Mothered (32)

Grace had the impression that evening was coming on, that they’d been out there talking for even longer than they had. But it was just the clouds moving in, insulating the sky like a layer of foam. There were rare moments in a relationship when Grace felt like a character in a video game, ascending to a glorious level she’d previously considered unattainable. She felt like that now, after sharing so much with Miguel. For all the fun times they’d had and in all the ways they’d been there for each other, Grace rarely got vulnerable. It wasn’t a place she liked to be. Miguel had been a good listener, not once falling back in disbelief or waving away her anxiety. Jackie had suggested she talk to someone, and while Grace knew she meant a professional, opening up to Miguel offered more immediate gratification.

Now that he was aware, he wanted her to keep him apprised of the dreams, as if they were symptoms of a logical malady that would yet make sense. Grace mused that her predicament was like a very obscure version of Name That Tune. Miguel could usually guess a song from a handful of notes, but the whys of Grace’s nightmares needed a few more measures. At least she didn’t have to puzzle through it alone now.

They’d been talking for so long that Grace was almost ready to eat again.

“Remember that time we went to Ritter’s for lunch,” she said, “and stayed so long we ended up getting dinner too?”

“I miss restaurants,” Miguel replied, wistful. “Feeling safe inside. Doing normal things.”

“Me too.”

“As much as I’d love to stay, Coco’s mad at me and needs some lap time.”

“I understand.” And as much as she wanted to spend the evening with him, a weariness was settling in. Maybe she’d have a snack and take a nap.

They carried their dirty dishes and garbage into the house. This time, to Grace’s relief, Jackie was squirreled away in her room.

“Oh I’m so scatterbrained, I almost forgot!” Miguel grabbed her hand and practically dragged her into the dining room. “Wait here, I have a present for you.”

She obediently stood there, arms crossed, amused, and waited as he dashed out the front door. She heard his car door slam shut a minute later, and then Miguel called in from the porch.

“Shut your eyes!”

And she obediently shut her eyes, exponentially more amused.

“Don’t open them.” He breezed past her. “Okay. Open. Look.”

He was standing on the far side of the dining room table, holding an unframed canvas—large, with brilliant streaks of color—against her wall.

Grace’s mouth dropped open as she gasped.

“Do you like it?” Miguel asked eagerly.

“I. Love. It.” She was almost speechless and could tell how much that pleased Miguel. The painting was greater in size than most of his work, and though it was still abstract, she saw a landscape emerging through the bolts of color. “Miguel . . . I don’t even know what to say. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re so talented. I’m going to hang it up right now, but first, I need to give you a hug.”

Miguel set the painting on the floor and opened his arms to receive her. They squeezed each other long and hard.

“Thank you. For everything,” she said. “You make everything better. That’s why Carolina couldn’t do her wedding without you.”

“Aw, thank you. And don’t worry, we’ll get your situation sorted. I’ll bring you some Nighty Night tea tomorrow. Banish those bad dreams.”

As he walked to his car, Grace blew him kisses from the porch. “Give Coco some cheek rubs from me.”

“I will.”

She watched him drive away, and waved, even when he was too distant to see her. “I’m becoming an old gramma in a Hallmark movie,” she muttered, heading back inside. But it made her genuinely sad to see him go.

Fortunately her mother hadn’t moved the tools from the utility drawer where Grace kept all the random-but-useful things. She hammered a nail in the wall, just where Miguel had displayed his painting. It looked good there and really transformed the dining room, but as she stood back and admired it, she wondered if she shouldn’t put the painting where she could see it more often—the living room, or perhaps her bedroom.

She returned the hammer to its drawer and pondered what to grab for a snack. Everything in the refrigerator looked too organic and healthy. The pie beckoned to her from its place on the counter. A bowl of cereal might be a slightly better choice, but she’d only eaten breakfast food so far that day. She ignored the snarky inner critic who pointed out that she’d also already had pie, and there were a thousand ways to justify it: the pie was easy to grab and go; she was losing weight without even trying; anything freshly baked was a rare treat.

Plate in hand, her slice was half-eaten before she reached the top of the stairs. As she started to close her bedroom door, ready to hibernate for a few hours, she heard a melody coming from her mother’s room. Humming.

Jackie was humming the song Grace had heard in her dream. The song Hope had been humming as she fled from home.





21


When Grace awakened, a lavender sky was visible through her window and she smelled ozone in the air. Rain was coming. She was glad she hadn’t slept too long—it wasn’t dark out yet—but she felt so off schedule she couldn’t quite tell what day it was. Her laptop sulked on her desk like a neglected lover, but she wasn’t quite ready to give it, or the damsels, her attention. After a protracted stretch, she stepped into her flip-flops. She should’ve brought the card table and chairs in right after Miguel left, but if she was lucky she could still beat the rain.