Page 32 of The Night We Became Strangers

Alicia

I only went to mass once a year—on the anniversary of my mother’s death.

They said those annual masses helped souls ascend to heaven.

I often wondered how many years and how many more masses it would take.

She had passed away six years ago. Shouldn’t she be there already?

Of course, I never expressed my doubts out loud, especially not in front of my dad, who never forgot to offer a mass for her, in spite of how many women he had been seeing that year.

I pretended not to know about his indiscretions, and he knew better than to bring anyone home.

I dreaded these anniversaries. It made me relive all the sadness and confusion of having lost my mom.

It was like time hadn’t passed and here we were, in mourning all over again.

I’d told Agustín about the mass, thinking he wouldn’t make it, but here he was.

Somehow, seeing him in church this Saturday morning made it more bearable.

I glanced at him over my shoulder, and he offered a sympathetic smile. I squeezed Marisa’s hand, who was sitting beside me—like every year—and pointed at Agustín.

She didn’t react, except for a soft nod.

A tangle of emotions conflicted inside of me: I was excited to see him, but also heartbroken that my mom had only been in my life for a short period, and she was missing so much.

As usual when the priest said her name, I teared up.

After it was all over, I stepped out of the church with Marisa on one side and my grandmother on the other—all of us connected by a chain of arms—when Agustín came to greet me.

His hat was slightly tilted and his dark suit contrasted nicely with his light skin and thick eyebrows. The scent of his cologne was irresistible.

I introduced him to my grandmother and my father and both of them were gleeful to meet him, as they had known his grandfather.

“My father and your grandfather used to play cards together!” my dad then turned to me. “Can you believe it? Such a small world.”

“Well, this is a small town,” my grandmother said.

“How about dinner tonight, Agustín?” my dad said. “I know this lady who prepares the best crab legs. I’ll bring some tonight.”

“Thanks, but—”

“Oh, come on, your grandpa loved them,” he insisted. “He came a couple of times for dinner. Right, Mamá?”

She nodded.

My dad had never been this friendly with any of my other admirers. Today, he was at his most charming.

Agustín finally agreed.

“I have to go,” Marisa told me in low voice. She was such a sensitive, empathetic person. My mom’s mass had clearly affected her.

“I can drive you home, if you’d like,” Agustín offered.

“No.” She let go of my arm. “Thank you.” She walked away before anyone could say another word.