"Stacy, can you help me with the groceries?" my mother's meager voice calls from downstairs.

I close the laptop with a sigh. For a moment, my gaze diverts to the window, an almost impenetrable sheet of rain greeting me. I will get soaked. Another sigh rolls over my lips, but I still heave my body up and drag my feet down the stairs to avoid an argument.

My mom's gaze from the downstairs reception area is uneasy. Both she and my dad have been eyeing me with a time-bomb expression since I exploded a few times when their smothering was overbearing. I know they mean well, but that hasn't made the transition any easier. Their life appears so carefree and trivial that it is almost painful. People in Malaguay not only go hungry every day but also live with the constant fear of death. No one in my family can comprehend what that's like. They take three meals a day and a life free of violence for granted.

I grab the offered keys out of her hand as I shuffle by her.

"Put on a jacket or you'll catch a cold."

I ignore her warning. When I open the entrance door with too much force, the doorknob crashes into the wall. Rain hits my face and body as I plod toward the car. The resulting chill from water drenching my clothes is a welcome change to the mundane dullness of my life. I miss being part of something meaningful. Although my sheltered existence is incredibly safe, it's equally unfulfilling. It's as if an itchy blanket covers me 24/7, under which I suffocate. Nothing unpredictable ever happens to keep me on my toes.

On my way back to the house, I cradle the paper bags in my arms. From experience, I know that the whole affair only takes a couple of minutes, but for me, it seems like hours. When I set the groceries down on the kitchen island, my body is drained of its last remaining energy. Being bored all the time actually makes me tired. I pretend like I'm not depressed.

"Do you want me to fix you a sandwich for lunch?" my mother chirps.

"No, thank you. I'm not hungry." My legs carry me back to my room without much prompting from my brain and I peel off the wet clothing. I slide into another pair of sweats and a shirt I find in the pile of dirty clothes on the floor. With a groan, I slump back into the desk chair and reopen the laptop. The Spanish assignment I have to complete comes into focus.

"Qué vas a comprar en el mercado?" I mutter to myself. "What are you going to buy at the market? Quiero comprar un kilo de naranjas. I want to buy a kilo of oranges."

Two months into my second semester—I worked my ass off in summer school—and I'm actually making progress. Not that it matters since I don't plan on going back to Malaguay, but when the admission counselor asked me about my major, Spanish was the first thing that sprang to mind. I could be a teacher, he assured me, and that's what I'm aiming for. An ordinary existence with an ordinary job and, hopefully, an ordinary family. Nine months ago, when I first returned home, it was the most appealing thought. Now it seems like a drag. I feel like I'm wasting my life away.

After an hour, the words swim in front of my eyes. Time for a break. Ambling downstairs in search of something cold to drink, I halt in my tracks when my mother's muffled voice drifts through the kitchen door.

"I think she's getting worse." A painful sigh follows her words. "I don't know what else to do, Paul. She's totally shutting me out."

No doubt they're talking about me. I lean against the wall to eavesdrop, careful not to make a sound.

"She's still grieving. Losing a spouse is traumatizing, plus God only knows what else she experienced. I've read a lot of articles recently, and that country is appalling. Human-rights violations all over the place and the economy lives off the drug trade. They even have a child army."

He checked all the boxes to summarize the horrors of Malaguay, yet the extraordinary beauty and serenity of the mountains, which beats the pollution and hectic lifestyle of the United States tenfold, is not something he'll ever be able to comprehend. Neither is the friendliness or hopes of the people that can't be found anywhere on the internet. It's something I only carry in my heart. And I just abandoned it all. Tears well in my eyes. I wanted to make a difference and help the children. In a screwed-up way, I miss the damn place.

"Maybe we should get her professional counseling," my mother says.

I snort. As if that would help.

"Pastor Colin said she's not opening up to him either. He's at his wit's end." Mom sobs. "I'm so worried, Paul."

Her confession slices into my soul. They welcomed me back home with open arms, but I'm nothing more than an ungrateful bitch to them. If I didn't feel caged all the time or had something fulfilling to do to keep my mind occupied, maybe things would be different. Yet, the way it is, I suffocate a little more with every passing day.

"Things will be fine, Colette." My father's tone is soothing, although the slight shake in his voice contradicts his words. "Stacy needs more time to process her trauma. The worst thing you can do is rush her. If you put too much pressure on her, you'll just drive her away completely."

A whiff of desperation floats my way and I have to swallow hard to keep the tears at bay. I didn't realize how much my behavior makes them suffer. Maybe accepting help from a professional wouldn't be the worst idea. The college has counselors I could see for free. This way, I wouldn't put an additional financial burden on my parents but still make them happy. It's the least I can do for them under the circumstances.

I clear my throat to alert them to my presence and step into the kitchen with a smile.

"Oh, hi, Stacy." My mother wipes her eyes frantically to get rid of the tears. "Do you need something?"

Without a word, I hug her. "I love you, Mom," I mumble into her hair. "I'm sorry I've been so difficult lately."

Her shoulders slump. "You heard us, didn't you?"

"Don't worry about it." The smile is frozen on my lips as I pull away, though I'm fighting with my own tears. "Counseling is a really good idea. I'll check when I get back to school tomorrow."

"How are your classes coming?" my dad asks.

"Fine." I open the fridge and get out the lemonade pitcher. "We have another test in a few weeks, so I'll have a lot of studying to do." At least that will guarantee that they won't bug me when I spend most of my time in my room.

"Have you made any friends?" my mom asks.

I cannot relate to any of my classmates; their whining about their everyday problems is just as trivial as the worries of my parents.

"I think I might go to a party this weekend," I lie.

"Oh." My mother's forehead wrinkles. "I hope it's not one of those fraternity things where they serve alcohol."

If she knew that my first brushes with alcohol were already a thing of the past, she'd probably have a conniption. My family has a strict no-alcohol policy; it makes the flesh and mind weak. That it can also be fun and relaxing is not something I intend to share with them.

"No, Mom, it's not a party like that." My words are accompanied with a fake frown to give her comfort. "Some girls from church should also be there, so you don't need to worry."

Her face relaxes in an instant. The trick with the church works every time. "Well, in that case . . ."

I fade out her words as my attention shifts to the afternoon news playing in the background.

"In other news, the United Nations lifted more embargo restrictions today against the nation of Malaguay. Earlier this week, President Rizo raised the minimum age of military entry from twelve to sixteen, eliminating one of the UN mandates imposed after the latest civil war. The spokesperson of Malaguay, Juana Conde, told reporters that her government is thrilled with the decision."

Juana's face appears on the screen. "The lifting of the restrictions couldn't have come at a better time. The people are suffering, and the imports will bring the basic necessities to our country." Her lips curl into a fake smile. "We're grateful to be given the chance to prove ourselves to the UN. Hopefully, with their help, stability will soon return to Malaguay."

I chuckle. Her hope is probably focused on the DEA easing up their efforts to stop the inflow of cocaine into the US from Malaguay. Since Miguel's death, the news has been full of one successful bust after another. It seems that Devon made good use of the information he got from my husband's computer. Santino must be slowly running out of money.

When the newscast moves on to something else, I beam at my mother. She has a deep wrinkle in her forehead. It's her "oh my god, there's actual violence in the world" expression. "Well, I'd better get some studying done. What time do you want me to come down and help with dinner?"

"Oh, that's fine. Juliet is picking up Katie for a sleepover after work and she can help if you need to study."

I smirk to gloss over the sudden lump in my throat. Another one of those cheerful family dinners I find painful. Everyone pretends to be happy, even though the seeds of my father's infidelity are right in my mother's face.

Yet the worst part is that I'm forced to feed Katie and change her diaper. Most of the time, I almost lose it; the squirming baby is like a thorn that plucks my heartstrings. My son or daughter would've been born by now. A few times, I was tempted to confide in my mom that the loss of the baby bothers me more than losing Miguel, but that would've meant diving into all kinds of memories I don't intend to share with her.

I retreat to the safety of my room, happy that my mother's anxious mood has lifted since I spoke to her more this afternoon than I have this past month. It doesn't take much to make her happy these days and I don't intend to give her anymore grief. After she has been so supportive, she deserves more from me, even if this will take some additional effort on my part.

For the rest of the afternoon, I fully immerse myself in Spanish, my gaze only straying every so often to watch the pouring rain. When it's almost pitch-black outside, my fingers develop a mind of their own and I click on the weather forecast for Malaguay. The site is saved under my favorites. They predict a high in the mid-seventies, hot for the country's standards. With the equator flipping around the seasons, they are in the midst of spring, which means little rain for them. Definitely preferable to this dreadful weather in Indiana. At least on the climate front, the country is blessed.

The chime of the doorbell tears me from my daydream. Cheery voices fill the house before steps clap on the stairs. Just seconds later, my sister Juliet peeks into the room.

"Hey, can I come in?"

"Sure." I turn away from the computer, signaling her to sit on the bed.

When she plops down, her whole face is glowing. She tries her best to hide the covers of a bunch of magazines she clutches to her chest.

"Last night, Nathan proposed," she blurts out.

I smile, sincerely happy for her. "That's great, Juliet. Congratulations. Did you set a date yet?"

"Not an exact one, but it will be next summer." She starts to spread out the magazines, which all feature bridal dresses, on the bed. "Probably early June. Usually, the weather is nice and we'll still be able to get a good package on a honeymoon trip since the kids won't be out of school yet."

I can't help but snicker; she's always so practical when it comes to saving money. Penny pinching is definitely in her blood.

"I wanted to get your opinion on some dresses." When a hesitant smile curls my lips, she quickly adds, "If it's not too painful."

"It's fine." It's not her fault that my wedding day isn't one of my fonder memories. "What type of veil were you thinking of?" When Naiara planned my wedding, she always insisted that the veil determines the style of the dress.

"A long one. I don't want people to see my face until it's all over in case I start to cry."

I snicker. My mom will shed enough tears for the both of them. I was going to have a long veil until Naiara pointed out that the lace would stick to my eyelashes and could ruin the whole ceremony. It was one of the things she had hated about her own wedding. In the end, I went with her advice, just as I did with the rest of her suggestions.

I enlighten Juliet about the veil and she is torn. "Maybe I could try one on and see for myself."

That's my sister for you, always ready to make her own mistakes, no matter what people say. In many ways, that hardheadedness runs in the family, with me holding the record for the worst choices.

"I also want you to be my maid of honor."

I frown. "Aren't you gonna ask Megan?" Megan has been her best friend since preschool. They're practically Siamese twins.

"No, I want you." Her grin is sheepish.

My mom probably asked her for this favor so that I feel more included. "Look, Juliet, it's fine if Megan is your maid of honor." I squeeze her hand. "I'm grateful that you even considered me, but that's what best friends are for."

I leave out that Megan will also be a much sounder choice since I hardly know my sister anymore. We both have changed so much since I left to visit Felipe in Malaguay that I sometimes feel like she's a total stranger.

"Will you at least be in the wedding party?"

"Of course." When one of the dresses catches my attention, I pick up a magazine. "Look, this one is really pretty." Images of my own dress flash in front of my eyes.

"Nah, too much lace."

"Yeah, I suppose it's a little fancy."

Mom calls from downstairs and I tear my gaze off the picture.

"Girls, dinner's ready."

I follow Juliet down the stairs. Although some of our conversation has brought back bad memories, my steps are lighter than they've been in days. Her attempts to make me part of her special day have cheered me up.

"Gosh, I forgot Katie's diaper bag in the car." She stares gloomily at the falling rain.

"I'll go." I open my hand for the key while giving her a good once-over. With her makeup, high heels, and fancy business suit, she'll probably be washed away by the downpour.

"Sure you don't mind?" As she surrenders the keys, she smiles with relief.

"No, not at all."

"Put on your jacket—" The rest of Mom's words are cut off by the closing entrance door.

As I step into absolute darkness, the motion sensor turns on the outside lantern. It only takes one blink to adjust my eyes to the bright light. Hopping around a few deeper puddles, I slosh through the rain. I'm soaked down to my skin and shivering by the time I reach the car.

A prickle at the nape of my neck freezes my thumb over the car remote. With narrow eyes, I scan the night around me, sure that I'm being watched. I unlock the car with shaking hands. Before I pop the trunk open, my gaze darts around again, but no shadow breaks the light that illuminates the area around me. The only sound is the rushing of the rain pattering down on me.

I bend forward, already clutching the handle of the diaper bag when the rain stops. Staring up, my gaze falls onto the protective ceiling of an umbrella before landing on Devon's face.

"It's time."

The breath I was holding escapes through my lips. "Just let me get my coat and say goodbye to my parents."

This is the moment I have dreaded for months, yet oddly enough, when I walk back toward the house, a feeling of liberation floods through my veins. It's as if this heavy burden that was choking me has been lifted. Where will he send me and what is my task going to be? In any event, I'm ready. Anything to escape this stifling existence.

~~~~

© Sal Mason 2016

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