I buried my face in my pillow to push away that picture of Dad in churning water at the canyon’s bottom. But it stayed. I cried. Cried like I’d never cried before. Cried so much my eyes ached and my face seemed to melt.
“Meow?” Clifford said, real gentle. He pressed my arm with his paws, but I didn’t look up. Everything I’d been holding inside since the day Dad left came gushing out.
When I finally felt empty, I lifted my head. And there was Perla’s braid. She sat on the floor, leaning back against the bed, staring at that mural.
“I know this sad,” she said.
I sat up, eyes stinging.
“Your father, he painted this, yes?”
“Yes,” I whispered. Then—even though it seemed impossible—I started crying again.
“Our fathers painted for us,” she said.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Your father, he is gone?”
“Yes.”
“Forever?”
“Yes.” It was barely a word.
She looked at her crossed legs. “In a river?”
“Yes.”
“That night, when the Immigration came, Papá, he opened the window. I climbed out. He said, ‘I will come back for you!’ But maybe he never will.”
We listened to that danged creek rub it in.
“We are friends with fathers gone,” Perla finally said.
“Gone,” I whispered.