By Abigail Wells
In the back of the kitchen, Valéria and I sit at a stainless steel table, a magnetic rack of knives
hanging above our heads. The thermostat is broken; oftentimes we wet the hotel’s old washcloths
in cold water and wrap them around our necks. Or we take milk crates into the walk-in freezer
and sit for a while, the door cracked so we can still hear the receipt paper come through the
printer. Our manager is never here. On slow mornings, like today, we pass the time by cooking
for one another and reading books. We typically poach eggs, sprinkle chorizo on top, and slather
them in salsa verde. We roll them up into tortillas toasted over the stove’s open flame––the
runny, yellow yolks dripping onto my apron. She giggles and teases me, chanting cochina.
Sometimes I bring a small whiteboard and quiz Valéria on her vocabulary words. She takes an
English class on Wednesday afternoons––the one day each week she ever has off. Last week, her
teacher taught her how to say take it easy.
Today, after we wash the dishes, Valé takes her diary from her backpack. Yellow slips of paper
resembling brochures stick out between the pages. She piles them up and files through them,
organizing them by date. I ask her in my elementary Spanish ¿Qué son esos? Valé tells me she
sends money back to Guatemala. Ah, envías dinero a tu familia? She has told me before about
her family––seven sisters and two brothers, each a year apart. Only five years older than me, she
could be my sister. Valé doesn’t talk about her family often, even with the other housekeepers
and cooks from México, Perú, and Nicaragua. She looks at me all confused and shakes her head.
Mi familia? No, no. I can tell she wants to explain further but is struggling to find the words,
even in her mother tongue. She seems uneasy, then suddenly goes into a long-winded spiel. I try
my best to follow, but I get lost halfway through. Staring at her mouth and the way it forms each
syllable. The soft p that sounds so different in our respective languages. Her tongue hitting the
space between the roof of her mouth and the back of her teeth. Double Ls and Rs and eñes hang
in the air between us, their meanings largely lost on me. El hombre que–– and suddenly I
understand, placing my hand on her knee. Claro. She sighs and hands me the slips. Some of the
transactions are worth thousands of dollars. ¿Cuántos pesos más? I ask. I lost count, she
whispers in English.
Girlhood has looked so different for both of us. If I knew how to ask her, Valé would likely tell
me she never had one. We each have one life between us, but she has known two different
worlds. Spends each day attempting to navigate a country that will never claim her. Even if she
was allowed to move about freely, I doubt she would feel safe to. And I fear if this uncertainty of
safety is what makes us as women. I run my hand over her black, waist-length braid and hug her.
Eres muy fuerte, Valé. She squeezes me tight. Then an order comes through the printer, and we
work in silence as we always do. So in tune with each other’s bodies and where we’re moving, as
if we’ve known one another forever. As if we can read each other’s minds. I lean over the stove
and make a list in my head of all the other things that make us women. Fear. Rage. Compassion.
Strength.
Abigail Wells, 22, is pursuing a master’s degree in English from Middle Tennessee State
University. She has been published in Blue Marble Review, Bullshit Lit, Moody Zine, & Let’s
Stab Caesar!, among others. Wells was born in the heart of Mississippi, raised in the shadows of
Arizona’s Superstition Mountains, and lives in the suburbs of Nashville. Connect with her on
instagram @ebigeylwells.
Hot Pot Magazine 