

Papá Noe scrunched his nose, as if he'd tasted something sour, and I knew my interrogation was about to begin. "What do you study again? Neuroscience?"

He'd asked me that every semester since I'd first submitted college applications, and I had a feeling it had more to do with his disapproval than any early indicators of dementia. "Psychology."

"Psychology, huh? What are you gonna do with a degree like that?"

Help people with their religious trauma, was the first response that came to mind, but I chose peace. "I'm not sure yet."

The gray-haired man set down his spoon, clearing the spice from his throat. "You're not sure...you're graduating soon, aren't you?" He glanced at my father—our family's American-born gringo. "You let her waste all that money on something she doesn't like?"