He taps the inside of her car door through the window. “Wait here.”
It takes a long time for him to note her license plate, to type it all into his little laptop, to say whatever he has to say to his partner, whose face is obscured by the light of the setting sun on the cruiser’s windshield. With a shock she realizes that her doctors must surely have reported her to the DMV for her faulty brain; he’s going to see the note on her record and take her away in handcuffs. While Yolanda waits, caught, oblivious cars crest the rise, slow when they see the cruiser. They whoosh by, sending dry wind over her face.
When Ernie Montoya returns, he rests his hands again on the window, his fingers inches from her shoulder. He looks grave. The jig is up, her secret is out, and the burden of its weight will be lifted from her. Yolanda wants to be seen. She wants her name entered into the computer, anchoring her solidly in the world.
But Ernie Montoya just says regretfully, “I’m going to have to give you a citation.”
Tears sting her eyes.
“Don’t feel bad,” says Ernie Montoya. “Everyone gets tickets. I did myself, just last year, up there in Colorado. Really, it’s not that big a deal.”
“That’s it? Just a ticket?”
He laughs. “What, you want to go to jail?” He smiles kindly and hands her the citation with her driver’s license. “Your license expires end of next month. Don’t forget to renew it. People forget all the time, and that carries a doozy of a fine.”
By the end of next month she might be blind. By the end of next month she might be in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines. She might be gone.
“Hey, don’t be too hard on yourself, Ms. Padilla. I mean it. Drive safe.” Ernie Montoya taps the edge of her window one last time.
As she watches him pull back onto the highway, she thinks of Anthony, her husband, touching her with that single nail, and she’s filled with grief for their broken, damaged love, and for the life they never had together. She’s filled with grief for her children, who will have to go on without her.
One afternoon in August, Amadeo practices on a tiny last divot on his truck’s windshield, and then decides it’s about time to change the oil and filter. He’s allowed to work on his truck, after all. The birds are noisy in the trees. Across the road, the leaves of the corn in the Romeros’ little plot droop in graceful resignation and the feathery tassels tickle the breeze. He pauses every once in a while to check for texts from Brianna, despite the fact that she’s told him she tries not to text at school.
Amadeo has been in good spirits, hasn’t had anything to drink since that first date, and doesn’t even miss it, or not so much anyway. When he needs to unwind, sink away from himself, or to celebrate, he remembers that he’s closest to being the person he wants to be than he has ever been before.
What he’s doing isn’t necessarily a betrayal of his daughter. After all, things might work out with Brianna. They might get married, and Angel would get her idol for a stepmother. Angel loves her! Still, he’s listed Brianna in his phone as DWI Class Teacher.
When he’s with Brianna, he forgets about his other life completely. The world vibrates with possibility. This morning at dawn, for instance, the air fresh and dry and chilly, making him feel clean despite the sticky aftermath of sex. Riding home beside Brianna along the empty blacktop with a light heart, the quiet easy between them, they watched the mountain’s shadow recede as the sun rose behind it, everything painted in the brightening pale wash of morning. He took Brianna’s hand, and she smiled as if she understood his elation.
He’s draining the old oil into a cut-open milk jug when Angel comes out, stomping across the gravel.
“Hey,” he calls to her sneakered feet.
“Dad.” She doesn’t squat to peer under at him. “Ryan Johnson wants to come meet the baby.”