Daire Meets Ever (5 page)

Genetically speaking she may be my grandmother, but at this moment, she’s no more than a small, attractive stranger with flashing dark eyes, a generous smile, a nose that reminds me of mine, and long, lustrous black hair with occasional streaks of silver that shine like Christmas tree tinsel.

I mumble a greeting, chasing the words with a quick wave of my hand before I bury it in my jacket pocket again. Feeling bad about such a cold gesture, but under the circumstances, it’s the best I can offer.

Though if Paloma’s off ended, she manages to hide it. Smiling warmly, she ushers me inside as she says, “Come now, child. Come inside. Come out of the cold. It is late. You’ve had a long journey. I will show you to your room, get you settled in for the night, and tomorrow we will get to know each other better. But for now, it is rest you need most.”

I step inside, aware of Chay slipping around me and disappearing down the hall with my bag, as I pause on a colorful woven rug just shy of the entry and try to take it all in. The thick soft-edged walls, the heavy exposed door frames, the sturdy wooden beams that dissect the ceiling, the corner fireplace formed in the shape of a beehive, stuffed with vertically stacked logs that fill the space with the warm scent of mesquite.

“Your mother was right,” Paloma says, moving into the kitchen. Her light cotton dress swishing behind her, her bare feet skimming the floor in a way that prompts me to blink, stare, then blink again—making sure that she’s not really floating, despite how it looks. “Other than the eyes, you look just like your father, my Django.” Her own eyes moisten, as I fidget before her. The only picture I’ve ever seen of my father comes from one of those black-and-white strips you get from a photo booth.

There were three pictures in total: one of Django alone (smiling), one of Jennika alone (eyes crossed/tongue sticking out), and another of them crammed in together with a teenaged Jennika desperately trying to channel Courtney Love’s mid 90’s look with her bleached-blond hair, dark red lipstick, and extremely short baby-doll dress—her body draped across Django’s lap while he made a big show of kissing her neck as she threw her head back and laughed.

Needless to say, the third pic was my favorite.

They both looked so young and in love—so untroubled and free.

And while I definitely appreciated that part of it, it was the message that really stirred me.

It was a message of warning.

A cautionary tale at its best.

All the visual proof I would ever need that life could change in an instant.

A reminder of how just like
that
—your whole world can get flipped upside down and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Three months after that photo was taken, Django was dead, Jennika was pregnant, and nothing ever felt free or untroubled again.

At first I asked for the whole strip, but Jennika just laughed and said no. So then I asked for the one of the kiss—it was the one I really wanted anyway—but she shook her head, grabbed a pair of cuticle scissors, and snipped off the one at the top, and gave it to me.

So while Django moved into my wallet, Jennika hid the other two. Having no idea that every time she booked a new job, I’d spend the first day scoping out her hiding place so I could stare at the kissing photo while she was in meetings.

Paloma fiddles with a pot on the stove, alternately stirring its contents with a large wooden spoon, and lifting that spoon to her nose and inhaling deeply. Finally deeming it ready, she pours the contents into a large, hand-made mug and makes her way back to me.

“Drink this while it’s warm,” she says, the mug held in offering. “It’ll help you sleep. Help you keep calm.”

As much as I hate to admit it, I’m reluctant to take it, unwilling to risk it. Even though Paloma seems completely nice, and nonthreatening, and not at all like the scary witch doctor I feared—being here, in the house where my dad lived for sixteen years before he ran off to California where he met first my mom, then his death—well, it’s all beginning to feel a little weird.

Still, Paloma is patient—holding the cup in a way that leaves no doubt she’ll stand there for hours if that’s what it takes. And since the night can’t get any more strange and awkward than it already is, I heave a deep sigh, and consent. Wrapping my fingers around the smooth ceramic handle, instantly drawn to the wonderful, enticing scent the strange brew emits.

The next thing I know, I’ve already drained it. Watching Paloma place the mug on a nearby table as she says, “It should start to take effect very soon, so we best get you to your room.”

Her touch light and warm as she steers me by the elbow, leading me down a short hallway past one closed door, and then another, before ushering me through an arched doorway where I collapse on the bed.

Her nimble fingers tucking the blankets around me as she says, “In the morning, we will talk about everything, but for now, sweet
nieta,
sleep.”