Unspoken in those fake arguments were words like “I’m thankful for you” and “finally, someone understands me.” And that road went both ways, for sure.
The insane drive I’d had to make sure this building, this property, served a purpose, became almost like background noise, covered over by what I thought might be happening with Raf. This time with him could be the real reason I’d stayed behind. Maybe it was the reason I’d come to Nicaragua in the first place.
The night came when he and I had crossed through everything on the list except for a final coat of paint on a couple of rooms. Instead of cracking open the buckets of Barely Beige again, we decided to call it a night by midnight. He went his way and I went to bed. Not to sleep. Not yet anyway. Emails had piled up in my inbox and I needed to burn through a few of those.
Meg and I had communicated a little every day—mostly short texts and emails that verified we were still among the living. She’d been busy with homework and cataloguing art at Jo’s house and I’d been busy closing up shop here. The emotions I’d dredged up after she’d gone to the dance with Quinn had simmered and felt more like a dull ache. If I let them, they roared, but I hadn’t let them in days. Now, I just missed her. I wanted her next to me. I opened an email from her and nearly lost it. It was only five words—I still believe in you.
It was too late to call or Skype so I wrote an email.
Megan Grace,
I was wrong to leave you wondering if we were okay. I’m sorry if you doubted me for a second. Nothing, nothing, nothing has changed. My heart is yours.
The fact that you believe in me feels good, like rain. You have no idea.
You are kind, generous with your spirit, sensitive to others, empathetic above all, and you are mine. Thank God. Thank God. Thank God. Because I have so much to learn from you.
I know you’re probably steeling yourself to hear me say that things are awful here right now. And on so many levels, things are awful. But there’s this cool new layer resurfacing this place, like it’s been acid-washed. I’ve worked hard and I hope I’ve done it right. I’m a different person than I was even a few weeks ago.
I hope you’re doing okay. I’m coming home soon because I do need you. I do miss you. I do love you.
Forever,
Henry
I come from a long line of insomniacs. Give the Whitmires something to stew over and we’ll work on it all night. I didn’t sleep much because I’d reached the point where I felt finished here and all I could think about was getting home to Meg, letting O’Neill know I was back in town, and making up for lost time.
About six, I walked to the kitchen looking for coffee. Rosa, who had been asked by Patrick to stick around to run the kitchen of the new campus, was already making fry bread for my breakfast.
“I had a feeling you’d be up early.” She handed me a cup of coffee made nearly white with cream the way she drinks it. When she turned back to her frying pan, I poured half the cup down the sink and darkened it back up with strong coffee from the pot.
“I figured I’d get started on the painting,” I said. “If I can knock it out today, Raf and I can just relax tonight and hang out.”
Rosa smiled. “He’s a granuja, you know…a rascal…but he grows on you.”
“Oh, Rosa, you know you love that kid,” I said, grinning at her. “And he’s pretty fond of your flat bread.”
“Sí, I do love him. You love him, too. You’re glad you stayed, verdad?”
I nodded, taking a long swallow of coffee. “I’m glad I stayed, but now it’s time to go home.”
Rosa reached up and pressed her palms, hot from holding a frying pan and spatula, against my cheeks. “You made a new ending,” she said.
“Ma’am?”
“This,” she said, waving her hand toward the courtyard. “This isn’t how you thought it would end. You made a new ending and it’s the right one, I think. Now, go home.”
I laughed and leaned against the counter, watching her control all the moving parts of this kitchen. Whether she was cooking for an orphanage full of kids or one lonely guy, she had it going on. “I reserved a flight for tomorrow. I’ll paint and pack and get things ready to hand the keys over to Patrick and Hadley.”
She nodded her head and started humming. At some point, I guess we all realize that life goes on and we’ll survive.
Painting the final rooms took four hours and then I spent two more hours stripping tape, sweeping the floor, peeling tags off appliances, and checking lights. I’d saved the most important task until last.
Using a wood-burning tool I’d picked up in town, I carved a message into a plank prepared ahead of time for this purpose.
For the children of the Quiet Waters Home, San Isidro—
The Lord is my shepherd. I lack nothing.
When I had the words clear enough, I nailed the plank into place in the notch I’d created above the main door.
Just as I finished the sign, I heard a noise behind me and turned to find Raf standing in the room, watching.
“Looks good there,” he said.
“I thought so.”
“Look, vaquero, I can’t stay tonight, but I brought you something.”
I stood and smiled at the kid who’d come to mean the world to me. “I have something for you, too.”
“Okay, you first.”
I motioned for him to follow and we walked to the dining hall where Rosa had left plates of food out for us and a pitcher of lemonade. I poured a glass and took a drink. As usual, Rosa had been so heavy-handed with the sugar that even the memory of sour was gone.
Raf smiled when he saw the food. I pushed both plates toward him and watched him eat. When he slowed down, I slid a package across the table. He picked it up, shook it, and said, “A book.”
“Smart aleck,” I said.
He carefully peeled back the brown paper to reveal the book of Ruben Dário poems.
“You do know Nicaraguan writers,” he said, smiling.
“I tried it out. For you.”
He flipped through the poems for a minute, stopping to read part of one aloud in Spanish. It was right to hear a poem read in the poet’s native tongue.
“Thanks. This is yours.” He handed me a paper that looked like it had been stomped on and carried in sweaty palms. I watched him for a second and then unrolled the paper.
He’d carefully copied the names of his fifteen Quiet Waters brothers and sisters down the center of the page. Some had a line drawn through them. Some were checked or surrounded with scribbled notes too small to read. But some of them had addresses, written precisely, without wasted space. My throat constricted, making it impossible to talk. He had found four of our kids: Brisa, César, Daniela, and—oh thank God—Karalyn. All four kids were in a small village outside of San Isidro. Right here in our backyard.
Raf was quiet, watching my face and waiting.
That day so long ago in Managua, Raf could’ve been killed on the street. What seemed, at the time, like the worst day of my life might have been one of the best. It forced me to deal with Raf. It brought Patrick into our world. It showed me that even when I screw things up, I could still make a difference.
I tried to find my voice, although at first it came out so scratchy that I had to start over.
“How?” I said. “How did you do it?”
“I did a lot of walking. I talked to kids in neighborhoods. I didn’t let them see me, but I laid eyes on all four of these, and they’re where I say they are.”
“Thank you, Raf. I’ll never be able to repay you for this. It’s too much.”
“No,” he said. “I’m just carving away at my debt.”
He stood and looked at the list over my shoulder. “This one,” he said, pointing to Brisa, “is going to need some help. This family she’s with has less than nothing. If you’ve got any money left, you could slip it under the doormat.”
I nodded, counting in my head the cash left in my wallet and the small bit of petty cash John
had left me to close things down here.
“Karalyn is happy,” Raf continued, knowing he’d hooked and reeled me in with her name. “She’s got three big sisters. I couldn’t tell much about Daniela or César. You’ve got to make it look like an accident. Like you were just walking by one day and saw them.”
“I can do that,” I said. “I want you to leave town, Raf. Get out of here before you can’t. I’d never forgive myself if something happened and you got hurt or placed in some government home.”
He smirked. “Sí, I’m leaving tonight.”
“I’m going to miss you, man.”
He nodded. “I’ve been reading your kind of books…Zane Grey and Cormac McCarthy. They’re not bad, really. Same themes our writers use—freedom, loneliness, and pride.”
I smiled. “Books by tough guys,” I said. “Write me when you’re settled somewhere, Raf. Promise me that.”
I handed him my contact info and walked him to the curb. He shuffled, head down, shoulders slumped, across the narrow street in front of Quiet Waters one last time, freedom, loneliness and pride in every step he took.
Before he turned the corner, he did a one-eighty, walking backward for a few steps.
“Hey, vaquero!”
“Yo!”
“You haven’t seen the last of me!” His cocky grin lit up the dark street.
“I hope not!” I tried to yell it, but my voice failed and I doubt he even heard me.
***
Before turning in, I spent a couple of hours setting up some of the games I’d bought the kids for Christmas. Holton had bought it all when they purchased the place and the kids who came here for school would enjoy having a few toys.
I laid out the gifts I’d bought for Brisa, Daniela, César, and the baby doll meant for Karalyn. Thanks to Raf, I could deliver these in person on my way to the airport.
When I finally went to bed, I slept. Hard. About six-thirty, I heard them coming up the road. I jumped up to look out my window. An old school bus painted purple and white turned in first, followed closely by Patrick’s fancy red Dodge Ram and a paneled truck that looked like it could be full of furniture and supplies. A tiny brunette, probably Hadley, was behind the wheel of the bus. I joined Rosa in the courtyard.
Hadley couldn’t have been more perfect for this place if I’d dreamed her up myself. She had tears in her eyes and she looked as if she got it all, the importance of what we’d done here with Quiet Waters and the heartbreak we’d all felt.
She knew all about me, laughed about how Patrick and I met by divine intervention, and hugged Rosa like they were long lost friends.
This would be good, just like Sam promised. Warmth started in my chest and spread until I couldn’t help smiling and crying right along with Hadley, Patrick, and Rosa.
Because John’s truck and Kate’s car belonged to Holton now, Patrick volunteered to get me, my suitcases, and my boxes to the airport when it was time. Rosa cried and I nearly lost it, too. Settling into Patrick’s truck, I rubbed my eyes trying to will away the tears. Once we eased out onto the main road of San Isidro, I reached into the back for Karalyn’s doll.
“Hope you don’t mind making a couple of stops along the way.”
THIRTY-FIVE
meg
“Why didn’t you tell us Henry’s home?” Tennyson slid next to me at the lunch table Thanet, Quinn, Abby, and I had claimed earlier.
I snorted. It wasn’t dainty. “Because he’s not.”
“Then his doppelganger is driving his truck around town,” she said.
I watched Tennyson for telltale signs that she was full of it…but she looked serious.
“Okay, tell me what you’re talking about before I have a stroke.” I brought her face to mine and stared into her eyes.
“I skipped first period to get donuts and I saw him drive right past the Big-O on Main,” she said. Then she leaned forward and kissed the end of my nose.
An enormous lump formed in my throat and my eyes filled. Quinn noticed and fixed Tennyson with a stare. “Obviously this is news to Meg,” he said. “Are you sure it was Henry?”
“Same Henry I’ve known all my life, but with longer hair and a beard that, by the way, Meg, you should convince him to keep.”
“Thanet, did you know?” I could already tell he was as shocked as me, by the look on his face. I stood and started gathering my lunch to throw away. “Could somebody drop the Physics notes off at my house tonight?”
“Wait. You’re leaving? Based on Tennyson’s eyewitness account?” Quinn stood, too, and took my tray from me.
“It. Was. Henry.” Tennyson glared at Quinn, looked at me, and nodded. “Go.”
“Yeah, something’s wrong,” I said. “He wouldn’t just fly home without telling me unless….” The more I talked, the more I realized something actually could be wrong. I left my friends behind to talk about all the possibilities and I jogged out of the cafeteria, past the main office and out the front doors, which were supposed to be monitored, but everyone knew no one actually watched.
I drove, like a homing pigeon, to the place I knew he’d be. The rise in the road allowed me a quick view of the little cabin when I was still a quarter of a mile away. I got a good glimpse of Henry’s truck parked right next to the big oak. My nerves and the potholes did a number on my stomach as I flew over the dirt road, hitting every washed-out place and making enough racket to scare the cows.
Henry stepped out onto the porch. He leaned against the railing and, even from a distance, I could see that he was laughing.
I needed out. The Jeep wasn’t fast enough. I shut it down, grabbed the keys, and started running like a bear was at my heels. I couldn’t even see Henry anymore through my tears so it surprised me when he caught me in his arms halfway. The first thing I did was pound on his chest and ask him why he hadn’t called. The second thing I did was kiss him so hard he couldn’t answer me.
I felt warm again for the first time in months.
“Tell me everything,” I said.
He held my hand, tugged me along to the chairs in the cabin, and talked. For a while, it sounded like a travel show—the air in Nicaragua is like a soaked sponge…Denver’s airport looked like a palace with free water faucets and fancy stores…I stuffed everything into an SUV and drove most of the night…the stars got me home.
But then Henry cleared his throat, kissed my knuckles, and told me the truth. His voice was scratchy. Left over from a cold? Or just fatigue? I wondered. While he talked, I relearned his face and the way his mouth moves a little even when he’s quiet, like he’s chewing on his next words. His smile was a farmer’s smile, generous and true.
“I’ve been thinking about what home means to me,” he said. “Not Chapin, Wyoming-home, or even America-home, but home-home.”
“What’d you come up with?”
He smiled. “I read a story not too long ago about how it’s nearly impossible to leave a house you’ve lived in all your life. The house you do your growing up in becomes so much a part of you that the way you interpret your environment for the rest of your life is defined by the footprint of that first, most important house.”
I nodded and thought about how it felt last year when I opened the door of our house in Pittsburgh. How it overwhelmed me to see it, and experience it, again.
“The guy in the story said even when you’re old and gray and you’ve lived in different houses, maybe raised your own family in one, you still wake up sometimes at night feeling sure you’re in your childhood bed. That’s home…that sense of place we return to.”
I nodded. “Are you home, Hen?”
He looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “Last night, driving into town, I felt like I’d somehow split the part of myself that believed home was a ranch in Chapin. I mean this huge part of me knows my family’s been on this land for generations. There’s no stronger sense of belonging than that. But….”
He stayed quiet for so long I worried he was going to say he wasn’t home. That this
, Chapin, the ranch, me, were no longer what he wanted. But he dragged in a huge breath and his eyes looked so sad that I reached for him.
“I really want to believe that when our Quiet Waters kids wake up in the middle of the night, scared, they’ll remember being in their bunks with John and Kate and Whit and me right there protecting them,” he said. “I hope we gave them that sense of belonging, because I know there’ll be times in their lives when grasping at those bonds could mean the difference between making it and not.”
“You gave them that,” I said. “I have no doubt.”
His face softened just a little. “I have good work to do here.” He said this like he was trying to convince himself. “It’s calving season and my dad needs me. And I’ll get to see you every day. It’s not that I’m not glad to be here.” He took both my hands in his. “Don’t let anything I say make you wonder about that. It’s just hard.”
“I think you’re going to need to grieve, Henry.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah, Pittsburgh, I don’t know about that. The kids are all out there in the world. They’re alive.”
“Trust me on this,” I said. “You’ll grieve and what I can give you is a huge amount of understanding. And love. And I won’t give you the welcome home kind of happiness. We can start right in the middle with ‘We’ll understand it all by and by.’ Okay?”
He pulled me onto his lap and hugged me against his chest. I could feel his breath, warm on my neck. “You’re the reason I came home,” he whispered.
“You’re the reason I came home, too,” I whispered, making him laugh, the vibration of his chest just a tickle against my back.
“I’m sorry you lost a friend and I wasn’t here,” he said. “I know things happened in your soul because of Jo Russell.”
“One day I’ll tell you everything that happened.”
He rested his chin on my shoulder. “So I never had to worry about Quinn?”
“No,” I said. “Never.”
“Because I spent some hours picturing things that might be happening.” He growled a little.
“Those weren’t real. Quinn just needed a friend and I think he’s trying to figure out a lot of things. Like the meaning of life kinds of things.”
Perfect Glass (A Young Adult Novel (sequel to Glass Girl)) Page 26
