Fade In:
SLIP BACK INTO DANIEL’S SKIN
Sunday morning, Grace wakes you early, with a surprise. Not that kind of surprise. That isn’t what she wants at all, not that she hasn’t been generous the past couple of days. How easily you’ve grown accustomed to making love first thing in the morning, and again last thing before sleep.
Don’t ever give her a choice, Daniel.
If she says no, take it.
But she hasn’t said no yet, and there are other things to love her for, even if that’s one of the best.
She’s already showered and dressed in a pretty mauve-colored skirt and flowery top. “Get up. Come on, or we’ll be late for church.”
You haven’t been to church since the last mass you attended with your mother, who was a devout Catholic. You didn’t understand everything the priest said, but you kind of enjoyed the theatrics—the music and mantras and ceremony. You weren’t even sure you believed in a higher power, but your mom surely did.
“Celebramos a Dios, que nos da la vida,” she used to say. “We celebrate God, who gives us life.”
Thinking about it—and her—drops you down on your figurative knees, and that has nothing to do with genuflecting.
“You go to church?” Lame question, dude.
She nods. “Regularly, since my dad died. You’ll come with me, right?”
It sounds like a question, but it’s probably not. She’d think less of you if you said no. In fact, she might get angry. It occurs to you, as a passing notion, that maybe she doesn’t trust you to stay here alone in her house.
Key words: she doesn’t trust you.
So maybe you can’t trust her, either.
Regardless, you agree and hurry to get ready. It would suck if something as little as this turned out to be the chink that caused a rift between you. There have been a couple of times in the last few days where she seemed ready to create the split. Maybe the more undivided time people spend together, the more uncertainties are able to intrude.
Yesterday, for example, she went to visit her friend Noelle, and left you to fend for yourself at the mall much longer than expected. Malls are good for people watching, but not much else when you have to save your meager money for food and the Laundromat. By the time she picked you up, you were fuming. And rightly so.
“Thought you got lost.”
“Sorry,” she said. “Noelle and I got to planning and time just slipped away.”
“Yes. Get this! She invited me to go to Hawaii with her family over spring break. Isn’t that awesome?”
Hawaii. That’s a long way from Tucson. “How long will you be gone?”
“Assuming my parents sign off on the trip, a week. Seven days in paradise, all expenses paid except for the new bikini.”
Oh, how that sunburned your face—way beyond pink, quickly past scarlet, all the way to charred. Bad enough you had to consider a whole week sans seeing your Grace, without thinking about all those beach bums ogling her in a bikini.
Your feelings mean nothing to her.
But you said, “Wow. That’s cool. Have you ever been there?” Her parents are flush. Surely they’ve made that trip before.
“Of course. But not mostly lacking parental supervision. I mean, her mom and dad will oversee, but it won’t be the same as being a kid, hauled along to luaus and whale-watching excursions.”
Both of which sounded pretty damn wonderful to you.
“Maybe I’ll even learn to surf!”
In her new bikini. In front of hundreds of strangers on the beach. Oh, and she’d need an instructor. One of those buff, tan surfer dudes.
No, that is not going to happen.
You’ll think of something to thwart the possibility. But right now you have to get through church.
This morning Grace does the driving, claiming she should because she knows the way to her Methodist church. Sensible, considering you’re bumping right up against the usual start time. Despite having left the Catholic Church in your dust, you fret most of the drive. You haven’t given confession in years. There’s been lots of sinning in the meantime.
The two of you hurry inside and take seats in the very back pew, just as the opening hymn is sung. You don’t even try to join in, but Grace knows the song by heart. Her voice rises, a sweet trilling soprano, and love for your angel swells.
As if recognizing the voice in back, a girl sitting a few rows up turns and waves. The person beside her shifts in her seat before shooting a curious glance over her shoulder.
You give Grace a nudge. “Who’s that?”
Grace pauses her singing long enough to answer, “The blonde is Noelle. I’m not sure who the other one is.”
Maybe it was all the talk of bikinis, but you didn’t expect Noelle to be so heavy. The wheels between your ears get to click-clacking. The noise is almost enough to drown out the announcements, delivered by a pastor with a crooked nose and white frost hair. Something about a rally tomorrow at the university.
You refocus and catch the scripture readings and most of his sermon about regular recommitment to Christ. After a few minutes, you settle into the immersive experience. The pageantry is soothing, and the service less intimidating than mass. You even take communion, tossing out a few random Hail Marys before the wafers and wine reach you.
The service has wound all the way down to the pastor walking up the aisle for the requisite foyer handshaking when your cell buzzes. You reach into your pocket and Grace whispers, “What is it?”
“The hospital. Someone called in sick and they need me to come in and work swing.”
You’ll say no to work if she’s disappointed. You’d just as soon do that anyway. What would they do, fire you? Not like it’s exactly a dream job. In fact, you have a coworker or two you wouldn’t mind never seeing again. The concept of workplace violence? You get it.
“Oh. Well, that’s okay.”
She’d rather spend the rest
of the day without you.
Maybe even with someone else.
“Of course. I know you can use the hours. You took Friday off.”
That much is true. But some little voice inside your head keeps insisting her motive is to get away from you.
The sanctuary has almost emptied. Grace tugs you to your feet as Noelle and her friend stop to say hello. “It’s good to finally meet you, Daniel.”
“Uh, yeah, you, too. Grace has told me a lot about you.”
“Really?” She actually beams.
Kind of pathetic. And so is the way she looks at Grace. She idolizes her. Sort of the way you do. The girl beside her clears her throat.
“Oh,” says Noelle. “This is Gabriella. We’ve been helping Pastor Lozano with the last-minute rally details.” She directs her follow-up question toward Grace. “You’ll be there, right?”
“At the rally? I don’t think so?”
“After all the work you’ve done on it? Why not?”
Grace glances at you, and it’s really all the answer Noelle needs. “Something came up. Why? Are you going?”
“I’ve been thinking about it. I know it’s going to be totally crazy, but that could be kind of fun. Besides, this is something I care about.”
Fun? It could be dangerous. You want Grace to stay with you instead, so you interrupt. “Unfortunately, we have other plans for tomorrow.”
Grace flicks a what are you talking about look in your direction.
Disappointed, Noelle turns her back on you and says to Grace, “Well, if you change your mind, let me know. We could go together. I’d better run. My mom’s picking me up and she’s probably waiting. Call me. Oh, did you forward those pics you promised to send me?”
“Slipped my mind. But I’ll do that right away. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
The hug she offers Grace lingers. There’s something there. Something off-putting.
Once she’s out the door and beyond earshot, Grace says, “Please don’t speak for me again. I don’t appreciate it.”
“Sorry. But we do have plans, don’t we?”
“Not really,” she huffs. “Let’s go.” When you file out past the minister, she stops to say hello. “Pastor Lozano, this is my friend Daniel.”
Up close, you can see the man is Latino beneath that silver cloud of hair. Interesting. Most Latinos you know practice Catholicism. Perhaps that’s changing.
“Good to meet you, Daniel. Nice biblical name. I hope you enjoyed the service.”
You command yourself to be polite. “Yes. Very much, thank you.”
“Aren’t you originally from Honduras?” Grace asks Pastor Lozano.
“Yes, though my family immigrated to the States when I was about your age,” he answers.
“Daniel’s mother lives in Honduras.”
Your mother abandoned you, Daniel.
Don’t talk about her.
“Last I heard, La Lima. But we haven’t communicated in a while, so I’m not sure.”
“That’s too bad. A man should know how to get in touch with his mother.”
At least he called you a man.
“Yeah, well, my living situation is a little tenuous, so it’s hard for her to catch up with me.”
Just how tenuous is none of his business. You plant your feet and cross your arms, daring him to further intrude.
But he doesn’t prod. “I see. Well, I have relatives in the Cortés region. They might be able to help find her, if you’re ever so inclined. Just let me know.”
Such unsolicited kindness makes you nervous. The good pastor wants something from you.
“Thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Oh, Daniel. You should let him help!” chimes in Grace.
Truthfully, the offer is tempting, but you cherish your privacy. Opening up your past, letting a stranger sink a shovel into the clay? Tough to embrace.
“You’re welcome to join us tomorrow at the rally. It’s pro-immigration. Maybe we can accomplish a way for your mom to return to the States.”
“Let me sleep on it.”
“Of course.” Pastor Lozano extends a hand.
You accept it, shake weakly. All the gesture means is appreciate the offer.
Grace says goodbye to the minister, stomps off toward the parking lot, firing a shot: “Why were you so rude?”
You hurry behind, catch her just this side of her car, halt her with a tender hand. “Hold on.”
She pauses at your touch, turns sharply toward you. “What?”
“Don’t be angry. I said I’d think about his offer. And I don’t believe I was rude.”
Her posture softens. Slightly. “I just don’t get you. Don’t you want to reconnect with your mom?”
A sigh seeps out in the form of a whispered whistle, if there is such a thing. “First of all, there’s no promise of that.”
“I know. But if you could find out where she is, you’d want the ability to communicate, right?”
“I’m not sure. Look, Grace. She left me here eight years ago, and while she might have believed that was what was best for me, I’m not so sure. Life is a struggle. I have to fight depression every single day. If not for you . . .”
You clamp your mouth shut. That was a major faux pas. The depression isn’t something you should admit, not even if it’s becoming more and more obvious that it’s something you might need professional help for.
Beneath a thick fringe of lashes, her eyes flip from angry to compassionate. “I know it’s hard, Daniel. But that’s not your mom’s fault. She knew you’d have more opportunities here.”
Logic is a burr in your butt.
She’s not even trying to understand you.
“I get that.” The blame game suits nobody well. “Look. I don’t have to be at work until noon. Let’s get something to eat. The smell of the cafeteria makes me queasy on an empty stomach.”
Ironic, but true. You can eat the food there when the need arises, and it has in the past. Many times. But it pays to arrive with something already taking up room in the pit.
Grace’s favorite Panera isn’t too far away, so she opts to go there. It’s sort of pricey for your wallet, but she orders a chicken panini to split, pays with her own credit card. Must be nice to have parents with bottomless pockets.
Must be nice to have parents.
Rather than feeling heartened by the pastor’s offer to help, your hollowed soul aches. You long ago gave up on the notion of a happy reunion with your mami. Her letters used to arrive regularly, maybe once a month. When your dad was alive, he’d leave them on your pillow for you to find. Remember how you’d open them so, so carefully, the idea of ripping even a single word unbearable? Once you devoured them, you hid them in your pillowcase, safe beneath the comfort of eiderdown.
Mami wrote of La Lima, a city divided by a river, which at a certain time of year quite often overflowed its banks. The flooding, she insisted, was cleansing, and once everything dried out again it felt resurrected.
She talked about the plantain plantations, the trains that transported the bananas. Of Mayan ruins few people knew existed. Of the desire to dance, amid the despair of poverty. Of home. There. Here. And how no place could really be home without you in it.
Her descriptions were beautiful. She could have been a writer. Maybe she is, and you inherited her poet’s soul. But you wouldn’t know. The letters began to come further apart. After your father died, your pillow went wanting. You’d search the mailbox, the stack of envelopes on the hall table, the trash. Nothing.
Part of you understands Shailene and Tim were likely responsible. But if they threw her letters away, there would’ve been evidence of that. You wrote your mami to let her know your dad passed, mailed it to the last address you had for her. It never came back, returned. But neither was it answered. You checked every day for quite a while.
Your dear, sweet mami stopped
worrying about you.
Stopped loving you.
Like everyone.
Everyone, except Grace.
The past couple of days were the closest you’ve been to belonging, to something approaching normalcy, since your mother was sent away. And they’re fast dwindling.
Drop.
Plunge.
Dive.
The murky depths await.
Grace senses your distress. “You okay?”
You shake your head. “I’m missing you.”
“But I’m sitting right here.”
Her smile paints a halo around her head. Halo. Angel. Yes, that’s right. Heaven would be blessed by her presence.
Easy enough to provide
her with a one-way ticket.
“This morning. Now. But tomorrow we go back to borrowed hours.”
And you will be back to sleeping on beds of park turf when you can’t manage to bum a couch or cot. Imagine being homeless in Minnesota or Maine! People freeze to death in places like that.
She leans toward you, eyes seeking yours. “We can’t be together all the time, Daniel. That isn’t realistic. This weekend was an exception. It can’t be the rule.”
She’s breaking up with you.
You knew it would come to this.
All she needed was an excuse.
Fury seizes you. Shakes hard. “Why not?”
The rage in your voice propels her backward. “Why are you so angry?” she squeaks. “Because my parents will be home tomorrow. Because school starts again the next day. Because you’ve got a job and I’ve got friends. Because no couple can be together every minute of every day.”
Way to go. Now she’s afraid of you. Her timid tone swears it. Dial it back. Hurry!
“Grace, I’m so sorry. I understand what you’re saying. It’s just the last couple of days have been like a dream. Waking up will be a painful reminder of how very much I love you.”
“Why is that painful?”
“Because I’m afraid I’m losing you.”
There. You said it. You’ve thought it. Alluded to it. And now you’ve given voice to it.
Something your mami once told you pops into your brain. “If you give fear a voice, it will curse you.”
Now that you’ve uttered the words, will they come back to haunt you?
You won’t let her desert you.
You’ll never let her go.
Fade Out