It was impossible to say how long the store would be closed. Besides the damage, which was considerable, there were dealings with the insurance company, which were maddening.
Carmen quickly learned there were as many answers to any given question as there were people who picked up the phone. It was a bureaucratic quagmire, starting with the process for filing the claim. Assuming she could figure that out—which she would—there would be the logistics associated with making the repairs. Contractors. Estimates. Materials. Then there would be the project itself, bound to go over budget and over time, no matter how closely she managed it.
“I can’t be here right now,” she announced one morning at breakfast, the rich aroma of her coffee filling the air before Pablo even made it downstairs. “It’s not good for either of us. The village is too small, too full of reminders. For now there’s nothing we can do here anyway, so I think we should go stay with María in Málaga. We should all be together right now.”
Pablo hadn’t seen that coming.
Sitting across from his mother, sipping his own coffee but not bothering with breakfast, he held her gaze. Having just rolled out of bed, his hair was a mess. Dark bags hung from his eyes.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
“Hijo,” Carmen began again, steadying her voice, “I cannot be here right now. The village is too small. The smell of the cinders wafts over the roofs into the plaza, and all I can see is fire. All I can see is . . . I need to be with my family—all my family. My son, my daughter, my grandchildren. Pablo, I’m suffocating. I need some time away from here.”
Pablo understood.
But he had different needs.
“You still won’t say anything?” she beseeched, her hopes again slipping away like they already had so many times.
Pablo looked down at his coffee, frustrated.
She acted like it was a choice.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she pronounced, regaining her composure. Getting up to wash her mug, she added, “I hope you’ll come, too. So we can all be together.”