Page 29 of A Me and You Thing
Is.Sheispretty. Gorgeous.
I ache for her.
“Donde está ella?”
I’m pretty suredonde estámeanswhere is it? I think she’s sayingwhere is she?Close enough.
At my puzzled expression, she adds, “Where? Your wife?”
“Accidente de autobus.” The bus accident.
Her eyes widen as she gasps and takes a step back. “Lo siento. So sorry.”
Yeah, me too. I stand to my full height, towering over her.“Donde está ella?”I say, repeating her words.“Comprende?”I hold up the picture of Quinn and repeat my words in English. “Where is she? Understand?”
Another huge mistake. The girl looks petrified. It wasn’t my intention to scare her. The older lady notices the commotion and rushes over to the young lady, taking her by the arm and ushering her to the confines of the kitchen, as if to say,pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain.
Huh. I’m not in Kansas anymore. I don’t laugh at my levity. Not possible.
I throw somecordobasonto the table, much more than is required. I hope the young lady sees some of the generous tip, but somehow I doubt it.
The older woman comes back out to my table, looking apologetic.“La dama no sabe nada.”
Damais lady. Although she’s clearly a lady being treated like a young girl. Andnadais nothing. Is she telling me the girl knows nothing? Why would she say that? What are they hiding? Am I on to something?
Or is my grief controlling my emotions? I’m such a mess, I don’t even know the answer.
I RETURN TO Matagalpa the next two days and I purposely eat at the restaurant where the pretty young lady works. I sit at the table casually, as if I have all the time in the world. In truth, I’m chomping at the bit for another chance to talk to her. I’m convinced she knows something. She constantly peeks out at me from her curtain. I pretend I don’t notice.
It’s not until the third day that my patience is rewarded. With only a couple of patrons in the restaurant, the older lady, who I assume is her mother, actually steps out. I have no idea how long she’ll be gone.
I realize the young lady has been waiting to talk to me, because as soon as the older lady leaves, she approaches my table, albeit shyly.
“Hola.”
“Hola, señorita.”I can handle hello.
“Need more?” she says, just like last time.
Again, I think it’s her go-to line. “No,gracias.”
“You likemicocina?”
I think she’s asking if I like her cooking. “Yes,muy bien.” Her cooking is very good. “All you?”
“Sí, sí, I cook. All cooking is me.” She points to herself.
I pat my belly. “Delicioso.”
She blushes and stares at the floor. I want to turn the conversation toward Quinn, and see what she knows. I don’t have much time before Mama Bear returns.
“Mi esposa...muy bien...cocina.” I sigh. I suck at Spanish. Hopefully she won’t slap me in the face for accidentally saying something untoward.
“Ah, your wife, good cook.”
Huh. I guess that’s all I had to say.
“Youresposa. Muy triste,” she says.
