The American

Chapter Sixteen

It is a sad story, but sadder if it isn't told right. It is sad because nothing has changed for her. Nearly a decade later, she appears the same as she once was: just as timid, just as forbidding. Time has wrinkled her forehead but her eyes waver with the same grief—the same discontent. I see in Mama's discomfort the reason for Mario's silence, for his having kept the past a secret for all these years. But it isn't a secret anymore. Nothing is.

"You coming, Margarita?" Lars asks, snapping me out of my thoughts. He is waiting by the door of the café with his buddies, Jesper and Morten.

"You guys go on without me. There's something I need to take care of," I say.

He nods—and just like that, they are gone. And Mama is inching closer towards me, her every gesture laced with caution until she is just inches away. She reaches to touch my face. "You have grown, baby."

I grab her hand and brush it away. "Time does that to people."

"Margarita—"

"What are you doing here, Mama? In Barcelona, out of all places. Who is she?"

She releases a sigh, motioning to the mahogany eyed lady beside her. "This is Maria."

"I mean who is she to you? Who is she to us?"

"She is my sister, baby."

I can barely process her words as a waitress brushes past us. "Your sister? Maria is your sister?"

Maria steps in between the two of us. "Margarita, darling. Let's sit down."

"Sit down?" I repeat, narrowing my eyes at her. "Sit down? Are you kidding me? What the hell are you doing here anyway? Aren't you supposed to be in Pamplona?"

She recoils onto her spot, saying nothing. I realize then that I am livid. The audacity of this woman, to destroy my mother's heart and to tell me to sit down, as if she has any degree of authority over me. Not only has she absolved herself of her responsibility in destroying our home, but she is lying to the man who opened the door. And she seems to hold no remorse.

"Baby," Mama implores. "Come on. Let's get a table."

"Is this where you came all those years ago? To Barcelona?" I ask her, softening.

She nods, occupying the nearest empty table. I follow in her steps, not realizing that I am shaking until I nearly topple over an empty glass in the process of taking the seat across from her. It is then that I begin crying. I cannot help it. As austere as she is, my mother is still the most beautiful woman in the world. And she is here again, sitting before me, holding my hand as if she will never let go. She is alive.

"I'm sorry," I fumble. "I just—"

"It's okay, baby," she says through a heavy breath. "It's a lot to take in. All of this. I know."

"I wish Mario was here," I say—and I do. He would know what to do.

Mama leans forward, brushing my knuckles with her thumb. "Mario. Is he here with you?"

"No, he's back home, in Begur. He's engaged, Mama."

Her eyes widen, tearing ever so slightly. "Is he really?"

"Hard to believe, I know."

"How is she?"

"Sahara?"

"Sahara? Is that her name?"

"Yeah."

"What a beautiful name. Sahara."