Rosa joined me as I watched the children play and the mothers interact. “Alejandro, Raul, and María are going to help make a couple of repairs. I’m useless when it comes to tools that aren’t of the kitchen variety.” She laughed softly. “They shouldn’t take longer than half an hour or so. Is that okay, or do you need to get back? Is someone waiting for you?”
At her question, my heart squeezed. “No, that’s fine. No one’s waiting for me.” If I had still lived with Preston, he would be waiting for me, but right now he was at home and as far as he knew, I was either still at work or headed home. He might call me but I had my cell phone with me so I’d know if he did. As for my mama, she’d never waited for me. Even when I’d been a very young girl, I’d come and gone as I’d pleased.
Rosa smiled gently. “Sit with me?”
“Sure.” We went to a wooden bench near the front door of the community center and sat in silence for a moment, watching the people and glancing at the sun setting over the mountains.
“Becca’s family came here from Oklahoma in the thirties. They were Dust Bowl migrants.”
I looked over at Rosa, tilting my head, the quote rolling off my tongue, “They were hungry, and they were fierce. And they had hoped to find a home, and they found only hatred.”
Rosa laughed in surprise as she looked back at me. “You’re a reader. Steinbeck, yes. The words apply to these migrants, too, yes?”
I nodded, looking back to where the women sat, watching as a few weary-looking men walked from the community center back to the cabins they occupied. Hoping for a home and so often finding only hatred.
You can’t always understand some cultures.
One of those Mexicans.
Surely you understand why I don’t invite you in.
“Yes.”
“It’s easier with community, though. Conditions are not ideal, but at least they have each other.”
I nodded. “Sometimes I wonder if my mother would have been happier if we’d lived in a place like this . . . or just somewhere where she could speak to people other than me. Speaking so little English, she must have been so lonely not being able to converse with women her own age.”
Rosa studied me for a moment. “Ah, yes. That’s very difficult. For both of you, I imagine. My own parents didn’t speak English either, but they came here with lots of family. And they had all of us kids to interpret for them. After a while, they learned enough to move easily through society, to start a business, to make a good life.” She paused before asking, “Your mother, she is . . . undocumented?”
Heat rose in my face at the direct question and the familiar shame engulfed me. My mother had never wanted me, so why did it hurt me so deeply to know she was unwanted, too? That if people knew, they would call her names and cut her down? I knew Rosa wouldn’t do that, but the honesty still didn’t come easily. “Yes,” I said very softly.
She nodded. “It’s very difficult to find happiness when you don’t feel as if you belong anywhere.”
I sighed. I supposed that might be a big part of it. But, not the entirety of my mother’s joyless existence. “I don’t think my mother will ever find happiness,” I murmured. Sometimes I wondered if she even wanted to. I suspected she didn’t.
Rosa tilted her head. “Happiness. Hmm.” She appeared to think for a moment. “Perhaps the word I should have used was purpose. Happiness is nice, but it’s also . . . fleeting and based on what you have, or don’t have, in any given moment. Happiness . . . well, it has to be continually fed. It doesn’t give your life purpose. It doesn’t give meaning to your existence.” She looped her arm in mine and shook it gently and I laughed. “Real joy, the kind that permeates your life and brings contentment to your soul comes from service. So no, happiness is not the word. Purpose. Contentment. Joy. To find those things, don’t seek happiness. Search instead for those who need your gift and give it away. Perhaps your mother would like to join us here next week. Perhaps you should encourage her—gently.”
I squeezed her arm and laughed softly again, thinking what a wise, wonderfully kind person she was and how grateful I was to know her. I’d only known her for such a short time, yet my life felt enriched by her presence. “Maybe I’ll try.”
“That’s all any of us can do, mija.”
Mija. Daughter.
And for the second time in a week I felt the comforting joy of being mothered.
**********
As we were pulling back into Abuelo’s parking lot, my phone dinged with a text message, and I pulled it from my pocket.
Preston: Are you off work yet?
Me: Yes. Just about to leave.
Preston: Give me ten minutes. I’m on my way.
I smiled as I texted back.
Me: Okay.
I said goodnight to everyone and then went to my car, letting myself in and waiting as the radio played softly.
A few minutes later, I spotted Preston’s truck pulling into the lot and I felt pure joy. A week ago, I’d been terrified of being near him, fearful of his hatred and distrust. Now . . .
Preston stepped out of his truck and my heart started beating more quickly as he walked toward me, his hands in his pockets, that serious look on his face that was so him.
“What are you doing here?” I asked on a smile. After yesterday, we’d parted with hopes and promises for our relationship, but hadn’t made any precise plans other than he’d call me.
We’d talked about starting from the beginning, and it really felt as if we were—I was experiencing those fluttery butterfly wings in my tummy that Preston had always elicited, and it surprised me yet it didn’t.
“I had something in mind, and I was hoping you were up for it.” He must have recently taken a shower, as his hair was damp, and I could smell the subtle scent of the soap he used. As usual, Preston wasn’t much for fancy grooming. He wore casual clothes—jeans and T-shirts—and his hair usually looked as if he’d run his hands through it several times to tame it. I loved that about him actually. My farm boy.
I tilted my head. “All right. Who’s watching Hudson?”
“I put him to bed. My mom’s home.”
I nodded, looking down at my uniform and pulling my sweater around myself. “I’m not exactly dressed for a social outing.”
He smiled as he took my hand and led me to his truck. “It’ll just be you and me.” After holding the door for me, he walked around and climbed in his side.
“Oh, really?” I asked.
He glanced over at me, his lips quirked up in a lopsided smile and my heart twisted. God, he really was ridiculously handsome. He turned back to the road and as we drove, I allowed myself the simple pleasure of admiring his good looks, smiling to myself.
A few minutes later we drove into town and Preston pulled into a spot on the curb in front of the Laundromat. I looked at him in confusion, but he only grinned and got out of his truck.