Shall I Stay (Los Morales #1)

29. Lena

The massive irony is not lost on me. In fact, an irony avalanche has been chasing me for months.

It is just before dawn, and I sit in an airplane about to fly away from an island I had been mostly resentful to visit. I now have all the career-defining findings I wanted to hoard as I would gleefully wave goodbye from here. And yet all I want to do is curl into a conflicted ball of despondent longing and not look out the window as Puerto Rico fades.

To add to the full-circle irony, I find myself needing a couple of elderly chatterbox strangers to distract me from my excruciating regret. They would probably berate me and lovingly slap me upside the head if they had met Federico. Rico.

What a mess I made of those last moments together. It is all that mallorca’s fault.

It was not enough that he had me wishing so badly I could trust enough to hold his hand and risk crossing that tunnel to the unknown. No, he had to show me understanding and kindness and ply me with thoughtful baked goods, showing once again one must suffer a particular kind of insanity to not give in to his affection.

My resolve was waning, so self-preservation kicked in and shut down communication. The frustration and disappointment in that car felt crushing.

Once we arrived at the airport hotel, exhaustion and the absurdity of this struggle made me want to crumble in a heap in his arms. To have a good ‘why am I the way that I am’ sob session.

But Rico handed me my tote bag, so stoic and resigned, I found a way to rationalize. He doesn’t need or deserve my hang-ups holding him back. We could get over this—this relatively tiny blip of connection—and go on as we were.

So I straightened and did not look back.

Now that I’m actually flying away, I’m not so sure. Day after day with Rico and this research journey, my heart has stretched and swelled to three times its size. Now it feels like it’s in a fetal position, shriveled from overthinking and lack of sleep, mourning the possibilities.

I dislike that word so much now. What is the use of possibility staring you right in the face if the risk is too much to take?

The plane backs away from the terminal, and somebody across the aisle lifts up their window shade. The sun rises as my mood further plummets.

Irony. Irony everywhere.

Three weeks later

Months ago, at the beginning of this project, I slogged through stalling research. I would visualize pressing ‘send’ on the completed report and imagine the fulfillment of a career milestone washing over me.

Documenting the research report has taken me twice as long as it usually takes me. But then again, I have never had the torturous experience of having every summary, every transcription, and source attachment mean so much to me, beyond any career ambition.

Turns out my emotional tolerance for despondent pining is quite low, so instead of powering through, I have had to space it out. Small doses of Alonso’s journey. Small doses of how he left everything for love and built a true legacy. Small doses of how every word I type whispers that Federico was there with me.

And, of course, now the achievement of completing the project is as empty and passing as the click and swoosh of sending it out. All these years of proving I needed no one, it means nothing without someone. Not just anyone.

Alonso himself would roll his eyes and say, “Thanks for catching up with the class, profesora.”

Profesora.

Worst of all, there is no relief.

I’m aware I am a case study in expecting relief where there is none to be had. Those small doses of work have had to get in line with all the waves of guilt and regret.

I have not reached out to Rico in three weeks. Not a professionally veiled email to thank him again. Not even a text to ask what one of his chicken-scratched research notes said.

Chickens.

The first week I told myself it was about testing how distance and space would certainly fade the pulsing ache of missing him. The second week I told myself I had nothing to say that would not seem incredibly random and in reference to the pulsing ache of missing him. I have also found that I have expert denial skills, so this third week I told myself I am an idiot for allowing this pulsing ache of missing him. Next would be rationalizing that Rico has not reached out either and is probably doing better than I am with the pulsing ache of missing him.

So, I have been using those denial skills well.

I close my laptop and stare out my flat’s window. Salamanca also has lost its luster for me. Who lives in the same place they were neglected merely to prove an empty success to no one who cares? I also carry severe regret over how I have always loved the aged beauty of this city, but could have been living anywhere else that was not a constant reminder of such unhappy times.

My phone alarm rings and lets me know I am about to miss the noon bus out of the city. I quickly grab my things, fail at fixing my messy bun, and head out the door.

In between those small doses of work, I have spent a lot of time talking or visiting with my adoptive aunts, Meche and Monse. Dr. Mercedes Toro and Dr. Monserrate Sandín, renowned archivists to the rest of the world. I have done my best to make up for all the lost time, warmth, and imparted wisdom I have missed by keeping them at arm’s length.

When Meche retired, she settled in a small country house on the outskirts of the city. But, not one to do anything in half measures, the humble home is nestled amid an expansive parcel of manicured gardens that—she likes to think—would rival Versailles. So twice a week, widowed Monse, who lives with her daughter and grandchildren, and I have been visiting Meche’s for a weeding party.

Meche picks us up at the bus stop in her old all-terrain vehicle, and by the time we drive up to her property, we’re already happily covered in dirt dust. Wearing wide-brimmed hats and leather gloves up to our elbows, we chat and pull weeds under the September summer sun. I love the long stretches of comfortable silence alternated with their lively singing where I can zone out as my hands work.

After around an hour and a half and several bags of weeds, I feel more worn out than they are. Meche thankfully directs us to the welcome shade of her pergola. A minute later, she covers the patio table with plate after plate, a tapas spread like no other.

“I still can’t believe you make us drink mocktail sangría,” Meche says as she brings out the most glistening, refreshing pitcher of plum red liquid.

Monse smiles placidly and puts forward her empty cup. “Your patatas meneás are indulgent enough.”

I greedily gulp down my cupful and certainly do not think about what Rico would have to say about these tapas vs pinchos . After a moment, only ice clinks fill the silence, and I look up to knowing stares from my friends.

Meche settles forward in her chair and asks, “So, Magdalena, did you finally send out your research report?”

Monse expectantly turns more toward me. I sigh and apprise them about the completed project. They congratulate me, but because I’m trying to show how much better I am at opening up, I also spill out how unsatisfying and empty it was.

Over these past weeks of reaching out and spending time with them, I have slowly told them about my time in Puerto Rico. And, because it would be almost impossible to extricate him from the story, they sensed there was more and have dotingly nudged me to share about Federico and my conflicted heart.

After today’s venting, they both lean back on their lawn chairs, swirling their ice-filled tumblers with twin narrowed stares. It seems a talking-to is on the menu.

Meche shakes her head and states, “You must be slower now than you were in your post-grad, Magdalena.”

I bend forward, choking a little on my sangría .

Monse has a more compassionate look in her eyes but also shakes her head. “Of course we have loved this time with you. But it has been weeks of this frustrating facilitator teaching style, waiting for you to figure it out.”

“Yes. We both think you have had your answer for a while now, my dear.”

I switch my gaze between them, panic wanting to take over.

Monse nods slowly. My heart wrenches at the tears in her eyes when she says, “I would fly to my Pedro in an instant if I could. Even if I knew I would lose him.”

“And I am content here in my Versailles, but . . .” Meche looks away, a lonely queen surveying her kingdom. “Letting love slip through your fingers is not a regret you will ever fully recover from.”

Monse stretches her arm to squeeze her friend’s hand but fixes determined eyes on me. “From what you have told us, your Federico counts on you to be more sensible than this.”

I gulp and squeak out, “ Sensible is what I am trying to be.”

I get a couple of throaty, condescending chuckles for my efforts. They share another knowing glance as Meche says, “We have every confidence in you. It is just—you are taking your time, no?”

All I can do is look down as I store their words to ponder later. Monse stands up with the pitcher in hand to refill my cup. She gives my hand a reassuring pat. Meche hands me a brimming plate and soon the conversation turns to how planting violets in the gaps should help with the weed control in the future.

When night falls, I thank them for another successful weeding soiree and hug each a little longer. I ride the bus in a daze, arms wrapped around all of Meche’s to-go containers.

At my flat, I barely manage to store away the food before I plop on my couch. It has been my designated spot for slowly working my way through all the Puerto Rican packaged treats Rico got for me. The coconut kisses are my favorite, so I saved one for last. I am very full from the tapas feast, but this is an emotional support situation.

I lay here, covered in crumbs, when I catch sight of my tote bag, stationed as it has been on one of my kitchen stools. Besides taking out necessary binders or notes, I have left it untouched, as if unpacking it would mean Puerto Rico never happened. The graphic on it stares me down: “Eventually, All Genealogists Come to their Census.”

I sigh and roll my eyes. At an inoffensive tote.

“This silliness stops now,” I declare for my benefit. I stand, dust off the crumbs, and walk over to unpack this unwitting token of what could have been.

Back-up notebooks, an extra charger, a tiny cosmetic case of essentials, and some squashed snack bars, I place them all on the countertop. I shake out the bag and almost miss a small pouch in the bottom.

I hold the soft suede envelope in my hand and stare at it, wondering where it came from and, most of all, what it contains. I solve the mystery when I carefully pop the snap fastener.

Inside is a silver chain. And on it, a tiny torch silver charm.

My eyes widen and then narrow. I already know it is the same charm Rico and I saw in the San Germán market. But I confirm when I find the artisan’s business card.

I am about to place it back inside to further stare at the charm, when I notice there is something scribbled on the back of the card. With trembling hands, I turn it to read:

“Torches and all—Federico”

I close my eyes and lean on the countertop as memory after memory rushes into my consciousness like a golden-lit highlight reel. Rico all disheveled, running to pick me up at the terminal. Rico holding a bag of breakfast, suppressing a grin. Rico, arms up behind his head, bouncing around research ideas. Rico talking me off the meltdown ledge, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. Rico, geeking out over conservation gloves. Rico, eyes alight as I walk up to the tour boat. Rico, head thrown back, laughing with his ankle propped up. Teaching me how to salsa at sunset. Leaning back on a lounge chair in the dark. Always searching for my hand, always pulling me toward him. Kissing and holding me in that cellar as if there was nothing else and no one else he wanted in the world. Rico pointing at that tunnel unequivocally letting me know he would walk through it with me.

At the end of this excruciating memory montage, the credits roll, and all the lines state the obvious. What are you doing? You love him. Fix it.

Over and over.

All of a sudden, my questioning shifts from worries full of distrust and uncertainty to more pressing matters. What did I ever do to deserve such a haven of devotion of a person? What can I possibly do to prove my love in return?

I can’t begin to answer the first question, and I don’t want to consider the possible third question. Am I too late?

I focus on the second. What can I possibly do?

Talk about coming to my ‘census.’

For my first step, I go with who I would most want on my side in any lost-cause cavalry. I treasure the torch charm in my hand and grab my phone to pull up Tina’s number.

The line rings and rings, and I almost hang up, when I hear: “ Aló? Sí, diga .”

“Tina, it’s—it’s Lena.”

“Oh, I know, mi amor .“ She pulls away from her phone to yell out, “Mari, you lost the bet! It took her three weeks!” From farther away, Mari’s “Ugh!” rings out with Julia’s triumphant, “I knew we weren’t making it to a month!”

Tina laughs and whispers into the phone, “Don’t tell Julia, but you had me worried there for a minute.”

I do my best to not sob into her ear and ask, “Worried?”

“Mhm. How long does it take a fabulously bright, independent woman to get out of her own way? Degrees and careers don’t help out much with that, huh?”

When I shake my head but only a whimper comes out, she continues, “Of course, it’s understandable, and Lord knows, my Rico is not perfect, but—”

“I love Federico, Tina. And I am—I am so sorry for any pain at all I have caused. Do you think—do you think he will want to see me?” I have to ask, squeezing my phone as if I were clinging to her for support.

She chuckles and sighs out, “ Ay mija , you should know this. That boy thinks of nothing but you. You will put us all out of his misery.” Again she pulls away to call out, “Girls! Come on, Lena’s coming for Rico, and we need to plan.”

Before I know it, I am on speakerphone with all three Morales women, interchangeably scheming, chatting, and arguing, sometimes all at once. Thousands of miles away, and I am already enveloped in their circle, where it is impossible to not feel hopeful.