Page 123 of Sombra
Mom nods. “Yes, we only wish the best foryou. You’re like family.”
Shane’s mom stands up.
Suddenly, I’m scared she’s going to take her purse and go. I start to say something, anything, but she comes over to Shane and wraps her arms around him so tight. “I love you, my beautiful son, just the way you are. I’m so sorry you didn’t … that we didn’t … I love you. Just you.”
Thank God.
The waiter comes up with hispen and notepad in his hand, ready to take our order. Gazing over it, he takes us in. Everyone has a tear in his or her eye. Shane’s mom is sobbing. Randy is sobbing. I’m so happy I’m making weird noises. He slips his order book into his apron. “I’ll come back in a moment.”
“I thought you’d disown me,” mumbles Shane in his mother’s arms. “I thought you’d shun me. Kick me out of the family.”
“No, my son. No. You took me by surprise, but now that I think about it, I always had an idea. It just took a while to connect the dots.”
“And the things you said growing up …”
“Shane. This is going to be a learning experience for us all. I’ll have to take a lot of it back. I haven’t had the most open mind, but there’s no way I’m going to not love my own beautiful, sweet son.I’ll always love you. And teach me to open my mind, okay?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
While I’m relieved, I’m sure Shane is even more so. It took bravery for him to show his family who he really is.
I still need to do that.
Early the next morning,I’m so jetlaggedthat I can’t sleep, so I get up and drive alone downtown. Normally, I’d tell someone, but I just leave a note and bring my phone.
Driving alone in the prewinter landscape feels bleak. Once I get to downtown, I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Maybe some part of Spain. Some part of the new me that I can hold onto, so I don’t forget what I learned in Granada.
Thinking of Granada makesme physically ache, though.
I park and get out, bundled in my coat. It’s almost Thanksgiving, not snowy yet, but the leaves on the trees are all gone and the heavy, gray sky threatens to dump rain on us.
Walking past restaurants, fast food joints, stationary stores, gift shops, insurance companies, banks, I search, looking for a clue.
I’m not finding myself in a chain storeor in a supermarket that’s like every supermarket in every city in the Midwest.
Keep going, Kim. You’ll find it.
As I walk, my phone dings, and I pull it out, worried that it’s my parents looking for me.
It’s not. It’s my automatic notification of Tavo’s Instagram account. I set it up back in Spain. He doesn’t post much, but his profile picture is so beautiful it hurts. Ablack and white picture of him smiling.
But the new picture is of the olive trees in la huerta.
I stare at the image.
It’s not just any olive tree. It’sthe very treewhere we first kissed. The caption says, “I miss you. I love you. And everything we had … have … is REAL.”
God. No.Tavo.
I should turn off the notifications, but I can’t bring myself to do that,and I can’t stop myself from liking the post.
There are medieval torture museums in Spain, but I never had the chance to go to one. Why would I need that, though, when I have Instagram to bring me pain.
Putting my phone reluctantly away, I keep walking. Now I’m into an area of downtown that has vacancies in the storefronts. So many businesses went under with the recession and haven’treturned.
On a corner in a large building that used to be a Woolworth’s, a sign has appeared. “Organic Bakery.” The design is almost WPA-era, with optimism and American spirit. It oozes “We Can Do It.”
Stopping, I read the smaller, hand-lettered sign on the closed front door. It says that the owners have been researching and growing heirloom wheat on different small farms throughoutthe Midwest. No sprays. No genetic mumbo-jumbo. Just good, solid, Midwest wheat. They buy the wheat from these farmers and use it to bake loaves of bread on Wednesdays and Saturdays.
