It's a boy, maybe 7 or 8 years old. He is standing right by the bed, staring at me. Half-awake, I have a hard time understanding the situation and he's not helping by not talking at all. What are you doing here, little man?
Domenica groans behind me. "Deb? What's up?"
The boy perks up. "Mom?"
"Nathan?" says Domenica. Oh. Oh. That's what's happening.
She raises on an elbow. "What's up, love? Can't sleep?"
"I heard a noise and I wasn't sure if you were home," he says. Now that I look at him, he looks as perplexed about my presence as I was about his moments ago. We probably mirrored each other's expression.
"I'm sorry Deb and me woke you up. Did Mark get you to sleep alright?" says Domenica.
"Yeah," he says. "We played the caterpillar game and he told me a story."
"Nice", says Domenica. "I think it's time to go back now. Want me to come tuck you in?"
"Mm-hm."
Domenica gets up and puts on a dressing gown. When they leave the room, I let out an awkward "Good night", briefly answered by Nathan and... Mommy.
It's surprisingly hard to wrap my head around this. I don't know what it means to me that Domenica's a mom. Is it important? Do I have to care? I don't even know if she'll want to see me again. Ugh. I bury my head in the pillow. Maybe it's best to sleep on it for now, it must be something like 3 am. Not really a time for deep thoughts.
Drowsy, I hear Domenica coming back and quiety shutting the door. Unable to do more, I turn my head on the side to show her I'm there.
She's standing there with a strange smile on, anxious-looking, apologetic. It's the first time I see her seemingly wanting to look smaller. Maybe this situation isn't easy on her either.
"Are you okay?" I ask in a whisper. Don't want to wake little Nathan again.
She chuckles nervously and comes sitting on my side of the bed. "That's what I should be asking you," she says. "Honestly, I didn't want to spring this on you that way. Do you think..." She swallows, takes a deep breath. "Is me having a kid going to be a problem for you?"
I see all the tension that's been building up in that question. Afraid of rejection, eh? I might know a thing or two about this. "I... don't know. First, do you even want to see me again after tonight?" I ask.
"Why, yes," she says, genuinely surprised. A little worried now, she asks: "You don't?"
"Yes I do," I say, smiling. "Look, maybe this is just me being half-asleep but I'd say that if we want to see each other again, it's a good start. A good start is... good." I take her hand, trying to be reassuring. I end up yawning. "Could we maybe pause that conversation there and resume it in the morning?"
"Sure," she says. She has her lady-catching smile on again. Confidence up. She gives me a very mom-like forehead kiss and we cuddle back to sleep.
* * *
I hate mornings after. I hate rising when I don't shine. Rum has settled in my forehead while I was all passed out and I'm thinking through thick, syrupy liquid. I didn't drink that much, damn it. What happened to my youth?
My body feels so heavy. Like I've been shoved under five blankets and then some. I'm shackled to the bed and way too warm. Then I open my eyes and Domenica's sleeping face is there. All the discomfort just flies away. Best hangover cure ever.
I think I could just lay in bed like that a long time. Who said it was stuffy? It's the warmth of love. I think I vaguely recall her wanting to see me again. Having a kid. I gently push that tought back in a box labeled "never mind for now". I'm feeling way too optimistic, laying in bed with nothing to do, the sun shining on my face. Wait... Oh shit.
I was supposed to start this morning with Rodrigo! What was it, 7 a.m.? What time is it now? How could I forget this?
There is no time to unwrap her gently from around me. I'm breaking the moment and I don't care: the benefits of the adrenaline rush. Domenica mumbles something, still dozing off.
"Hey," I say. I got a sock on and yesterday's shirt is struggling to settle back on by body. "I'm really really sorry but I gotta go. I'm - I was supposed to start at 7 this morning at the factory."
"What?" says Domenica. She tries to open her eyes. It's not exactly a success. "Oh, the factory. Shit. Are you in trouble?"
"Well, I'm gonna go over there right now and kneel and plead, if that makes any difference." I 'm all dressed up now, but that right sock is nowhere to be found. Screw it.
"I can drive you, if you need," says Domenica. She yawns.
"I'm okay. I'll feel better if you can catch sleep for the both of us. It's faster with the bike up the pedestrian bridge anyway."
"Meh," she says. "Almost 8:30, the peace ain't gonna last long. This may be a school vacation but Nathan rarely rises after 9 anyway."
I wince. 8:30. "OK, Domenica, wish me luck?" I say. "I'll call you tonight, promise."
I almost rush out but she calls out. "Number," she says.
"What?"
"You're gonna need my number if you want to call me back," she says.
"Right." Where did I put my phone? Did I leave it in my jacket?
"Listen," she says. "Why don't you just swing by here after work and we can have more time to talk and... exchange numbers?"
I nod hurriedly. "That sounds perfect," I say. I manage to whip on a nervous smile: "Tonight then."
I bolt outside. It hailed again last night, the remains of the storm melting in the gutters. How did we not hear that?
Anyway, there is something very wrong with the weather this year. Hail in July is no Brooding Peaks specialty. The weather usually goes over 75°F in the afternoon which is pretty hot for our altitude but the last few weeks I've found useful to carry a jacket around. When the ice melts like right now, the temperature seriously drops and the humidity rises. Perfect recipe for a summer cold, except I don't get colds.
I unlock the bike I left at the fence. There is roughly 20 minutes worth of pedaling. I'm gonna have to make it a 15. Maybe they'll see how sorry I am if I'm all sweaty and panting?
Even though I'm cycling to complete exhaustion, it's difficult not to admire the view. With the sun out, the Caldito river is a light green flow coming down from great heights through lush green banks. The road goes down hard from the old town to the river, the hill cobbled with stone and brick houses of all shapes and sizes. Right before the river turns away from view and into rapids, a wrought-iron bridge extends its thin black leg across the water. There's my life-saving shortcut.
Crossing the bridge on a bike is faster said than done, given that a third of it is stairs. Given how often I end up late for stuff, I've become quite skilled at running up and down stairs while holding a bike. The road after that is the difficult part: at the foot of the mountains, the ground curls up in waves - and so does the road.
When I emerge in front of the wire fence doors of the factory, I am not cold anymore, mo matter how much hail is still piled up in corners and shadows. The storm was probably very strong here.
This view is familiar: in my teen years, I have passed the factory many times on my way to Woodridge, the town over. They have a movie theater run by volunteers. It's usually bustling with forklifts skidding off, giant trucks choking silos full of bird feed, orange people with white little helmets walking around, shouting orders.
There is no one out there. No truck, no man, not even a sound comes out of the factory. The wire fence door, usually locked unless there's a delivery, has been left ajar.
In the silence, a low rumble comes and goes. I feel the earth shaking right below my feet. In the sky, the clouds start gathering again.
* * *
That was LATE, like, 3 days late. That's why starting from yesterday I decided to write at least an hour a day, every morning. If I do that, I can do my writing in time easy, maybe even get ahead of schedule. So. I'll see if that goes well.
Stay tuned!