Tortilla Sun by Jennifer Cervantes Read Free Book Online Page B

ingredient when someone really needs it.”
    “Like when would they need it?”
    “Well, Maggie likes to eat them when Gip is extra pale and she is worried. Mrs. Gomez next door ate so many when her husband died that now she looks like a stuffed
taco
.” Nana folded in the secret ingredient with her hands. “And sometimes it has nothing to do with sadness. Maybe someone’s heart just needs a blessing.”
    “Do you know when someone needs it because you’re a
cura
?” I asked.
    She laughed. “You mean
curandera
?”
    “Yeah, that.”
    She sprinkled flour onto the pine table and made balls from the dough. I pinched off a piece and copied her motions. “
Muy bien
, Izzy. Slowly. Patiently.”
    Next, she pressed her wooden rolling pin into one of the balls, turning and flattening it. “Oh,
mija
, you are full of such good questions.
Sí
, I am a
curandera
. I know the old ways of finding and blending herbs to ease pain and heal others. Who told you that?”
    “Mateo.”
    “Ah. So you two are friends?”
    I hoped so, but wasn’t sure what he thought of me after the way I had freaked out.
    “I guess. So what kind of sickness? Like stomachaches?” I rolled my lopsided little ball with the rolling pin, but it didn’tbecome round like Nana’s. The misshapen dough looked more like the state of Texas. “Mine doesn’t look like yours.”
    Nana smiled and kept working. “Just be patient. Try again.”
    She told me all the sickness she cured, like stomachaches, headaches, rashes, allergies—those sorts of things.
    “What about a broken heart? Can you cure that?” I pushed the rolling pin against the dough hard and quick, thinking about Mom.
    Nana stopped pressing and wiped her hands across the front of her apron. “The
tortillas
can open the heart a little at a time, to let out the sadness or fill up the emptiness. But only if the person is ready.”
    “How do you know if you’re ready?”
    Nana raised her fist over her chest. “You know in here, like something is missing.”
    “Like how I feel about my dad? And how it’s worse because Mom never wants to talk about him?”
    Nana nodded and squinted like she was thinking hard about this. Soft wrinkles formed around her eyes. “
Sí, mija
.”
    I waited for her to shut me down, like Mom, but she nodded like it was all right for me to keep going. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The other night at the
fiesta
, someone said ‘she hits like her
papá
.’ What did that mean?”
    Nana motioned toward the uncooked
tortillas
. “Hand me those so I can put them on the
comal
.” I stood up and handed them to her one at a time as she snapped them on and off the flat, iron pan with the speed of a frog’s tongue catching its prey. I knew I’d never be as fast as Nana.
    She stacked the
tortillas
in a basket. Before they even cooled, I grabbed one off the top and slathered butter all over it, then drizzled honey in the center and rolled it tight.
    We sat at the long table in the kitchen and enjoyed our hard work. The first bite tasted warm and earthy. It eased its way into my stomach and filled me up.
    Nana swiped her pinky across a dot of honey on the table. “It’s only natural for a girl to want to know her father.”
    I pulled another
tortilla
from the basket on the table and drizzled it with honey.
    “Your mama was very young when she met him.” Nana sighed. “I didn’t approve of him at first.”
    “Why not?” I asked.
    “Oh, I always dreamed she would marry a Hispanic Catholic like me and my mama and hers before that.” She looked up at me through a lock of salt-and-pepper hair that had fallen from her bun. “Gip was right, you look a lot like him.”
    “I do?” The sweet honey coated my insides.
    “Yes, you have his cheekbones.” She moved my hair from my face. “And his eyes,
exactamente
. He was very handsome, your father,” she continued.
    “Why won’t Mom talk about him?”
    “She only wants to protect