Page 30 of A Me and You Thing
My expression turns baffled. She points to her eyes and imitates tears running down her face with her fingers. Then she turns her lips into a frown. “Um... very sad.”
“Sad?”
“Sí, sad.Muy triste.”
I perk up. Is she saying my wife is very sad? “My wife is sad? Why is she sad? Where is she?”
Her eyebrows knit and she shakes her head.
Spanish, Sawyer. Keep it in Spanish or speak slowly.“Uh, myesposa muy triste?Por qué?” I want to know why she thinks my wife is sad.
“Accidente de autobus. Ella esta muerta. Everyone die in bus crash.Lo siento.”
She’s telling me she’s sorry my wife is dead—and that’s not what I want to hear. My face turns dark even though I’m trying to remain pleasant. “No. Nomuerta. Notriste,” I protest. She’s not dead and she’s not sad, at least I don’t want her to be.
She nods in her demure manner. “Okay.” It’s obvious she’s not sure what I mean.“Estas triste?”She points a finger at me and switches to English. “You sad, yes?”
She speaks an odd sort of Spanglish, but somehow we’re interacting—and I think understanding each other. “Yes, I’m sad.Muy triste.”
“You American, yes?” she asks.
I don’t like the subject change. I want to keep the conversation about Quinn. “Sí,American.”
“MegustaAmerica.”
“I like America too,” I tell her. “You’ve been to America?”
“Yes.” She pats her chest. “Verypequeña.” She holds her hand at hip height to indicate small, which means she was young, but not so young that she forgot the English she learned. “I remember and I love. Love, love. Everything.” Her accent is rather charming.
“No... stay?” I’m getting the hang of this bilingual communication thing.
“No, no.Abuela muy enferma... ah, grandmother very, very sick. We come home. We take care of her.”
Wow. She once lived in America—and children pick up on language so quickly. She remembers enough to communicate at a basic level, which I find remarkable.
“Quiero ir a America.”Again, she switches to English so I can understand what she’s saying. “Me, go America again. Want very much.”
I clear my throat. “You want to go back to America?”
“Sí... so much.”
She lowers her head and stares at the floor. “Maybecon usted?”
Whoa. I swear I just heard tires skidding to a bone-wrenching stop in my head. My jaw hangs open. I think my eyes widen of their own accord. Excuse me? I wasn’t expecting that.“Con usted?”Does that mean what I think it means? With you?
“Yes, me go with you. Yes?Necesitas una esposa?”
She thinks I need a wife. Still in shock, I don’t respond.
“I be wife. Very good cook. Ah... good cleaner too. You save me.Por favor.” She looks up at me, her eyes pleading. “Por favor,” she says again. “Save me, please. I want to go.”
I let out my breath very, very slowly. I’ve spent three days hanging out in or close to this restaurant with the hope that this young lady wants to tell me something nefarious she knows about Quinn’s whereabouts.
She doesn’t.
She wants to go to America and she sees me as a way out of here. Because I need a wife. Because mine died in the bus accident.
I let that thought bounce around my brain.Quinn died in the bus accident.There’s a bitter taste on my tongue that won’t wash away. I hate the flavor.
