JUEVES
1:08 PM
Dahlia Gray
I rest my head against my mother's shoulder, lapping my arm around hers. "Pensé que su hermano murió, ¿cómo volvió?" I thought his brother died, how did he come back? I ask my mother, holding the phone projecting the telenovela at a safe distance for the both of us to watch.
"No, era su hermano gemelo. Este es su gemelo separado al nacer en el orfanato." No, that was his twin brother. This one is his twin separated at birth at the orphanage. My mother assures, leaning her head on top of mine. The telephone rings in the office, as we sit in the waiting room of my mother's doctor appointment, and one of the receptionists picks it up with a perky hello.
My brows furrow together, watching the scene unfolded and the twin brother aims a gun at a woman. "¿Y está a punto de matar a la esposa de su hermano?" And he's about to kill his brother's wife?
"Porque la esposa de su hermano se acostaba con su abogado, y su hermano le pidió que la matara si alguna vez lo engañaba. Así podría conseguir la herencia." Because his brother's wife was sleeping with their lawyer, and on the will of his brother, he asked his twin to kill his wife if she ever cheats. He could then get the will. My mother recaps, causing my lips to part in realization.
"Nunca me di cuenta de lo dramáticas que son las novelas." I never realized how dramatic novelas are. I said, just as the man shoots his brother's wife. I stiffen a laugh, just watching the dramatic fall and the gunshot wound situated above her breast, which allows the camera to capture—and replay—the fall three times. I wanted to burst out laughing. "Mami, ¿Cómo te interesa esto?" How does this interest you?
She takes the phone into her hand and shoves me off her shoulder, my laughter vibrating through the rest of my body. I can't take this show seriously, it's so dramatic and the acting is plausible at best. "Si no vas a mirar, déjame mirar en paz," If you're not going to watch, let me watch in peace, she said in a playful manner, shooing me away with her free hand and turning to the side, theatrically.
I laugh, but I let her be. This is clearly one of her only sources of entertainment and I have millions to comfort myself. Though, being stuck in a waiting room with people over the age of forty isn't the best occasion to be stuck in—I have to do what I do.
For the past ten years—since I was eight—I've been my mother's personal translator and official document-filer. Ever since I could read a lick of English without referencing back to a dictionary book for Spanish speakers, my mother dragged me along doctor's appointments, tax returns, banking statements—you name it.
It gets tiresome, and I get annoyed, but that's just the way life goes. I help my mother anyway I can, knowing how she lives. She's a single mother (practically) living on her own, trying to account for everything. She doesn't know English, and most times her dialect of broken English is hard to comprehend with her accent bearing so thick.
My father could've helped when he was discharged from the military, but he didn't. He's impatient and complains about the long-wait, bearing emotional labor onto my mother. She'd rather have me, than my father who huffs and sighs every step of the way.
I lean back against the seat, my arm still hooked around my mother's as a sign of comfort. The nape of my neck presses against the top rail of the plastic chair, watching the blank ceiling. While I hear Spanish music played at a low volume and dialogue being thrown back and forth, I consider my limits and imagine the stars.
Then, I start imagining Harlow.
My stomach immediately reacts with a flutter of butterflies, releasing like a jar opened in a meadow. A group of fireflies blooming with yellow lights and my stomach twists at all the wild thoughts that consume me. I conceal a smile, struggling in my seat, and grit my teeth in response.
Do not overreact, Dahlia.
"Alejandra Miyares Gonzáles," one of the nurses called from behind the door, causing both our attention to split towards the door. A black nurse, dressed in blue scrubs, holding a clipboard with a bright polite smile.
My mother and I jump from our seats and my mother slaps the phone into the palm of my hand, walking up to the nurse with a kind smile. I roll my eyes, locking the phone—the back slightly burning with the usage of the battery—and pocketing it.
We head into the back as the nurse takes my mother's measurements—height, weight, temperature—all the good stuff. I had to translate when and where she had to step, and what she had to do, before the nurse leads us to the back in one of the rooms. Now, another period of waiting.
My mother sits on the chair, cushioned with a thin sheet of paper, and she swings her legs back and forth. Her blue eyes glancing around the bland room, trying to find some amusement in this period.
I lean back against the free seat, watching my mother, like a child yet to grow up. "Si hubieras venido a los Estados Unidos, por tu cuenta, ¿qué habrías hecho?" If you had came over to the States, by yourself, what would you have done?
She snaps to me, eyes wide, "¿Los Estados Unidos? ¿Sola?" The States? Alone?
I merely smile. "Sola." Alone.
She sighs, imagining all of her possibilities. Without the restriction of my birth, or the easy-access like my father offered her. She tilts her head to the side. "Yo tomaría clases de inglés, tal vez. Tomar un par de lecciones, aprender a hablar e ir a entrevistas de trabajo. ¿Quizás podría ir a la universidad? Nunca tuve la oportunidad en Venezuela, ya que siempre estaba ayudando a mi mamá con su granja, y siempre quise aprender." I would apply for English classes, maybe. Take a couple of lessons, learn how to talk and interview for jobs. Maybe I could go to college? I never had the opportunity back in Venezuela since I was always helping my mom with her farm, and I always wanted to learn. She pauses, her eyes gleaming with possibilities and hope. "Compraría mi primera casa. No tiene que ser grande, o amplia, sino sólo un espacio. Un espacio, para mí para vivir y en el cual estar cómoda. Algo así." I would buy my first house. It doesn't have to be big, or roomy, but just a space. One space, for myself to live and be comfortable in. Something like that.
I smile, an actual smile, "¿Pensaste en esto?" You thought about this?
She shakes her head, the delight in her eyes slowly burning out. "No, nunca lo hice." No, I never did.
"Tuviste tus respuestas muy rápido." You had your answers quite quickly.
She shrugs, not taking into account how I felt from her words. Her passion, her hope. It was brimming with each syllable. "Fue lo primero que se me ocurrió," It was off the top of my head, she adjusts herself, playing with the bracelet on her wrist. I gifted it to her when I got my first paycheck. "Nunca tuve tiempo de considerar todo lo posible desde que te tuve." I never had time to consider all of the possible what-ifs since I had you.
I frown, but don't add anything to it. I jokingly considered asking if she'll love me if I was a worm, but I knew the joke was too played out. Plus, the mood wasn't right.
The door swings open and reveals a female doctor, and I instantly straighten in my seat. A polite smile graces my lips, and the doctor introduces herself before asking for my mother's. I translate, every word—from English to Spanish, Spanish to English—and I waited, being the perfect daughter she groomed me to be.
The daughter she watched grow, but never herself.
━━━━━
JUEVES
7:57 PM
Dahlia Gray
We were in the car, on the way home, while listening to Ricardo Montaner. He's one of my mother and I's favorite artists, and whenever we ride together, we compromise with one of his albums playing in the background and our souls singing our hearts out.
This time, it's a bit mellow.
I lean back against the seat, flipping my phone around with the palm of my hand, and my earbuds securely hooked over my ears. My mother is seated to my left, mumbling the lyrics to Te Adoraré, as her hands gear the steering wheel and her eyes focus on the road.
It's been hours since we left the doctor's appointment, and hours since her words had struck a chord within me. As always, my mother is as quiet as can be when it comes to her emotions—and she tries to hide under a facade when asked about her feelings—but in the spare, rare moments where she lets loose and the words slip before her actions do, I learn a few things.
I turn to the side, taking in my mother's profile and her smile. She wore a floral headscarf, framing her face with a couple of loose strands of hair. Her bright blue eyes, and a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
I know, deep down, my mother is in love with life. She's a spitfire that cherishes the world and owns aspirations that could inspire others. She wanted so much, and she loves too easily—but she was watered down into nothing but the title of a housewife after marrying my father.
"Dahlia," my mother calls out, lowering the volume on the radio. "¿Ese es Harlow?" Is that Harlow?
I follow her gaze, finding it pinned to a park bench with the silhouette of a figure. A figure dressed in dark clothes, and a small orange flame burning in the distance. My heart skips a beat.
"Um," I pause, not knowing what to do. I told her that Harlow smokes, and he and I met because he stole my bench—but nothing more. I don't know what to react to, or what to do when my mother points out my crush. "Si."
"¿Sólo... ¿Fuma solo así?" Does he just...does he smoke alone like that? She asks, quite concerned. She's accustomed to men smoking, back in our home country, and most men who do it, tend to do it along with their friends.
Unlike Harlow, who tends to do it alone.
"Yeah," I nod, flicking my attention back and forth from my mother to Harlow. I don't know what to do. "¿Por qué nos detuvimos?" Why did we stop?
She turns to me, a compassion expression overtakes her features. "¿No quieres hablar con él?" Don't you want to talk to him?
Yes, of course. "No tengo nada de que hablar." I have nothing to talk about.
She doesn't reply, and instead, clicks a button which unlocks all four doors. I turn to her, with furrowed brows, when she gives me an innocent shrug. I don't move, and she took the objective to lean over and click the buckle for me, losing my seatbelt. "Mami."
"Go," she shoos with her hand, her blue eyes gleaming with a dominating gaze.
I scoff, but unlock the door nonetheless. I step out of the car, close the door behind me, and my mother drives off—leaving me on the side of the road. Wow.
I look back to the park, hoping to see if Harlow notices me—but he didn't. The cigarette still lit between his fingers, the orange charing down the paper. His eyes casting an empty thought into oblivion.
I suck in a deep breath, calming the raging emotions surging through my body and begin my stroll towards the near-empty park. I'm fidgeting with my phone, and twisting the end of the wire as I'm walking—but nothing can comprehend how fast my heart is beating and how my stomach is running with frenzies.
Harlow notices my appearance soon enough, and his blue eyes find mine. I offer a small wave, trying to mimic nonchalant, just to see him drop the cigarette to the ground and crush it under his shoe. He turns back to me.
"Hi," I greet, stopping in front of the bench, dropping my arms to my side. I don't know what to do with my hands, suddenly hyper aware—do I play with them, do I stop, do I keep calm—how the hell did I act before?
"Hey." Harlow answers gruffly, scooting to the side. "You gonna sit down?"
I scrunch my nose, the smell of cigarette smoke catching my senses. "I don't know. The smell is kinda strong."
His eyes widen for a split second, and a guilty look crosses his face. He looks to the ground, kicking dirt over the burnt-out cigarette as an attempt to cover the smell. I almost wanted to laugh.
"Harlow," I hold out my hand, shaking my head. He turns back to me. "It's okay. I'll numb through it. Hopefully, the wind blows the smell away or something."
I slip into the seat beside him, and I immediately realize how close our proximity is. When I didn't like him before, I never noticed, but now—our arms are nearly touching and there's little space left between us. I felt the need to hold my breath, trying to contain myself, before resorting to looking at the stars.
The back of my neck presses against the worn-out plank, and I collect the constellations as a need for tranquility. It's easier to count the stars than to own up to your feelings.
"How come you weren't in class today?" Harlow prompts, and I could feel the heat of his gaze on me. My heart races, and I slip a free hand over my chest, collecting the beats of the rhythm and pacing myself.
One, two, three.
I'm alive.
"I was at the doctor's with my mom," I answered, turning towards him. A hint of concerns flicks through his irises, waiting for me to evaluate when I merely smile. It was kinda cute. "It wasn't about me. It was for my mom. I'm like her personal translator."
"Often?"
"Always." I answer, my eyes skimming his features. Everything is much more beautiful now, just as I take him in. The golden strands of his brunet hair, the brightness of his crystal blue eyes. His lips, his smile, his concern—everything. "I've been a translator since I was eight."
He doesn't reply, but he watches me. I straighten myself, the odd angle bending my neck uncomfortably, and I pull back into my seat. When Harlow wasn't here, I would take up the entire bench and consume the stars to my needs. Now, things have changed.
"You want to know something?" I say, out of the blue, turning back to him. "I used to take this entire bench to watch the stairs. It was weird, probably, and people looked on like I was a homeless person, but I really like it, you know? It was my bench."
"What's stopping you?" He queries, I don't think the information registers to him yet.
"What do you think?" I said with a teasing smile, giving him an obvious onceover, and realization dawns on him. His lips parted slightly.
"Oh, fuck," he clears his throat, causing me to laugh. I don't know why I thought it would be awkward with him. He's Reid Harlow and he's my person.
"It's fine," I wave a dismissive hand, "I'll adjust."
"No, wait," he holds out a hand, contemplating the situation and how to handle it. In conclusion, he scoots a little to the side—nearing the edge—like a small space would account for a whole human. "You could—wait, fuck." He swore, and I couldn't contain the giggles from escaping me.
I could tell he's trying to calculate a logical solution for me to have both—have him sit here, but also have my own space of comfort where I look up to the stars. It's not going to work, unless boundaries begin to blur.
Without a thought, I decided to go for it. I lean closer and adjust myself, setting my head on his lap. Flattening myself onto my back, the wooden planks pressing against my spine, and my legs straightening out and taking up the rest of the space. My toes just left hanging off the edge, a little bit.
Harlow doesn't say anything, and I could feel him stiffen under me. I press my lips together, trying to hide a smile as I watch Harlow trying to collect himself. His stare is penetrated to the front, he blanks into a stoic gaze—unaffected, unaware. It's cute.
Now I have the best of two views: the stars and Harlow.
"Why do you put your hand on your chest?" Harlow asks randomly, his stare still concentrated to the front. "I just—I noticed that all the time and I'm curious."
"The hand thingy?" I query, pushing back all my wild hair to the side. His question took me by surprise. He nods. "Um, I don't know. It's comforting. I always...I've always done it. I put my hand on my heart and count to three, just to check."
"Check what?"
"Check if I'm alive," I answer honestly, realizing how depressing that sounds. "That my heart is beating, and blood is pumping through my veins and oxygen is coming into my lungs. Everything, really. My heart tells me if I'm alive."
"You are." he said solemnly.
"I know." I nod, my gaze flickering between the stars and the chisel of his features. "But sometimes, everything gets too much. My family, school, my job. When I place my hand on my heart, it reels me back into reality. It gives me a sense of hope, that everything is going to pass and I'm going to survive through this. I will live."
He doesn't say anything, and continues to look to the front. His chest rising and falling, and I'm noticing the steady pace of his breathing picking up. Not too rapidly, like he's having trouble—but like he's compressing his anger, or controlling his emotions from spiraling. Something.
The world dawns into silence, and the sky darkens into a nightfall. Chirps of birds are heard through the atmosphere, rustling in and out of trees, and the crystal of the stars twinkle in the moonlight. The street lamps are flickering awake, energy humming with electricity. The crescent-shape moon slips from underneath the horizon, a sudden air around us. Time running still, the stars still alive.
"Hey," I said again, trying to catch his attention. He doesn't turn to me. "Harlow."
He finally looks down and his blue eyes catch mine. They gloss over my features in a quick onceover and his expression morphs into a tamed and composed look—stopping himself from enacting something. "What?"
"You want to listen to music?" I offer, unhooking one of the earbuds wrapped around my ear and offering it to him. Like a peace-treaty.
He scoffs, at my childish antics, but takes the earbud into his palm and plugs it into his ear. I take the other one, and mirror his action—when I realize music was already playing and it was the album of Ricardo Montaner. It must've disconnected from the bluetooth.
"Coño," I swore, picking up my phone. "Do you want me to change the playlist?"
Harlow shakes his head, his gaze flickering back to mine. They hover over my lips for a split second, his jaw sharpening. I held my breath. "No, just let it fucking be."
I nod, and tear away, upping the volume and allowing the rhythmic melodies of ¿Qué Vas A Hacer? play in our ears. I adjust my position.
I'm listening to the song and mumbling the lyrics under my breath, knowing Harlow doesn't understand a single word. I love the way the melodies are produced and the way he sings the words. It's a love song, and it's so heartwarming and emotional, I could stay here forever.
"Do you know what he's saying?" Harlow asks, looking back down at me. He blocks a portion of the stars.
I nod, "it's Spanish. Of course, I do."
He nods understandingly, as Montaner sings another string of Spanish. I watch him as he prompts, "I always wanted to fucking know what cono means."
I furrow my brows, "you mean coño?"
"Yeah, that."
A small smile graces my lips, as I try to evaluate the meaning of the word. "Um, it means...well, it's a word that I preferably do not like to say in English."
"A swear
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