Page 18 of Everything We Left Behind

“What are you doing here?” He should be overcome with joy at seeing her for the first time in years. Any good son would be. But he wasn’t a good son, and Claire had never been the kindest of mothers.

He really needs to change the locks to be certain other family members don’t show up unannounced.

Claire sets aside the knife and gives James a critical look. He didn’t shave this morning and his shirt is untucked and unpressed. He doesn’t have to ask whether he passes inspection. Her pinched face is all the answer he needs. She taps her chin, a silent message that he should have cleaned up before he left the house.

He’s thirty-six years old, for crying out loud. He won’t be made to feel guilty about how he looks. He’s already swimming in a cesspool of guilt as it is.

“What’s all this?” He lifts a palm at the food.

“I’ve made lunch,” she says, neatly brushing crumbs from her hands. “Welcome home, James.”

He hears the boys come into the kitchen behind him. Marc squeals. Julian gawks before the first smile since they landed in California appears on his face. His expression goes full wattage. “Señora Carla, what’re you doing here?”

CHAPTER 6

CARLOS

Five Years Ago

June 17

Puerto Escondido, Mexico

Marcus upended a bucket over his head. He squealed, kicking his chubby legs as sand spilled over his naked body, sticking to patches of sunscreen-soaked skin. I added another tower to the castle that I was building and Marcus was determined to destroy it. He waved his arms, knocking over another wall.

“Marcus.” I grabbed him by the armpits and planted his bare ass farther from our sand masterpiece. I passed over his bucket and shovel. “Here, knock over your own castle.” He grinned and stuffed a fistful of sand in his mouth. “Don’t eat it.” I grabbed his wrist and swiped my fingers across his tongue.

Marcus started to chew and I heard the crunch of coarse granules. His face scrunched up like a wad of paper and his brown eyes widened as he looked up at me in confusion.

“See what happens when you eat sand?”

He blew raspberries. Saliva-drenched sand drooled from the corners of his mouth.

I chuckled, turning back to the sand castle, determined to fix the wall Marcus just blasted. Near the entrance to our backyard, Julian passed afútbolto his two friends, Antonio and Hector. He narrowly missed our new neighbor lounging under the umbrella she’d painstakingly erected in the sand about a half hour earlier. I finished the wall, added one more tower, then went searching for my phone in our pile of towels. Natalya wanted a picture of Marcus’s latest sand castle.

I watched Julian steal the ball from Hector. He kicked it, a beautiful pass that soared over Antonio’s head, landing smack-dab in the middle of our neighbor’s sun umbrella. The umbrella toppled over, burying its owner underneath. She shrieked.

“Santa mierda,”Antonio swore.

Pale legs shot out from under the toppled umbrella, kicking like eggbeaters. “Help!”

Julian’s jaw unhinged.

I grabbed Marcus. “Help her out,” I yelled to Julian.

“Oh, right,” he said, shaking off his surprise. He followed my lead speaking English. Judging by the screeches emanating from underneath the umbrella, our neighbor was American.

I deposited Marcus in the sand with a stern warning that his butt better not move.

“Get it off, get it off me!” Legs kicked maniacally. A hand shot out.

I pointed at Hector and Antonio. “Grab the post.” I moved behind the woman and gripped the top of the umbrella. “Now lift.” I closed the canopy as we did so, making sure the aluminum spokes didn’t snag in her hair or clothing. We side-shuffled and dropped the damaged umbrella in the sand.

Our neighbor lay sprawled in a beach chair that teetered on its side. The feet had sunk into the sand. She removed the wide-brimmed hat smashed low on her head and pushed back damp silver hair plastered over her eyes and forehead. Breathing heavily, face flushed, she pointed a bony finger with a sharp maroon-tinted nail at Julian. “You ...,” she started, leaning forward. Her chair wobbled and both hands flew out to grip the arms.

Julian shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet. He ran a hand over his sweat-drenched, sandy head, shifted some more, and again ran his hand through his hair. The thick, short mass stuck straight up.“Lo siento, señora.”His gaze jumped to me before casting to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he repeated in English.

“And well you should be.” She pushed from her chair and stood over him. “I was going to holler ‘fantastic kick,’ but you need work on your aim.”

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