I had had similar experiences when I was out with Ana, especially while waiting in lines: I broke into a sweat and couldn’t catch my breath whenever people stood behind me.
Berta whispered something to Diego, who then led us into their kitchen where we all sat down at the table. Pouring me a glass of juice, Diego turned and said, “So I finally get to meet you, Alma—you are the smart one, right? Did you know that I helped pick out the calculator you once got for Christmas?” His Spanish was simple with an accent, but his smile was so like Papá’s.
I tried to answer while a lump formed in my throat, “Really? Are you kidding? I didn’t know.”
His face became serious as he said somberly, “Your journey here must have been difficult.”
Before I could speak, Berta interceded, and I held my breath. I had asked her not to tell anyone of my experience. She had argued that Diego should know some of it, he was family after all, and in addition, his experience as a paramedic had exposed him to all sorts of things. But I had begged her, saying in time perhaps, but not yet. I didn’t want him looking at me and thinking . . . that.
She spoke to Diego softly, saying I was tired and it was something we could talk about another time, then she ended with something in English.
I began to fidget as the room filled with deep voices and the quick movements of his coworkers, who were reaching for éclairs, brownies, and bread. Berta stood and said, “Come for dinner, Sunday—you’re off?”
He answered in English with what sounded like a long explanation etched in tones of uncertainty.
As she helped me to my feet, I glanced up in time to see Diego and Berta exchange a glance. “We’ll talk Sunday,” she said in English.
I understood those words clearly, as well as the sharp tone of her voice. He nodded and looked questioningly at me. I forced a smile as I squeezed past the men in the kitchen.
Once outside I took a deep breath and heard Berta say behind me, “I’m sorry, m’ija; we’ll be more careful where we go. Okay?”
As she gently touched my arm, all I could think about was Rosa— how I wished she could have known the kindness of Berta.
That Sunday Berta made an Italian dinner, filling the house with glorious smells of tomato and garlic. My nausea disappeared just as she said it would with a warm piece of French bread. We set the table in the dining area with her good dishes, placed a vase of flowers in the center, and lit candles throughout the living room. When I asked if we shouldn’t wait until Diego arrived, she said, “Heavens no! The party has already begun!” And with that she put on her favorite Beatles album and twirled me around the room. By the time Diego arrived, we were both flushed and giggling, and he didn’t believe us when we said we hadn’t been drinking at all.
After jokes and small talk, we sat down to dinner where Berta cleared her throat and told Diego my version of the story: I was pregnant, and the father was working in Temecula to save money for the baby, for us. He listened closely, asking some questions in English because, Berta said, his Spanish was not as good. Sometimes she answered in English, and I found myself frustrated by the sudden switch, relying on facial expressions and occasional translation, but all the more determined to learn the language as soon as possible. I saw doubt in Diego’s eyes, perhaps questioning my story or the fidelity of my novio, but when we were finally alone in the living room with Mamá Berta (as he affectionately called her) singing loudly in the kitchen, he settled back into the sofa and smiled.
“Alma, you’re an angel sent from heaven.”
“¿Un ángel? ¿Por qué?”
He tilted his head toward the kitchen and began to speak, but Berta popped her head back in and shouted, “Alma! That’s her song. Listen. ‘Luz in the Sky with Diamonds!’” After a quick translation, she disappeared back into the kitchen, singing along with the Beatles.
Diego’s eyes widened. “That’s why. She’s been pretty depressed since I moved out, but truth is she hasn’t been quite this happy in years.” He paused and looked out the window. “Maybe since, well, before Grandma and Grandpa died.”
I’d forgotten about her parents. The story ended with Lara’s death, and I hadn’t thought to ask about them. This had been the family home; I knew that. “When was that? When did they die?” I asked, realizing how utterly alone she must have felt with their deaths.
He spoke slowly, pausing from time to time, perhaps to find the correct word. Though he struggled a bit with Spanish, I could understand him, and he seemed to understand me as well. “I was twelve and difficult. I remember being angry that everyone was always so sad, then angry that they died.” He grunted in disgust. “Grandma had a stroke and was in a coma for a few weeks before she died. Grandpa just faded after that—died six months later. His heart.” He glanced tenderly toward the kitchen. “She didn’t touch their bedroom for over a year and then suddenly just emptied the whole thing. She was about to turn it into a weight room and game room for me, when the girls at the bakery came over and practically forced her to remodel both the bedroom and bathroom into a beautiful space for herself. They helped her paint and buy bedroom furniture. Then they gave her a party—and bought her purple sheets and a comforter and curtains and towels. Everything purple! She cried and laughed at the same time. I remember my adolescent brain thinking the whole thing was stupid, yet somehow touching, too.”
“So, the room I’m sleeping in . . . it
