The Fortunate Ones
Page 49
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I crawl into bed and focus on how the soft cotton feels against my bare skin. It’s like I’m poking a bruise over and over again, but I can’t stop. In some sad way, the pain feels like my only connection left to him.
After that, I never call again, and the days add together to form weeks, and then months start to divide now and the moment when we last spoke. It finally gets to a point where it would be really awkward to reach out again, and that moment brings with it a fresh wave of heartache, almost like I know I’m crossing the finish line, and once I do, there’s no going back. Luciana is perceptive during those weeks, doing her best to distract me.
We explore the city together after I pick the girls up from school each day. On weekends, we set our sights on a new destination, either a museum or a park. We love to bring a blanket and lie outside in the early afternoon. We all get tan from walking around outside so much, and the girls tell me I’m “prettier than I’ve ever been”. It’s a sweet compliment to hear from two preteen girls, considering they’re the most brutally honest focus group demographic in existence. For instance, they once told me I should never wear pale yellow. “It makes you look like rotten milk.” Alrighty then.
The weather turns chilly, and I’m supposed to go home for the holidays. My family misses me—Ellie most of all—but I beg out of it. I’m not ready to leave Spain; I’ve put so much work into forming a life here, but it’s so tenuous. Stepping back into my old life, even for a few weeks, feels like it would be a major setback. So, instead, I stay and celebrate the holidays with Diego and Nicolás and the girls. Those weeks are extra special. We decorate a tree in early December and sip hot chocolate every night after dinner. It gets to the point where I can’t stand the sight of a mini marshmallow, which, for me, is saying something. On Christmas morning, they surprise the girls and me with matching aquamarine bikes, and we make promises to use them every day this spring. I have visions of exploring the city on two wheels, and I’m giddy thinking about it.
During the coldest nights, Luciana sneaks up to sleep in my bed with me. Her dads want me to set boundaries with her, but I can’t work up the nerve to do it. She’s the absolute worst person to share a bed with—her feet end up near my face more nights than not—but nights are the loneliest for me, and with her there, it’s easy to forget that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When I first moved to Spain, I toyed with the idea of inviting my mom to visit. Honestly, I didn’t expect her to actually take me up on it, but in that first year, she visits me three times. I even take a month off and we travel through Europe together, just the two of us. It’s painfully awkward for the first few days as we readjust to being around one another 24/7. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells, careful not to talk too much or too little. At dinner, when I want red wine but she wants white, I acquiesce. When she wants to tour the Parthenon but I want to head back to the hotel for an afternoon nap, I down an espresso and brave the crowds for her. I’m aware of how much shampoo I use when I shower. I deliberately let her take the side of the bed she prefers. It’s exhausting and draining, and after the first week, I think I’m going to have a nervous breakdown, but each day, I grow a little more comfortable in my own skin. I push back and assert myself more and more, testing the limits of our reconstructed relationship.
By the time we’re a few weeks into the trip, I finally realize she isn’t going to ditch me just because I’d rather eat pasta than share salmon with her. It’s a good revelation to come to because if I have to stuff another bite of bland fish into my mouth, I’m going to barf. After that, the trip really settles into place. We spend long evenings chatting at small cafes, people watching in between our conversations. Sometimes we talk about the past, a little at a time, until one evening, after a few glasses of wine, I work up the courage to ask her if she ever regretted leaving us.
She frowns, seemingly confused by the question. “I never thought of it like that, like I was leaving you.”
I laugh awkwardly. “Well…you did.”
Her shoulders droop as she tilts her head, her light brown eyes studying me sadly. “I gave you and your sister a choice. I wanted you to come with me.”
I shake my head. I don’t remember that.
“Obviously your father and I couldn’t stay together after I had the affair with Jorge. I moved out of the house and asked you if you wanted to come with me.”
“Yeah, once.”
And I obviously turned her down. In those early days, Ellie and I resented her for tearing our family apart.
“No. I asked you over and over again if you were sure you wanted to live with your father. You and Ellie insisted, so I lived with Jorge in Austin for two years, hoping the two of you would come around once you were ready to talk.”
“I don’t remember this,” I say on a weak whisper.
She sighs and glances away. “You were young.”
“I thought you left us and went straight into the Peace Corps.”
“No, we didn’t leave until you were in high school.”
“What?!”
How has time twisted so much of my memory? I always remember her leaving when I was younger, or maybe I just assumed she did.
I always think back on that time in my life with resentment. I carried a bitterness about the fact that she could pick up and leave us so quickly. She tells me she wanted to take me along with her during her first Peace Corps assignment, but my father thought it would be better for Ellie and me to stay in Austin and finish school the normal way.
I’m shocked into silence, my brain working overtime to try to reconcile my memories with reality. I decide to push a little further and ask if she ever resented us, if maybe she would have preferred a life with no children. At that, she reaches across the table for my hands and squeezes them tightly, imploring me to listen to her.
“I love you and Ellie so much. I wanted you from the very first moment I found out I was pregnant.” She leans forward and levels her gaze with me to ensure that I’m listening. “Do you hear me?”
My throat is too tight to speak, so I nod.
“My affair with Jorge was terrible and I regret hurting you and your father, but you have to know it had nothing to do with you or Ellie.” She smiles and quickly wipes the tear rolling down her cheek. “I love being your mom, and I know there are times where I’ve really sucked at it. I’m still learning, but I want you to know that you’ve always been first in my heart. Always.”
It’s the longest, most exhausting night of my life. The conversation ends with me crying against her shoulder, accepting her apologies and promising to leave the past in the past. When we leave the restaurant with her arm slung around my shoulder, it really feels like we’re turning over a new leaf.
The last week of our trip, Ellie flies over to join us. We spread those seven days out along the Amalfi Coast, lounging on the beach and eating enough pasta that we all have to casually unzip our jeans beneath the table. It’s a healing and bonding trip, one that will undoubtedly change everything that comes after it.
I return to Spain invigorated and ready to jump back into work. It’s been almost a year and a half since I first left Austin, and I’ve never felt more in control of my life and destiny. I have goals for the next few months. Fall is upon us, and I remember how nice it was this time last year. Luciana, Olive, and I sit up in my room, mapping out new destinations around the city. I don’t let them use Google Maps to figure out how to get around—sometimes, all we take is a handful of jotted notes, a compass, and a sense of adventure. The weather has already turned too cold for the beaches, but that won’t stop us from taking our bikes out nearly every day. I want to take in more of the architecture and Olive agrees, but Luciana would rather eat her way through the city one deep fried pastry at a time. I’m willing to oblige them both.
We settle on taking a cooking class together every Friday night for a few months. The girls manage to make fancy Spanish cuisine without causing permanent property or bodily damage; this constitutes success in my book. As for me, I manage to catch the attention of the very single, very flirty cooking instructor. He tastes my food and tells me enthusiastically that I’m the best student in the class. There’s an actual chef in the class, so I know he’s flirting, not to mention I burn half of my dishes while trying to keep Olive’s pyrotechnic proclivities at bay. Once, when I turned my back for one second, she piped the flame on her classroom stove as high as it would go. The only casualty was Luciana’s right eyebrow, which I proceeded to recreate with a brow pencil for two months until the hairs regrew. By the end, when Diego and Nicolás are none the wiser, I reflect on how frightening it is that these little girls can keep a secret of that magnitude. God help their future husbands.
After that, I never call again, and the days add together to form weeks, and then months start to divide now and the moment when we last spoke. It finally gets to a point where it would be really awkward to reach out again, and that moment brings with it a fresh wave of heartache, almost like I know I’m crossing the finish line, and once I do, there’s no going back. Luciana is perceptive during those weeks, doing her best to distract me.
We explore the city together after I pick the girls up from school each day. On weekends, we set our sights on a new destination, either a museum or a park. We love to bring a blanket and lie outside in the early afternoon. We all get tan from walking around outside so much, and the girls tell me I’m “prettier than I’ve ever been”. It’s a sweet compliment to hear from two preteen girls, considering they’re the most brutally honest focus group demographic in existence. For instance, they once told me I should never wear pale yellow. “It makes you look like rotten milk.” Alrighty then.
The weather turns chilly, and I’m supposed to go home for the holidays. My family misses me—Ellie most of all—but I beg out of it. I’m not ready to leave Spain; I’ve put so much work into forming a life here, but it’s so tenuous. Stepping back into my old life, even for a few weeks, feels like it would be a major setback. So, instead, I stay and celebrate the holidays with Diego and Nicolás and the girls. Those weeks are extra special. We decorate a tree in early December and sip hot chocolate every night after dinner. It gets to the point where I can’t stand the sight of a mini marshmallow, which, for me, is saying something. On Christmas morning, they surprise the girls and me with matching aquamarine bikes, and we make promises to use them every day this spring. I have visions of exploring the city on two wheels, and I’m giddy thinking about it.
During the coldest nights, Luciana sneaks up to sleep in my bed with me. Her dads want me to set boundaries with her, but I can’t work up the nerve to do it. She’s the absolute worst person to share a bed with—her feet end up near my face more nights than not—but nights are the loneliest for me, and with her there, it’s easy to forget that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When I first moved to Spain, I toyed with the idea of inviting my mom to visit. Honestly, I didn’t expect her to actually take me up on it, but in that first year, she visits me three times. I even take a month off and we travel through Europe together, just the two of us. It’s painfully awkward for the first few days as we readjust to being around one another 24/7. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells, careful not to talk too much or too little. At dinner, when I want red wine but she wants white, I acquiesce. When she wants to tour the Parthenon but I want to head back to the hotel for an afternoon nap, I down an espresso and brave the crowds for her. I’m aware of how much shampoo I use when I shower. I deliberately let her take the side of the bed she prefers. It’s exhausting and draining, and after the first week, I think I’m going to have a nervous breakdown, but each day, I grow a little more comfortable in my own skin. I push back and assert myself more and more, testing the limits of our reconstructed relationship.
By the time we’re a few weeks into the trip, I finally realize she isn’t going to ditch me just because I’d rather eat pasta than share salmon with her. It’s a good revelation to come to because if I have to stuff another bite of bland fish into my mouth, I’m going to barf. After that, the trip really settles into place. We spend long evenings chatting at small cafes, people watching in between our conversations. Sometimes we talk about the past, a little at a time, until one evening, after a few glasses of wine, I work up the courage to ask her if she ever regretted leaving us.
She frowns, seemingly confused by the question. “I never thought of it like that, like I was leaving you.”
I laugh awkwardly. “Well…you did.”
Her shoulders droop as she tilts her head, her light brown eyes studying me sadly. “I gave you and your sister a choice. I wanted you to come with me.”
I shake my head. I don’t remember that.
“Obviously your father and I couldn’t stay together after I had the affair with Jorge. I moved out of the house and asked you if you wanted to come with me.”
“Yeah, once.”
And I obviously turned her down. In those early days, Ellie and I resented her for tearing our family apart.
“No. I asked you over and over again if you were sure you wanted to live with your father. You and Ellie insisted, so I lived with Jorge in Austin for two years, hoping the two of you would come around once you were ready to talk.”
“I don’t remember this,” I say on a weak whisper.
She sighs and glances away. “You were young.”
“I thought you left us and went straight into the Peace Corps.”
“No, we didn’t leave until you were in high school.”
“What?!”
How has time twisted so much of my memory? I always remember her leaving when I was younger, or maybe I just assumed she did.
I always think back on that time in my life with resentment. I carried a bitterness about the fact that she could pick up and leave us so quickly. She tells me she wanted to take me along with her during her first Peace Corps assignment, but my father thought it would be better for Ellie and me to stay in Austin and finish school the normal way.
I’m shocked into silence, my brain working overtime to try to reconcile my memories with reality. I decide to push a little further and ask if she ever resented us, if maybe she would have preferred a life with no children. At that, she reaches across the table for my hands and squeezes them tightly, imploring me to listen to her.
“I love you and Ellie so much. I wanted you from the very first moment I found out I was pregnant.” She leans forward and levels her gaze with me to ensure that I’m listening. “Do you hear me?”
My throat is too tight to speak, so I nod.
“My affair with Jorge was terrible and I regret hurting you and your father, but you have to know it had nothing to do with you or Ellie.” She smiles and quickly wipes the tear rolling down her cheek. “I love being your mom, and I know there are times where I’ve really sucked at it. I’m still learning, but I want you to know that you’ve always been first in my heart. Always.”
It’s the longest, most exhausting night of my life. The conversation ends with me crying against her shoulder, accepting her apologies and promising to leave the past in the past. When we leave the restaurant with her arm slung around my shoulder, it really feels like we’re turning over a new leaf.
The last week of our trip, Ellie flies over to join us. We spread those seven days out along the Amalfi Coast, lounging on the beach and eating enough pasta that we all have to casually unzip our jeans beneath the table. It’s a healing and bonding trip, one that will undoubtedly change everything that comes after it.
I return to Spain invigorated and ready to jump back into work. It’s been almost a year and a half since I first left Austin, and I’ve never felt more in control of my life and destiny. I have goals for the next few months. Fall is upon us, and I remember how nice it was this time last year. Luciana, Olive, and I sit up in my room, mapping out new destinations around the city. I don’t let them use Google Maps to figure out how to get around—sometimes, all we take is a handful of jotted notes, a compass, and a sense of adventure. The weather has already turned too cold for the beaches, but that won’t stop us from taking our bikes out nearly every day. I want to take in more of the architecture and Olive agrees, but Luciana would rather eat her way through the city one deep fried pastry at a time. I’m willing to oblige them both.
We settle on taking a cooking class together every Friday night for a few months. The girls manage to make fancy Spanish cuisine without causing permanent property or bodily damage; this constitutes success in my book. As for me, I manage to catch the attention of the very single, very flirty cooking instructor. He tastes my food and tells me enthusiastically that I’m the best student in the class. There’s an actual chef in the class, so I know he’s flirting, not to mention I burn half of my dishes while trying to keep Olive’s pyrotechnic proclivities at bay. Once, when I turned my back for one second, she piped the flame on her classroom stove as high as it would go. The only casualty was Luciana’s right eyebrow, which I proceeded to recreate with a brow pencil for two months until the hairs regrew. By the end, when Diego and Nicolás are none the wiser, I reflect on how frightening it is that these little girls can keep a secret of that magnitude. God help their future husbands.
