Chapter 4; Now - Something Happens In The Water

I couldn’t tell you exactly when the need to please and fix others began, but it was for sure before Adam came into my life. It’s like it’s always been there, as natural as breathing. Like those toys that come with batteries included or that one McDonald’s Happy Meal toy we got when we were little—Simba and Pride Rock all wrapped up together. It was an added bonus, built right in. Though I remember begging the parents to go back because I really, really wanted Nala. But not too much, you know, didn’t want them to think I liked Nala more.

The earliest memory I have of that need to please? It was on one of those all-guys fishing trips. I was probably three years old. A family friend was visiting Central Texas, and he’d invited the dad to go fishing at some great, quiet spot where the fish were practically lining up to be caught. The dad told the mom he and the older brother were going. Me? I’d be staying home with the mom.

That day, before I knew the real them, the mom and I just sort of lounged around as this thick fog of melancholia settled into every room, leaving behind a thin film of gloom on the already thin carpet. Night eventually crept in, the sun bowing out like it had better places to be. The Mom came into the room where I lay in bed and asked if I was hungry. We’d skipped dinner, and I hadn’t mentioned it because I didn’t want her to feel bad. I tried not to light up too much at the mention of food.

As we rummaged through the barren fridge and half-empty pantry, all we found were ingredients that couldn’t quite come together to form a full meal. “Eggs!” The mom finally said, her voice a mix of triumph and resignation. “I’ll make you eggs.”

Even though I loved eggs, it was the first time in my life I’d be having them for dinner.

“With what?” I asked, my voice barely masking the doubt, hoping not to upset her.

“Oh, I know,” The mom replied, her tone almost conspiratorial, “eggs and cheese.”

The only thing remotely suitable to pair with the eggs were those little cheese squares, all wrapped up in plastic like tiny presents. As she unwrapped them, I saw that look on her face—the one I saw too often. I didn’t know it then, but one day I’d recognize it as guilt, perfectly blended with the fear of not being enough. She cooked, and I ate, trying to make her feel better. Later, I told her those were the best eggs I’d ever had. And just like that, eggs and cheese squares became our thing for years—well into adulthood.

The next day, the dad and the older brother came home with a bucket of fish. The promise of giant catches had turned out to be just another tall tale. Still, the mom did her best to prop up the dad’s bruised ego. I watched as she tried to make a big deal out of those scrawny fish, thinner than my toddler forearm. My mind started to wander, like it usually did. Who were these fish before the dad and the older brother picked them out of the lake? Did they have families? Maybe they were on a fishing trip of their own. Maybe they told their fish wives about some great spot where the little fish they fed on were abundant. Maybe they had better luck than the humans, feasting all day until the hooks came for them.

And now, somewhere in that lake, their fish wives were waiting. Worried, emotional, wondering when their husbands would return. How long would it take for them to realize that their mates were never coming back? And here the mom was, shuffling through pots and pans, ready to turn those fish into soup. Their last breaths would be in boiling water, mingling with shy tomato cubes, obnoxious onion slices, and romantic cilantro—the kind with the accent I heard in the telenovelas the mom pretended not to watch.

When the soup was ready, the mom served the dad a bowl. There was that look on her face again. The dad poked at the soup, took a few half-hearted spoonfuls, and then retreated to the bedroom. Before the mom could sink into that familiar pit of inadequacy, I grabbed his bowl and started eating. The fish and all the ingredients had gone quiet now, the whole meal a solemn affair. I told her it was the best soup I’d ever had. After finishing half the bowl, I even asked for more, just to see her smile.

Later that night, as I lay in bed, I heard the mom walk into the room. The light from the bathroom behind her cast her in a soft glow as she checked on us. The older brother had crashed early, exhausted from his adventures at the lake. The mom gently caressed his face laying on the top bunkbed, whispered a goodnight, and then kneeled beside my bed. I pretended to be asleep, peeking at her through nearly closed eyelids. She stroked my face and laid her hand on my chest.

“Thank you, mijo. Get some rest,” she whispered.

Through the slits of my eyes, I saw a figure standing in the doorway. It wasn’t ominous, wasn’t scary. But I knew it wasn’t the dad—the dad had a face. This figure didn’t. It was just a silhouette, with wings that seemed to stretch across the entire room. Even at that age, I knew my eyes weren’t really seeing this figure. I was seeing it with my mind.

As the mom left the room, I turned to face the wall, a strange comfort settling over me. Wherever they were, I hoped the families of those fish were okay.

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At exactly 6:35 AM, another room in the inn bursts to life with light. It’s dim and yellow, flickering as shadows pass by the source. A faint glow that feels like a whisper in the early morning haze.

At exactly 6:45 AM, a side door to the inn creaks open, and out comes a woman. She’s old as hell—her white hair streaked with faded gray, pulled up in a messy bun. Her pale skin, even from this distance, looks delicate, like parchment, easy to tear. She’s hunched in a wheelchair that’s being pushed by what I now see is a young girl, no more than fourteen. The girl struggles with the door, but as she finally makes her way out, I notice her outfit—an old floral dress, a smile on her porcelain face, and brown hair wrapped around her head in a braid, like a failing crown. She’s wearing an apron, too, making her look like she stepped out of a different time.

They move down the ramp that leads to the lake, the old lady craning her neck to take in the morning. Together, they make their way to the dock that extends out into the lake, where the fog hangs thick and full. The young girl parks the wheelchair at the end of the dock and then struggles to lift the old woman. My heart sinks for a second, imagining this girl dumping the old lady into the lake, wheelchair and all. I hold my breath, listening to Adam snore softly in the passenger seat. More birds have joined the chorus, and the dragonflies have multiplied, their wings buzzing in the misty air.

To my surprise, the girl on the dock lifts the old woman in her arms and gently sets her at the edge of the dock. I can’t see from here, but I imagine the old lady’s feet meeting the lukewarm waters, maybe even waking her up fully if she wasn’t already. The girl steps back, straightening her floral dress and apron, and looks around. Has she seen me? Does she notice this beat-up Ford Taurus and wonder who the hell is trying to check in when the sign clearly says NO VACANCIES?

I lower myself into the seat, trying to make myself invisible. The girl on the dock continues to take in the morning, glancing around before walking back along the dock to the soggy, shallow waters that meet the land. She’s barefoot, just like Adam loves to be, and now she’s picking flowers out of the grass, moving through the fog. I watch her from a distance, collecting wildflowers and weeds with one hand while the other hand holds the flowers tightly against her chest. There’s an innocence to her that I soak in, like the morning rays, and it’s then that I feel like a creep—a voyeur watching these intimate morning rituals.

Eventually, the girl makes her way to drier land and sits down, watching the beauty of the lake and the old lady at the end of the dock. Both of them take deep breaths, their bodies expanding slightly before releasing it all in long, peaceful exhales. I start to realize that these moments bring them some kind of peace, and a part of me recoils with envy.

At exactly 7:00 AM, more lights flicker on inside the inn. The entrance glows, and within seconds, the main door swings wide open, welcoming the humid breeze. A girl about my age, maybe a little older, steps out. Her skin is a beautiful shade of brown you don’t see much of in Bethesda. Her brows are thick, her hair—well, it’s a wonder. Dark, unruly waves full of life cascade around her, settling just above her chest. She sees our car and starts walking over with a smile. Panic sets in, and I give Adam a nudge to wake him.

“Hey, bud,” I whisper, trying to hide the anxiety in my voice. “You gotta wake up now. Remember what I said and what we practiced. Please, remember what we practiced.”

The girl with the gorgeous mane comes closer, her smile warm and inviting. “You’re not just staying in the car, are you?” she calls out, laughing—a light, musical sound that instantly eases my nerves.

I open the car door and step out, glancing over at the young girl and old woman on the dock.

“Ah, I see you’ve met Mathilda and her caretaker, Adina,” she says, her tone friendly. “They’re on a schedule. They love greeting the lake each morning, like clockwork. I’m Luz Solis,” she says, stepping forward for a hug. For a moment, I freeze, but then I let her embrace me, taking in the faint scent of sweet citrus, ripe green apples, and honeysuckle that lingers in her hair as it brushes against my face.

I gather myself as we part and manage to say, “I’m Daniel. It’s good to finally meet you in person, Luz. I’m sorry I didn’t call back. I have to use payphones, and those are pretty rare these days. When you said the job was mine, I packed everything up, and we headed this way.”

“We?” she asks, the question hanging in the air as she glances over at the car. Her eyes lock on Adam through the windshield, and he quickly lowers his head.

“Look, I don’t know how else to say this, and I apologize if it’s a bit of a reach, but I have a brother who I look out for. He’s only nine, and when you said the job was mine if I wanted it, I didn’t know how to bring up the fact that I’m all he’s got.”

Luz stands there, taking it all in. The smile on her face fades slightly, and I can see her mind working, trying to process it all. Rejection feels inevitable. Adam stumbles out of the car and starts walking toward us. Before he can reach us, I whisper, “He’s special. Our parents called him slow and delicate, but he’s a good kid,” I say, almost pleading.

She doesn’t respond to me, her eyes still fixed on Adam as he approaches with his notebook under one arm and the other clutching his dirty, stuffed dog.

 

“Hello, Miss Solis. My name is Adam,” he says, bowing. A bow! That was not part of what we rehearsed.

“Why, hello, Adam,” she replies eagerly. “I’m Luz. And who’s your friend here? Quite the pup.”

I watch intently as Adam and Luz exchange pleasantries, trying to read her expressions, searching for any sign that she’s about to send us packing—that we overestimated her kindness.

Desperate, I step closer, my voice calm but hiding the real emotions churning inside me. “Miss Solis, I know you’ve already gone out of your way by giving me this job, and I know you said it came with room and board for me, obviously. But if you say yes, Adam and I can share the bed, share the room. We don’t eat much, and anything is an upgrade from where we’re coming from. I promise he won’t interfere with my work. He can stay in my room while I tend to my duties, and we can share whatever you had in mind for me. Hell, we’ll even make sure the guests don’t notice him. He’s real good at that, isn’t that right, Adam?”

I look over at Adam, who is giving her the most exaggerated puppy-dog eyes.

“We even brought our own sheets in case I wet them, which I probably will, but Daniel has been teaching me how to use a washing machine. We don’t have one, but the laundromat takes quarters, and I get to ride in the laundry carts. I can make them go fast.”

Here it comes. The moment I knew was coming. The moment when we pack up and leave, and I try to find the words to tell Adam that this place isn’t what we were looking for. I’ll try to help him understand it’s not his fault, maybe even find another lake or river to take him to while I figure out where to go next. The world feels like it’s holding its breath. The dragonflies now meet with the bumblebees that have come out to dance by the rose bushes lining the inn’s exterior.

“Special, huh?” Luz finally speaks, and my heart sinks like a stone. “Well, you know what that means,” she continues, kneeling to meet Adam’s eye level.

Adam’s eyes dart from her to me, silently pleading, Help.

Then she cups his face in her hand, her gold rings gleaming in the early morning light. Her brown skin, matching his.

“We’ll just have to give you, our special guest of honor, our most special room. All to yourself,” she says with a smile.

Before I can interject and tell her that Adam doesn’t like physical touch, he surprises me by hugging her enthusiastically.

“Come now,” Luz says as she adjusts her pants and brushes off the morning dew. “We’ve got to get you both settled into your rooms. I hope they’re to your liking. And if I had to guess, I’d say a boy like you, Adam, enjoys pancakes with extra syrup.”

They begin to walk toward the inn, hand in hand, as I stand there, trying to process it all.

Without looking back, still clasping Adam’s hand, Luz calls out, “Grab what’s necessary for now. I’ll send Adina out later to fetch the rest. And none of this Miss stuff, please—just call me Luz.”

I open the car door, grabbing Adam’s change of clothes and his pills. As I close the door and watch them walk up to the inn’s grand entrance, I catch my breath, stupid tears welling up. I, like Adam, can’t quite describe what I’m feeling. This heavy lump in my chest, a boulder in my guts, too heavy for me to hold. I quickly wipe away the tears before anyone can see and follow them into the inn, its warmth and grace swallowing me whole.

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