Page 5 of Hidden Memories

Am I really going to sell off jewelry bit by bit until we’re broke? How long can that possibly last with my next rent due in thirty days?

I need work. But I also have Theo to think about. I can’t leave him alone eight hours a day. And when would I homeschool him?

At two o’clock in the morning, with my phone battery on red, I’ve only listed three people I could even reach out to. All long shots. All unlikely.

There’s Gisele Neruda, my closest friend at college. She might have helped, but her socials say she lives in France now.

Rachel Stone, my yoga instructor back in Los Pinos, often gave me sympathetic smiles like she knew empathically I might need a friend. But what could she do for me? I write her anyway. Beggars can’t be choosers. My pride is nothing compared to not turning back to my father.

Lastly, there’s the most unsavory person on my list. Santiago Mendez. Once upon a time, he gave me his phone number and told me he’d never change it. That if I ever needed anything, just call.

But then, when I needed him the most, when my bags were packed to run away with the man of my dreams and give up everything I’ve ever known, he didn’t show up. He shattered my heart. I never forgave him for it.

But that was thirteen years ago.

In my weaker moments, sad, sad, midnight moments when I would reflect on my past what-ifs and think about the sliding doors and the ones I walked through to my manipulative life partner, I’d wonder what would’ve happened if Santi had showed up.

I’d search his name in incognito windows and read about his dramatic rags-to-riches success with his stud farm and his training facilities, and hidden memories would clog my throat. Then I’d remind myself it wasn’t a sliding door. It was a locked one. Santi threw away the key.

My phone alerts me there’s only five percent battery left. I’m tired and I need to sleep. I don’t want to find my charger and stay up another hour, being useless to my son in the morning when really what he needs is me to energize this new life of ours.

I stare at theContact Uspage for Santi’s business, Monarch Hills. Can I really ask him for a job? Do I need to be this desperate now when I still have things to pawn?Selling off bits of ourselves just to survive is… lazy. It’s uncertain.

Theo needs more from me. He needs security and food on the table.

But Santi? Maybe he won’t even remember me. I can’t find an email directly for him so I have to send one to the contact address. It will probably be picked up by somebody else, but I’ll have to name-drop to get my foot through the door. I. Need. A. Job.

My battery bar reads two percent.

Fuck it. This is the low-hanging fruit. Our farmhouse is only twenty minutes from Echo Valley where Monarch Hills is. Strange how all these years, even in my Los Pinos mansion, I’ve only ever been a couple of hours from Santi’s ranch. I always wondered what would happen if we ran into each other.

A ranch job is where I could put my skills to use. And maybe I could bring Theo to work. He’d love that.

In the delirium of a long day, swallowing my pride is easier than it would normally be. If I have to face painful memories to take care of me and my son, well, I’ve just been through eleven years of worse.

I type out the contact email address for Monarch Hills, hardly keeping my eyes open. I lie down on my side, blue light on my bloodshot eyeballs, head nodding downward with every letter I tap out, and doubts creeping in.

Santi was such a liar.

Maybe I should give myself just a few days to think about this. I have the jewelry after all…

The last thing I remember was deciding to sleep on it.

But when I charge my phone up in the morning, there’s an email from Rachel saying she wishes she could help but can’t. There’s also an automatic reply from Monarch Hills…

Thank you for your query. We aim to respond to all messages within 3-5 business days.

Chapter Two

PRESENT

At some point in life,someone comes around who is so very empty but so worth filling up. And in doing so, they spill over into you.

Spending time with Owen from the San Jose charity, placing young teens with mentors, is the highlight of my week. We don’t hang out with the fancy thoroughbreds when we’re together. My time with Owen is reminiscent of when I was a kid on our ranch back in New Mexico. Simple times.

It’s not nostalgia. No. Nostalgia is alonging. Owen brings me the impossible gift of living the best of my past all over again. Shit, it’s even better the second time around. Not that it’s easy with him or without effort. Being in a position of guidance has been a challenge; I’ve had to reach into the depths of myself. There’s an honesty that happens when dealing with children. It’s a beautiful thing.

Though today is one of our tougher times. “What’s wrong, O?”

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