I’m almost one hundred percent sure she suspects there’s something different about Locke—is this her way of telling me she’s okay with it? I’d never talk details with her, but I’m grateful for her roundabout support. “Is this about… relationships?”
“It’s about more than that, Temi.” Her face is earnest. “It’s about different ways of existing, I suppose.”
Now I’m really lost. “Abuela?”
She smiles and looks away, her face sad. “I love you and always will, no matter what. Don’t forget it.”
A sort of sick feeling fills me. “I love you, too. Is everything all right?” I love hearing that she loves me, but her tone of voice and the melancholy look she has make me wonder if she’s sick. God, please don’t let her have cancer, like my mother did. Please give her a long life.
She stands up. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to make you chilaquiles for breakfast. Your favorite. Let’s talk about the fall garden. Will you help me harvest the peppers today? There’s a batch ready. We should spend time in the sun while we can.”
I accept her change and we talk together, enjoying the morning. I can’t escape the fact that she knows something—or thinks she knows something—mournful, but she’s smiling and happy, telling me tidbits about my childhood, and soon I’m back in my exuberant mood. I love spending time with Abuela, and in the back of my mind the whole time, there’s Locke.
I can’t wait to see him again.
Some time later, my cell phone vibrates, and I grab it.
Is it Locke already? My heart beats faster, but it’s a number I don’t recognize. It’s a local one, though, so I answer. “Hello?”
“Artemis Garcia?” It’s a man I don’t recognize.
“This is Artemis.” I stand up and adjust the phone at my ear.
“‘This is Carlos Alvarez from the Tucson Arts committee. We’ve reviewed the submissions for the art exhibit in the city hall building, and your paintings have made the final selection. If you’re still interested, we’d like to display your art in the Fall exhibition.”
“Oh my God!” I put a hand to my mouth. “Yes! Yes, I’m interested. Definitely. Thank you.”
I turn to Abuela and whisper, “I got it! They accepted me to the thing!” She knows what I mean; we’ve talked about it extensively. One of the paintings I entered was a rendering of my mother, copied from a photograph, but imagined in a graphic modern style.
I grab my notebook and jot down the details: his name, phone number, information about where to bring the art.
“I can’t believe this.” I give Abuela a huge hug. “It’s been my dream for so long. I’m so excited. Once it’s up, I’ll go there every day and look at it on the walls. I’ll take you every day.”
“Maybe we’ll go at night.” Abuela touches my hand. “Night is good, too.” She’s got that sort of sad look on her face again.
“Sure, but you get tired in the evenings. And everyone will be there during the day.” I’m babbling, dizzy with eager excitement. “I’ll invite everyone. I’ll tell my Photoshop class, too, especially that snotty kid who thinks he knows everything. The crew from the warehouse.” Maybe my coworkers at the shipping place don’t know much about art, but we’re fiercely supportive of each other, and they’ve been rooting for me.
“Good.” Abuela smiles. “Good for you, Temi.”
I have to tell a few friends, so I sit down at the table and dial.
Before I can connect with many, though, Eddie comes in.
“Yo, anyone home?” His voice is loud, like usual, and he carries an aroma of stale marijuana along with the usual cigarette smoke. “I need to crash for a few days, Abuela, is that cool?”
My joy evaporates. I look at her, trying to keep accusation out of my gaze. I whisper, “It’s okay to say no.”
But she’s already up, making her way to the front room. “Eddie, of course. Just please, I don’t want your friends here because they’re a little bit… messy.” Last time, he let some really fucked up people in, and I swear, we were terrified the cops would show up.
“Whatever. Can you order me pizza?” His eyes are bloodshot, and he’s clearly upset. Angry? Stressed? It’s hard to tell.
“What’s wrong, mijo?” Abuela puts a hand on his arm.
He pulls away. “Nothing, okay? I’m just hungry. Why is this place always so dark like a funeral parlor?” He tugs open the curtains at the front, his gesture rough. He peers up the street, and down,