Walking Heartbreak Read Online Free PDF Page B

incomprehensible. I saw cornucopias in Payne Point, an abundance I did not know existed, and the world spoke a language I did not understand.
    My grandfather chose Payne Point, Southern California, for his elder brother, the erector, owner, almighty ruler of the Heavenly Harbor, an old bachelor who spent his energy on literal interpretations of the Bible.
    I suddenly had a new uncle in Tío Rafael, one I had not known about. As the months passed, “ Tío Rafael” disappeared in favor of “Elder Rafael,” and “Grandmother” and “Grandfather” gave way to “Mother” and “Father,” because they were there, while Mom and Dad were not.
    The first year in Payne Point was drenched with tears, but Elder Rafael preached of accepting the will of the Lord. Small sins came with big punishments. Good Christians repented, he said, while my child heart clearly did not. And so I learned. Stopped confessing my grief. And I tinned my sadness until it transformed into guilt.
    During the first summer, neighbor girls my age afforded me temporary reprieve. My grandparents were wary but allowed me to play. In the ways of children, my new friends chattered, assuming I understood their curly words, asking questions and answering themselves when I couldn’t reply.
    In those sixty days of summer heat, I learned English. In another month, I found sanctuary from my guilt at the public elementary school.
    Mother would walk me to class from Elder Rafael’s house where we lived. I’d subdue my excited-yet-anxious smile, while Mother’s frown fixed me until the school gates slammed her out. Every day she returned before the bell rang, and she squeezed my hand the whole way back home.
    The first years, Mother allowed me to play with the neighbor kids several times a week. Then playtime was limited to Saturdays. By the time I was ten, the congregation of the Heavenly Harbor had grown enough for Elder Rafael to open a school, and I was among the first enrolled.
    I didn’t mind going in the beginning. I had not been provided the luxury of nurturing friendships at the public school, and at the church, I knew the children.
    At the age of ten, I spoke Spanish and English. I kept my sins to myself. And, like in Buenos Aires, I played with other children—during the breaks between classes. For a while, life was okay.

    I love these moments before I’m fully awake. Sleep-soaked and confused, I’m happy.
    “I had the best dream,” I murmur. I extend an arm and gather Jude beneath me. “You were in it. We were— Remember our first time?” His side of the comforter sinks under my fingers. I pat it. He’s not there.
    I roll back, heaving a leaden eight-o-clock sigh. I remember now; it’s Saturday, and Zoe and I are both off from work. We’re going to the park. Nothing crazy. Just bringing kites and spending time with friends, with—
    Bo.
    I don’t like how I felt with him last night. His grey eyes smattered with small silver speckles, they kept my mind busy. A too-familiar sensation of guilt seeps in at the thought.
    People change when they love and lose. They gain soul, they gain depth, and their colors glow richer without being louder. Bo harbors a sadness I know well, only he doesn’t wear it like me. For him, his sadness is a means and a remedy, the stories he told me already lyrics in the making. Bo, I realize, is a lover who has lost.
    Hours later, my hands press against our closed bathroom door. It’s not locked, but I can’t open and expose what’s inside. It’s better this way. I’ll just say goodbye with the door closed. I hate goodbyes, but not getting to say them is worse.
    Our shower isn’t running. The sound of shuffling might come from our bathroom cabinets, but it could also come from upstairs because our neighbors take their time on Saturdays.
    My voice doesn’t crack when I shout, “Baby, I’ll be back later. I’m going out with Zoe and her friends. We’ll soak up some sun in the park.”
    Instinct urges me to