Page 32 of Sombra
She grimaces and takes a bite, then relaxes. “It’s delicious.”
The warm night settles around us, and as I eat, I survey the table.
Guillermo argues with Antonio about somethingthat happened at school last year. I’m glad they’re bugging each other and not me.
Mari Carmen feeds Jorge a bite of salad, the lovebirds with their heads together, murmuring to each other. I’m too used to them to care, but if I thought about it, I’d be either sickened or jealous.
My grandmother lectures my grandfather about his smoking, as she’s done once a week my entire life.
My mother sits with my aunt and uncle, every once in a while glancing toward me and Kim with tightness in her neck and face. I take no notice of her, because I’m so happy with this girl.
But when I come back to Kim, she’s eating so fast she must think she’s never going to get food again. And she’s holding her fork and knife in the wrong hands.
“There’s no rush,” I whisper,gesturing at the table. “We have all night.”
Kim’s face reddens, and she lifts her silverware midair. “I’m so sorry. I’m not used to having enough time to do anything. We’re always on a schedule. My habit is to eat fast and go on to the next thing.”
“Here, there is no reason to. Slow food is best. It’s good for your digestion, too,” my mother says. “Take your time.”
If I couldgo a day without my grandmother or mother talking about digestion, it would be a day to celebrate.
Chagrin still registers on Kim’s face. I reach out and touch her hand. “Don’t worry so much. It will all be okay.” She gives me a tight nod and takes a bite. I notice the hands she uses to hold her silverware. “You use the other hands when you eat.”
Kim studies my hands and takes ineveryone else at the table. “Huh. This is how I was taught.” Carefully she switches the cutlery, mimicking me. Taking a bite with her fork in her left hand, she chews and says, “It’s actually easier this way.”
I wink at her.
She glances around the table at all the conversations. I can tell she doesn’t understand most of what’s being said because I know what it was like in my translationclasses. I use a low voice. “Don’t mind my family. Once you know the language better, it will be just like home.”
“No. It isn’t at all like home.” She’s so close I can smell her shampoo. “Even if I understood everything. I’m an only child, so I’m used to being the focus. I never have to compete for attention. If someone talks, it’s to me. I’m not used to all this noise, all these side conversations.”
I cut a piece of tomato. “I have never not been around a crowd of people at mealtimes. This must mean you’re the one people listen to.”
“Right. But I’d rather not have that, you know? It’s not my personality. I don’t need to be in the spotlight.”
“What do you want, guapa?
The table gets quiet.
That pink tinge touches her conejo nose as she takes another sip ofwine, then mutters into her glass, “I’m hoping I can find out while I’m here.” When she looks up again, the string of lights overhead shines on her face, making her skin incandescent. “Compared to what I’m used to, it’s chaos, but it’s also beautifully orchestrated by your mother. We’ve got it all wrong—don’t talk, hurry through dinner to get on to the next thing. Your mom knows what she’s doing.”
“She does.”
I raise my glass to my mother, and then to Kim, and I drink. It’s delicious as usual, making things fuzzy. Happier. Especially when sitting next to Kim with her optimism, pinup-girl attractiveness, and fresh American liveliness.
After we finish eating the salad, my mother and sister rise, clear our plates, and bustle back with painted ceramic platters of food.
“When it is light, I’ll take you for a tour of the olive trees,” I say.
“I look forward to it.”
“¿Más vino?” I indicate with the bottle.
She lifts the glass. “Un poco.”
By the heat on her cheeks, she isun pocotipsy, too, which means stay away. I’m not touching her when she’s inebriated—at least not the first time.
After dinner, when the dishes are clearedand the night is still beginning, my entire family lingers at the table.
