14

 

 

It wasn’t until late the next morning that Pablo woke up.

He felt as though he had a hangover. The store had burned. His father had died. And now he had broken up with his girlfriend.

Or rather, she had broken up with him.

Sleep. Escape. Forget.

But he had to wake up.

No, there was more to it. He needed to actually get up. Now.

He could feel it.

He didn’t want to. Like a little boy pulling the blanket over his head to hide from the day, he resisted. He tried to will himself back to a world where, if he were lucky, he’d remember, feel, think nothing. Or, maybe instead—if he were even luckier, which he often was—maybe he’d find himself someplace else altogether, someplace where none of it had ever happened.

Get up.

It was unrelenting. Waves of anxiety urging him to action.

He didn’t understand the rush. He resented it. He wanted to ignore it.

But there was no time to waste.

Heading for the shower, he defiantly indulged in its enveloping, luxuriant warmth, almost as much of an escape as slumber itself. He brushed his teeth, unable to turn away from the mirror, Narcissus transfixed by how worn and weary he looked as opposed to how beautiful. For the first time in days, he shaved. He went downstairs and put on a pot of coffee. He walked into the living room and organized the records into deceptively neat piles. He picked up the wrappers and tissues off the floor. He folded the blanket.

Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he heard the garage door.

Right on cue.

Somehow he had known. Except he hadn’t. Not exactly.

Neither did he know what to make of it, nor would he have time to give it any more thought. For now.

A car door slamming. A hand on the doorknob.

It had only been a week and a half since his mother had left, but it felt like an eternity. Not that he missed her; at least not that he was willing to admit. It simply felt as though much longer had passed than actually had, time warping, slowing and stretching, in his self-imposed solitary confinement.

¿Hijo? ¿Estás allí? Soy yo . . .

Pablo let a spoonful of sugar cascade into his cup, grains of an hourglass, time itself, dissolving into oblivion. He was glad he had cleaned up not only himself but the house as well. He would have heard about both otherwise.

“Ah, there you are,” Carmen said, setting down her purse on an empty chair and bending over to give Pablo a kiss on each cheek. “¿Qué tal cariño?

Pablo mustered a smile.

“I needed a few things from up here. And I wanted to make sure you were doing OK.”

Pablo took a drink of coffee while his mother assessed the state of affairs. She opened a cupboard to check what was left. She looked in the refrigerator to see if anything was there at all. She poked her head in the living room, as though fearing what she might discover.

“His music,” she reminisced with a smile, before walking over to the coffee pot and pouring herself a cup. “I should have known.”

Pablo got up from the table and went into the other room. His fingers flipped through the albums with the resolve of someone searching for a contact in an old Rolodex. When he found what he was looking for, he took it out, set it on the turntable, and put the needle on the record.

As music filled the house, tears filled his mother’s eyes.

“You know just the right song, don’t you!” she scolded, wiping her eyes. “He was always singing that one. I loved it when he sang that one.”

Pablo sat back down, his own eyes clouding over as he clutched his coffee.

Several measures passed, a lone voice and a simple, poignant melody transporting them both elsewhere.

¿Cómo te va, hijo? How are you holding up? Are you doing OK?” Carmen asked, taking hold of his hand, squeezing it. “I know you’ve been hiding out, but I hear you headed up to the reserve?”

The village was so small.

More silence followed, the music filling the space between them. Carmen gently released her grip and shifted her attention back to her cup. If she looked closely enough at the smooth, caramel-colored surface, like a fortune-teller reading grounds, maybe she’d find the right words.

She took a deep breath.

“Pablo, things aren’t going well with the store. The insurance company isn’t on our side. They keep wanting me to prove things and show them documents and justify numbers. They keep debating what’s covered by the policy and what’s not—even though it looks like it’s all right there in black and white to me. I’m really worried. I don’t know how this is all going to end.”

Pablo reached across the table, reciprocating his mother’s gesture of shortly before and taking her hand.

Their eyes met, more tears welling up in hers.

“There’s something else I’m worried about,” she said after another silent exchange. “Mercedes said things aren’t going well between you and Rosa—she said you broke up?”

Pablo took back his hand.

“How long is it going to be like this, hijo?” his mother pleaded. “Can’t you see what you’re doing? Can’t you see your family and friends are worried sick about you?”

Pablo got up from the table and took his cup over to the sink.

“We’re all suffering,” she continued, undeterred. “I’m grieving, too. He was your father, but he was my husband. We need to be there for each other, but you’re shutting everyone out.”

He wished she hadn’t come.

“I’m going to grab some things, then I’m meeting some of the gals for lunch. I really hope you’ll think about coming down to Málaga. The kids keep asking about you, and the change of scenery would do you some good. I’m sure of it.”