Page 28 of A Me and You Thing
Exhausted, I stop at a little hole in the wall restaurant on the outskirts of town. I’m seated quickly and peruse their menu which is in Spanish. I can easily figure out what some items are and others are just plain gibberish. I order the advertised fresh catch, the mackerel in coconut sauce. I’m not sure just how fresh it is since I assume it traveled here from the coast, but it sounds good.
Random facts float through my mind. Mackerel. Family: scombridae. Vertical stripes on their backs and deeply forked tails. Most migrate in large schools. They spawn in shallow water. They move to deeper water and spend the winter in relative inactivity.
Then it hits me. That’s going to be me this winter. Relative inactivity. Because I’m numb and disoriented. I’m upside down and sideways. I don’t know how to live life without Quinn.
I place her picture on the table and stare at it, losing myself in her eyes. I’ve never thought much about what losing my spouse would mean to my life.
It’s everything. All encompassing.
I’ve lost everything. My entire world has changed. I’ve lost my best friend, my lover, my mentor, my biggest cheerleader, the mother of my children. We do everything together. The finances, the Saturday chores, cooking the meals, long walks on the beach, movie night. My world, my rhythms, the way I function in life—it’s all about to change. My social life will change, from the couples we hang out with to what I watch on TV at night.
And our daughters—I can’t begin to imagine how this will affect them. Their futures are forever changed, altered in ways we will never fully realize. Our entire family dynamic has changed. Our girls need their mother. Desperately. How will I manage being both mother and father to them? I’m not equal to the task.
I feel so different, so alone. My body aches, and fatigue like I’ve never felt before is taking over—and winning. Yet, at the same time I can’t sleep at night and I can’t think straight. Every breath that scrapes through my lungs feels labored. I don’t know how to function.
My dinner arrives.Gallo pintois on the side, a fried rice and bean concoction, along with something calledtostones, which I realize is fried plantains.
I scoop it into my mouth only because I have to keep up my strength. The food smells and tastes delicious, but I hardly notice. I’m the walking dead, surviving on willpower alone. I keep seeing a shadow in my peripheral vision. I finally turn my angry eyes toward it. I’m surprised to see a young, beautiful Nicaraguan lady, probably in her early twenties, I’d guess. When she notices me looking at her, she ducks behind the curtain leading to the kitchen, as if hiding.
My suspicious mind immediately goes to scary places. Does she know something? Is she scared to talk to me? I look down at the table and pretend I don’t notice her, but she continues to peek out at me, as if filled with indecision and fear.
More patrons enter the restaurant and while the older woman who waitresses—and I assume owns—the restaurant is busy with the new customers, the young beauty cautiously approaches me.
“Need more?” she asks hesitantly, staring at me with wide eyes. I guess my blond hair and blue eyes merit a stare or two. I’m getting used to it.
“No, I’m done. I’m stuffed actually. It was incredible, thanks for asking.”
Her expression is immediately confused and fearful. My mistake. I impulsively rambled off in English. Need moreis probably her go-to phrase when working with English speaking customers, which I doubt they see many of. I’m off the beaten path.
I correct myself. “No,gracias.” I’ve got thank you down.
She nods her head over and over. “Good. Good. Hope you enjoy. My favorite too.” Her mannerisms are shy and demure.
“I loved it.”
She peeks over her shoulder, as if assuring the older lady is not watching her.
“Habla English?”I ask, wondering if she speaks English.
“Sí.”She shakes her head and corrects herself. “Yes, school teach me.” She holds up her thumb and index finger close together. “Little bit. Please go slow. Long time ago.”
She’s not doing too bad for learning English a long time ago. I’m impressed.
Then she points to Quinn’s picture, sitting beside me on the tabletop.“Esposa?”she asks.
High school Spanish taught me very little, but this one I know.Esposameans wife. “Yes, this is my wife. Have you seen her? I’ve been looking everywhere for her.”
Her eyebrows furrow and she shakes her head in the negative. “No entiendo, uh, sorry, no understand.”
I did it again. Too fast. I need to keep my words simple and concise. I point to my eyes and then to the picture. Then I point to her. “You see my wife?”
“Ah,” she says. “No, no see. No. No, no, no.”
I study her. She has long dark hair and brown eyes that remind me of Quinn’s. But the lady doth protest too much. Why is she approaching me? Why does she seem nervous? Does she know something? Or am I so suspicious that I can’t see straight?
“Su esposa. Muy bonita.”She corrects herself and tries to keep the conversation in English, albeit highly accented. “Your wife. Very pretty.”
“Gracias.”Okay, so maybe high school Spanish taught me a little. Even before she switched to English I knew she said my wife is very pretty. Yeah, she was.
