Page 99 of Sombra
She nods.
“Then go. I’ll stay here.”
Setting her feet again on the tile floor, she crosses the room to her bag and digs outthe pregnancy test. Sliding it under her shirt, she opens the bedroom door, looks both ways, and scurries into the bathroom.
I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Her room’s a mess. Clothes everywhere in piles. The cork oak outside makes the room gray.
I lie back on the bed. If she’s pregnant, would I marry her?
In an instant.
Me, who has no interest in gettingtied down before I travel the world. Me, who wants no obligations. Me, who has family up to my eyeballs.
I would marry her in an instant, because I know she’s the one I want to be with for the rest of our lives. I know we can do all the things we dream of because she’s proved to me it’s possible by coming here.
But does she want an instant wedding? She just got out of one. By nomeans do I wish to cause her another matrimonial crisis. I just want to be with her, whatever form that takes, and however that ends up.
After what feels like months, but it’s likely minutes, she comes back in, and her face declares the result plainly.
“I’m pregnant,” she whispers.
I stand, hold her in my arms, and say, with all the feeling I can muster, “Te amo.”
I kiss the top of her head and hold her while she cries in my arms.
After a while,I go and make Kim some broth and weak tea and get a package of crackers. While I’m in the kitchen, I can’t help but think that I told her I love her, and she said nothing. Worse, actually,it made her cry.
I’ve never told any woman outside of my family that I love her. And I understand that she’s in shock.
But her silence stings.
While the water boils, I step outside and pick a large, late-season peony from the garden, placing it in a glass. With everything on a tray, I return to her room. When I present them to her, she bursts into a fresh wave of tears.
I am helpless.
For the next hour, I sit at the end of her bed, holding her ankle. She doesn’t eat or drink. She doesn’t talk. She just lies on her bed and stares out the window.
The only movement she makes is to turn the other way and stare at the floor. When she does this, I switch ankles. And after turning over one too many times, I can’t stand it. I won’t stay at the footof the bed anymore. I lie down behind her, spooning her.
As I stroke her hair, I open my mouth to say something and stop. Repeatedly.
I don’t know what to say. I love her. I want her child. And she … doesn’t?
Finally, after an hour, I mumble in her ear. “You can talk to me, amor. I don’t want you to do anything just because I say it. But I must tell you what I desire. Thisis communication and a discussion, not me demanding you do anything.”
She nods, her back still pressed against my front so I can’t see her face.
“I want to be with you always. Stay and finish your degree. And then go to cooking school, either here in Granada or in Madrid or Barcelona. I will come with you. I will get an agent. Get a recording contract. Make music. And we will travel.If we travel as a family, that’s fine. But this is what I want. I want to be with you. And if you are to have a baby, I want it.”
No words come from her.
I’m close to telling her that I want to marry her immediately. But I need to hear from her.
