Memories come with pain. Not all is the prickly, cruel kind of pain. Some are bittersweet, at least I can say that for Don Olivero as he stares up at the Victorian building.
His body is aged and his hair a white mass peeking through the baseball hat. The black leather jacket and jeans his signature look. I watch him watch the house. Regret and longing written all over him - his shoulder not as high, sagged in what I assume to be defeat. I would be defeated too.
He turns and begins to walk away but then stops in his tracks. His eyes catch mine and they seem to widen a bit before he closes his eyes and shakes his head as though to clear whatever image they must have presented. When he opens them again, he is looking right at me.
The lines on his face getting more pronounced as his face turns into a frown. He doesn’t look angry just…confused. Genuinely confused. Maybe he is trying to place me. Maybe he can’t remember that my mother was his employee for several years and that I was the little girl that always got into trouble with him. He was always strict with me. He never seemed to like me and I always went out of my way to avoid him. That was until it all fell down and the I and Mama had to leave town.
He walks away, his stride still as powerful and his form still poised. For a man so old, he possessed a lot of pride. I overheard him once scolding Catalina for crying,
“Oliveros never cry. Wipe those silly tears off your face.”
His voice sounded harsh but I never missed the undertone of affection. He always had a softer spot for Catya. No one knew if he truly cared about her or he just pitied her for the sickness that ate her inside out - cancer.
Pedro was his pride and joy. That was until he landed in jail for rape. It happened in that house. When all began to fall apart. I look at the building. Whoever the new owners are must really like pink a lot. Or they know the history of the house and wanted to give it a new look. I wonder if they know the full story. The nights of chaos, pandemonium and pain.
It all started with Catya’s death. She never wanted to be taken to the hospital. She hated hospitals.
“They smell like death. And I know I will die. But I would like not to be reminded every time.” She told me from the bed, covered in wires, her head shaved to shine and looking sickly pale.
We were more than just employer or employee. She was everything to me. The day she died, I woke up feeling it in my bones. I went straight to her room and refused to leave her side. She took her last breath holding onto my hand. That was the first time I saw the Don shed a tear. No. He sobbed. He never meant for me to see. He still has no idea that his library door was slightly ajar to present me that picture. And I have kept it that way. He loved her. Truly loved her.
From then on it all went south! Pedro became wild and Mrs. Olivero hardly ever left her room. I watched the Oliveros fall apart. And then my mother waking me at the crack of dawn to announce that we were leaving.
“What, why?” I asked still in the haze of sleep.
“No time to talk now, Lucia. Just move.”
And that was how we left the house to go live with my grandparents. I saw the charge against Pedro on the news. He was found guilty. Either the camera never caught her or she never attended the trial because Mrs. Olivera was no where to be found during the interviews or even in clips from the courtroom. Don Olivero was the only one who seemed to shoulder it all.
It’s been Ten years since then and just standing here, watching as the clouds settled over the tall, homely buildings, I am taken back to days in the rain where Catya and I would play. We always got in trouble after that but we never seemed to mind.
A tear and then two slips free as I watch the house I grew up. I smile with all of my heart and turn to leave.
When I get home, there’s a silence that is unlike what I am used to. From the door, I would usually hear Nana’s voice as she calls for something or someone or Nano as he yells some profanities at the TV or rather football players. Mom would be actively setting the table for lunch. But it’s still. And as I round the corner, I understand why. There in our living room, on our old couch, sitting like a cold prince from darkness in a leather jacket and jeans is Don Olivero.
His ice blues are fixated on me, his baseball hat placed gingerly on his lap. All eyes turn to me and I think I see remorse on my Nana’s face while Mother looks petrified.
“Don Olivero.” I never knew my voice could get so squeaky but even I cringe.
He rises. Standing taller than I am. He takes cautious steps towards me, his face intent. Intent on what?
“Hola hija.” He says just as I hear a tormented sob rip out of my mother. I look to her, eyes tightly shut and face ridden with guilt, and then back to the Don. Back to blues. Blues I have.
My heart bottoms out and my head spins. My eyes ping pong from the man right in front of me to the woman who raised me. And all of a sudden, the world seemed to still be standing few minutes ago. Right now, it all falls down!
This is my response to the A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words prompt by the Freewriters community. Story was inspired by looking at the picture above thanks to @wakeupkitty who is the host and owner of the photo. But I was also inspired by the song Perdoname by Camilo Sesto Blanes.
Looking at the picture, I saw buildings that may be colorful but may hold deep secrets (my mind works in mysterious ways).
What I feel is some sort of rapport with the darkness I see. Sometimes, the most beautiful things cover the ugliest cracks.
