Page 31 of A Me and You Thing
No. No, no, no. I close my eyes and rest my head in my hands, defeated. I’ve wasted so much time. To my surprise, she moves closer and starts to run her hand through my hair, massaging my scalp. It’s a bold move and tells me how desperate she is. Her touch is tender and sweet. I believe she’s a nice girl who’s doing what she believes she needs to do to improve her life, but NO.
Just no.
This can’t happen. No way. I have to stop this immediately before she gets the wrong impression. I reach up, catching her hand in my own. This needs to stop NOW.
“No.Lo siento. No,” I tell her. I’m sorry, but no. For a moment, we stare into each other’s eyes. She’s a natural beauty and she strikes me as innocent and pure. I think it took a lot of courage on her part to approach me. Her brown eyes hold me hostage because they remind me of Quinn.
That’s the moment when Mama Bear decides to return. It doesn’t take much for her to deduce what she assumes is happening. I’ve hung around here for days. I’ve given the wrong impression as far as my intentions go. The young lady’s hand is still in mine. We look guilty as sin. I wonder why she’s so willing to sell herself short just to escape. Is her life that bad? Or maybe she doesn’t really understand what she just offered me.
“Vuelve a la cocina.” Mama Bear, with fire in her eyes, stomps her foot and points toward the kitchen. “No hables con el hombre. Vamonos.” Near as I can tell, she’s telling her to not speak with the man and to go to the kitchen right now.
The girl—I realize I don’t know her name and I wish I had asked—looks frightened as she’s escorted behind the curtain. I don’t blame her for wanting to escape her mother’s tyranny. I hope I didn’t get her into trouble. I can hear them speaking to one another in rapid Spanish. I have no idea what they’re saying.
At this point, there’s only one thing I’m sure of: Quinn is not in Matagalpa.
The young lady knows nothing of her whereabouts. I’m wasting my time here. All I found was a young girl who wants to escape her life and thinks I’m her way out. To an extent, it’s my fault. My actions screamed I was interested.
I know exactly how she feels. I want out of this nightmare too.
Mama Bear approaches, looking none too happy. “Dejala sola. Ella pertenece aquí.Aquí. You comprende?”
No, I don’t understand at all.
At my blank expression, she says, “She stay here. No go with you. No.”
I have a feeling the young lady made it sound as though I petitioned her. I nod at Mama Bear and throw down somecordobas. I hand a generous tip to her. “For thedama.” I’m out of my depth and have no idea how the tip will be construed. I hope they don’t think I’m trying to buy her or something. I’m not going to stick around and find out.
I take my leave without saying another word. What is there to say? I won’t return. I don’t want to get the poor girl into any more trouble than I already have.
There’s nothing here for me. There never was.
As I walk away, I turn around for one last glance. I see the girl standing at the kitchen window, drapes parted, her hand flat on the window as if she’s begging for me to come back for her.
It disturbs me. I know the vision will haunt me for a long time to come. But there’s nothing I can do for her. I can barely take care of myself right now.
I can’t even take care of my own wife.
Quinn, where are you? I need you.
I SPEND THE next week in Jinotega and the surrounding areas, walking like a zombie, showing anyone and everyone Quinn’s picture and asking if they’ve seen this woman.
The town has given me a nickname.El hombre muerto.The walking dead man.
That’s me. I wander aimlessly through the streets with no purpose, no emotion, no hope. My job is to simply walk, show, and ask. Beg, plead, and implore. Look and search. It is my quest, my sole pursuit.
The town humors me. They study Quinn’s picture as if they’re trying to remember if they’ve ever seen her—even though she’d never even made it to Jinotega. But they don’t know that. Just like Matagalpa, the people are friendly, eager to try and communicate with me. No matter how much I search, I can’t find any sign of suspicious activity.
At night, I look in the mirror and see eyes with no life in them. I see a man who hasn’t shaved in days and cares nothing for his ragged appearance. I see a man who isn’t eating enough food and isn’t getting enough sleep to walk another step.
El hombre muerto. That’s me.
I am acting like a crazy man. I’m crazy with grief, crazy with anguish, and crazy in love with my wife that everyone says is no more. And I don’t want to believe it, much less accept it.
I honor Quinn’s trip by staying the entire two weeks that she would’ve stayed, as though I’m living it for her.
On my last day, I hike down the mountainside where the accident happened and scoop up a pile of ashes from the shoreline. I place the cupful of dust inside the small ceramic vase I purchased for this very purpose and cork it closed.
It’s all I have left of Quinn.
