Page 83 of Don’t Tell Me Who To Love

28.

AS AISHA HAD SAIDgoodbye to Marta at the school, she’d wondered if Marta had sensed she wasn’t coming back. Marta had clung to her and squeezed her tightly, and the spark in her eyes had dimmed as her smile faded. Aisha hoped one day that Marta would find her way out of this place and vowed to help her in some way. Leaving those she loved without being able to say goodbye had to be the worst feeling in the world.

The twisting in her gut had stayed with her as she’d made her way on from the school to the dress fitting with the other women from the village. She’d followed her mama’s instructions to the letter. As she’d sat and listened to them, she studied them all, the elders with their opinions, her mama controlling everything, and Conchita, who looked at her differently now. She’d smiled at the appropriate times while feeling strangled by the whole affair. She hadn’t challenged their hideous choices for her sister and politely agreed with everything they’d suggested to the point that the air had become thick with an unbearable tension and silence that cut sharper than the scissors they’d used to shape the cloth. She hadn’t cared for their thoughts, their judgements, or their criticisms. They couldn’t hurt her anymore because in her mind, she’d already left.

But then she’d woken this morning with her stomach in knots, and when she’d climbed out of bed, her heart raced, and she felt nauseous.

It raced now as she tried to act normally, but she picked at her breakfast and couldn’t give any attention to the conversation between Mama and Conchita. She took the basket of fresh vegetables and bread and headed up the hill to Señor Perez’s house. She enjoyed the sun on her back and pondered where she and Gabi would be by tomorrow evening, how the scenery would have changed, and how sandy the beach would be. What would they eat for lunch? And what would it feel like to sleep in a hotel bed with Gabi? Something didn’t feel right, and she couldn’t put her finger on it.

It had been a fleeting visit because the old man snatched the basket from her, mumbled his thanks, gave her an empty basket in return, and shut the door quickly and firmly in her face. “Have a nice day,” she’d said and taken a leisurely stroll back down the hill.

Overwhelmed by a combination of excitement and loss as she made her way home, she didn’t know what it was that made her legs weak and her head light. She sat on a boulder at the side of the path and took in the hills. This beautiful landscape that made her heart ache and caused her to hesitate now had planted its seed of doubt a long time ago. She had nurtured the land and breathed in its offer of clear, clean air in return for her toil. This place had been her guide and had listened patiently to her dreams and her woes, and she would miss the whisper of the wind, and the promises of the fertile earth that directed her now to Old María’s house from a sense of camaraderie in spirit, possibly.

Old María welcomed her in and closed the door quickly behind them. She stared with wide eyes, though it wasn’t clear at what. “Is Franco still in power?” she asked.

Aisha wondered when the old woman had lost track of time. If she thought Franco was in power, she must live in fear of persecution. She clasped her hand to the ache in her chest. “No, María.”

The old woman peeked through the small grubby window to the outside. “Fuck the Guardia,” she said.

Aisha cleared a thick layer of dust from the kitchen surface and made them mint tea.

Old María handed her a black and white photograph torn in half down the middle, the image faded. The woman in the picture had a serious expression and a piercing stare. “Did Carmen get out? Did you see her? Please tell me she is well?”

“Yes,” Aisha said. Carmen must have been Old María’s lover.

The old woman made the sign of a cross at her chest. “Thank God.” She settled in the chair and wiped her eyes. “I should have tried harder, but my leg was so bad, I couldn’t keep up with her.”

Aisha shuddered at the chill as she imagined María’s suffering and the years she had lived without the woman she loved. “She said to say she loves you very much.”

Old María nodded. “Are the guards still here?”

“No, they’ve retreated back to the city.”

“Did Carmen get away?”

Aisha held María’s bony hand. “She did. She’s safe. She’s going to write.”

“Can’t read,” María said. “She’s the smart one.”

“Would you like me to get a letter to her?”

María looked up and a sparkle shone through the glassy surface of her eyes. “Can you? Is it safe?"

Aisha wondered if she was raising false hopes but with the state of the old woman’s mind, it was more likely that she would forget the conversation before morning. “Yes. I can,” she said.

“Do what?” Old María asked. She got up and went to the window. “Did Carmen get out?”

She sat back down, and they drank tea, and then, like the sun slipping over the horizon and easing in the night, she closed her eyes. The corners of her mouth turned down, and her cheeks sagged. Aisha studied her closely to check she was still breathing and crept out the door with a heavy heart.

She smiled at her mama as she put the empty basket on the table. “Let me help,” she said and started cutting vegetables for the soup they would eat for lunch.

“It’s good to see you happy,” Mama said.

“I am happy.” She stared into Mama’s eyes, and guilt pricked her conscience. She wanted to tell her that she was in love and walk away with her blessing.

She could leave a note, but Aisha knew what it felt like to not be able to share grief openly. If she told them, they could cry together, appreciate each other’s loss, and she could leave knowing she had done her best by them. “I want to talk to you about something,” she said.

Her mama narrowed her eyes. “You’re not going to give me bad news now, are you? Just because I’ve said you look happy.” She laughed.

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