Kevin Died

13. Trust

13. Trust

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Mom had prepared Sopa de Pata, a popular soup in El Salvador and it happened to be one of my personal favorites.

I took my seat at the dinner table, the others following suit soon after.

I grabbed my spoon, ready to dig in, but mom shot me a warning look that told me I was forgetting something she valued.

"You know better, Ricky," she said.

I set the spoon back down.

She motioned for everyone to hold hands. With a roll of my eyes I complied, grabbing hold of my dad and mom's hand. Across from me, Raymond grabbed Dad's and I didn't miss the uncomfortable look that came over both Mom and Raymond's face for that split second before also holding each other's hand.

With that, Mom then led the prayer in Spanish. Raymond didn't speak the language, but he'd at least learned the words to say a long time ago. I went along half-heartedly. My mind was preoccupied.

When it was over, we were then able to eat.

Dad had taken all but one spoon-full before he was complementing Mom.

"You've done it again," he said with a smile.

"I think I'm especially good at this soup," Mom replied. "Making it for Ricardo so much has enabled me to perfect the recipe."

I also took a spoon-full, ensuring to get a lot of beans before eating it. I don't exaggerate when I say that it tastes like Heaven.

"I've never heard him complain," Dad agreed.

"Unlike Kevin," I added without thinking.

I felt their gazes on me before I looked up to see them. I swallowed.

"It's just..." I searched my mind for the words. "He was never a big fan of Sopa de Pata. Remember when Coco was still around?"

Coco was the name of the family dog. She was a brown colored chihuahua and we got her as a puppy. I was six and Kevin was eight at the time. It was just a little while after I had been adopted.

The year before Kevin went missing, she passed away at nine years old, a few years shy of the minimum life expectancy of a chihuahua. She died of kidney failure and our family had been devastated.

We'd never even considered getting a new dog. Coco was our family, and it almost would feel like we'd be replacing her. In reality, a new dog wouldn't be a replacement, just a new addition to the family. But it was pretty much an unspoken understanding that none of us were ready for a new dog.

"How could we ever forget?" Mom said.

"Well," I continued, "I remember a time when you made the soup and Kevin couldn't bear to finish eating it, but you insisted he finish it off." I smiled a little bit. "He gave the rest to Coco under the table when you weren't paying attention."

Dad chuckled. "He told me about that. Tried to pretend he'd finished it all on his own."

"I knew he never finished that food," Mom said, shaking her head in amusement, the smile spreading across her face relieved me. "That boy."

Raymond remained silent, but I saw the sad smile on his face too.

A silence fell over us as we were lost in the memories of all things Kevin. However for once, in a long time, it wasn't in sadness.

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I had volunteered to do the dishes.

Everyone was feeling the fatigue of a long day by the time dinner was over and done with, and feeling generous, I'd decided to handle the mess.