Mister surveyed the room. Another sleepless night. He rose from the bed and walked into the kitchen in the dark. He poured himself a glass of water. He put the glass to his lips and drank. He thought of rain. He thought of his father, how he told him that they were children of a God who died bleeding and crying out for water. Tonight, he felt as thirsty as his father’s God.
He walked into Vicente’s room. Newly painted. Yellow and orange. Liz had painted it—just in case. “A happy room,” she said. So many unhappy rooms in the world. So many unhappy boys. “The child who lives here is going to be very happy.” Liz was so certain. That was their job now, to make a boy happy. That’s what Sam had done for him—make him happy. And Grace, too. Grace, I don’t want to fight anymore.
He pressed his face to the wall and breathed in the smell. Vicente would be able to smell the fresh paint. He would take him in his arms and describe the room, and find a way to translate the morning light and how it made the room look like it was a candle burning in a dark room. Vicente, this is the room where we reinvent ourselves.
He sat there. In the darkness. He tried to picture his father, what he had looked like, the color of his eyes. He tried to picture Vicente. He tried to understand what it meant to see.
In the morning, he woke and found he was lying on the floor, the light flooding the room. He smiled. Liz was coming home today. He would make love to her. They would bring Vicente home for his first visit. God, the light in the room was beautiful.