Colleen parked the car next to the trailer and was grateful when she heard the hum of the air conditioner. Miguel was home.
“You’re an hour late. I was getting worried about you.”
“Yeah, me too. The day was awful. It ended okay, but I seriously thought I was in mortal danger.”
Alarmed, he stopped what he was doing and came over to her. He put his arm around her, and they sat down on the couch. She was grateful for the closeness of his body and the cool air that flowed over them.
“Things got worse,” she told him.
“What happened?”
Colleen told him how upset the children were, about Rachel’s note, and how every time she looked at Cynthia, she had to hold back her own tears.
“They hate me. I’ve totally let them down. They will never believe a white woman again in their lives. You should have seen how they looked at me.”
“School will be over in two weeks, and we’re going home in eighteen days.”
Home. A place where she understood the rules, even if she didn’t always agree with them.
She told him about her meeting with Penelope. Miguel was a good listener but wasn’t one to give a lot of advice. He kept things to himself. She never had.
Colleen thought about her husband’s way of dealing with unfair situations. He just pushed forward, didn’t dwell on what he couldn’t change. He couldn’t change Castro’s broken promises and Cuba’s shift to communism. He couldn’t change his parents’ decision to flee from their beloved country or his draft status after college. He had no choice but to accept his two years in the army. Now he was ready to go home to New Jersey and start the life they had planned.
“Well, quit, then. I don’t know how you did it this long.”
“I can’t run away from this. You wouldn’t. I can handle it—I have to handle it.”
“Colleen, I don’t know what to say or how to help you.”
“Just hold me.”
All day long, she had wanted to cry. Now she could, but the tears wouldn’t come.