The Outcast Son Page 5

  I was about to tell him the good news, but a white stag armed with huge horns passed by, and Jaime didn’t even realise I was talking to him. The animal was gorgeous and mighty, his muscles so powerful that we could see them outlined through his bright fur. He stared at us for a few seconds and then decided to ignore us and continued his stroll. After that, I had Jaime’s attention.

  “Jaime,” I said to him with a faint thread of voice, almost fearing to pull him away from his delight. He looked at me. “I’ve got something to tell you.” I don’t think he was interested in anything I had to say at that moment, considering the expression in his face, but I was convinced that’d change as soon as I told him the good news. “You’re going to have a little sister or brother.” His face remained unaltered. Perhaps he hadn’t understood what I’d said. He was still looking at me, but I didn’t feel he was paying attention.

  “Cool,” he said, but that wasn’t much of an answer to what I’d just told him, so I tried again.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?” I felt my eyes growing colder, all against my intention. “I’m having a baby.”

  “I’m a baby,” he said.

  “I know, sweetie. I’m saying your father and I are having another baby. Your little sister. Or brother. What would you prefer?” His face was expressionless.

  “Cool,” he said again.

  “Jaime!” He was making me feel uneasy, about to lose my nerve. But Mark relieved me.

  “Come here, little rabbit,” Mark said while putting his arm around Jaime’s shoulders. “Your mum and I love you so much, and that’s not going to change. Ever. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “And soon you will have a little brother or sister to look after. They are going to be very small, and you have to keep an eye on them and watch over them.”

  “Okay, Dad.” He seemed to understand, although I could tell the idea of sharing his parents with another baby didn’t make him happy. This happens to many children, apparently, but I couldn’t help feeling very crossed and in a way mad at him. It was as if he didn’t trust we were doing what was best for him, as if he thought I had given up on him, and what bothered me the most is that I realised he could be right.

  The rest of the morning passed peaceful and quietly at the lake in the woods. We had a picnic with plenty of food and Jaime’s favourite dessert: pancakes with chocolate and cream. Nothing disturbed our perfect day out, and Jaime pretended our conversation about his new sibling hadn’t taken place.

  On our way home, we talked and laughed and sang as I guess any happy family would, but I had this feeling I couldn’t get rid of. There was something deep inside gnawing at me, keeping me from being calm and relaxed. I felt a strange cold I shouldn’t be feeling and a warmth that somehow wasn’t in place either. I tried to forget about it, but it accompanied me along the whole journey, only mitigated from time to time by Jaime’s laughter in the back seat. When we were arriving home, there were long queues on the motorway, something quite usual on a Saturday afternoon.

  I rested my head on the seat and fixed my eyes on the car in front of us. It was an electric red car, one of those which would allow auto-drive within a few years. They had a ‘baby on board’ sign on the rear windscreen, and that made me daydream of our future baby. Strangely enough, the odd feeling I had been experiencing intensified and I closed my eyes with the image of the sign on my retina.

  I fell asleep before long, thinking of Jaime and the car ahead of us and the baby I was carrying in my womb. They all mixed in my mind, and Jaime became the baby on board the electric car on the motorway, and then he became the fruit of my belly and he was my biological son only for those few seconds in a grey dream of car horns and city dust. I woke up when Mark pulled over and parked in front of our house. I wasn’t uneasy anymore, and the odd feeling had gone.

  When we were home, we didn’t feel like cooking, so we decided to order something by phone. I wasn’t very hungry, but I fancied a good, greasy pizza with lots of cheese and perhaps some tomato and mushrooms. Jaime loved the idea, and we had him watch YouTube on our tablet while waiting for the food.

  I devoured half a big pizza. It was so good. Although I wasn’t feeling those bad vibes anymore, I was exhausted, so I went to bed right after dinner. Mark was happy to take care of Jaime and clean up the kitchen and the living room all by himself, so I just lay down, closed my eyes and slept a long, dreamless night, miles away from any thoughts, worries or fears.

  The following day, I woke up in pain. My eyes were sticky, and I could only keep them open with great effort. I was confused and scared. At the beginning, I didn’t even know where I was, and it felt as if I were back in Spain, at my parents’ place, still a girl lying down on my bed after a night out. Then I realised where I truly was. In London. With my husband. The pain wouldn’t go away. It was a wet, piercing sting in my belly. Something was wrong. Very wrong. I panted. Quiet first, then louder and louder. Mark wouldn’t wake up. The fear made me hesitate: I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want it to happen. I felt sick just at the thought. I tried to be strong, although I knew there wasn’t enough strength in me, not in a thousand years. I slid my hand under the sheets. I touched the bed under my thighs. It was wet. Then I switched on the lights and passed out at the sight of my own blood flooding the bed and leaking down.

  Chapter 9

  Late lover

  I still have good memories from Oscar. Perhaps the city where we used to hang out had a great deal to do with it, but sometimes I even miss walking the wet streets of Compostela on a cloudy day after a whole week of wet weather, for that’s the real Compostela in a country where it rains two hundred days a year and the cruel sun seems to enjoy hiding from human sight.

  I remember the evenings when we went to Toural Square to buy roasted chestnuts and ate them while walking the streets of the old town under Oscar’s umbrella, very close to each other so we could fit together and avoid the raindrops falling off the sky and splashing the granite floor tiles at our feet. If you haven’t experienced it before, it’s probably very hard to understand how good it feels to hold a cone of paper full of hot chestnuts when your hands are cold in the autumn, grab the chestnuts one by one and peel them and eat them while contemplating the stone made art in the Baroque labyrinth of Compostelan streets.

  I loved the complicity, looking at each other when we heard one of our friends saying something stupid because we knew exactly what the other was thinking. We went to the cinema every week, to the theatre every time we could, to concerts, to the shopping centre, to have some tapas with red wine in the evening. We had dinner in fancy places. My favourite was a place called O Carballo e o Lubrigante, which in English means “The Oak and the Lobster.” I always ordered either rice with lobster or Galician veil rump stake. I haven’t ever seen a place where they cook these two plates half as well as here.

  But then, right after we decided to live together, the nightmare began. Like the frog in the parable, I was being boiled alive very slowly without realising until it was too late. It started very subtly at first, with little things that made me feel uncomfortable, uneasy or just bad. But then it gradually became unbearable. The power of people like Oscar lies in their ability to make others feel they are the cause of all problems. If he was jealous, it was my fault for being out with friends. If we had an argument, it was my fault for not being supportive or considerate when he came home tired after work or when he spent all night out without letting me know. He manipulated me, and I didn’t have any way to escape from the situation because I just couldn’t see it.

  One day above all others made me wake up from the delusion. I worked as a sales assistant in a shop in the city centre back then. It was a busy place, crowded in the afternoon by lots of customers, mainly tourists, looking for souvenirs and gifts to remember Compostela when they left and to show off in front of their family and friends the city they had visited. These types of shops had proliferated in the last few years,
attracting visitors’ money and making more traditional businesses, along with the local population, move out of the centre to cheaper and quieter areas. I chose one of those shops to work in because I knew I’d be in touch with people from all over the world and I wanted to practise my English, so the job was very convenient. It wasn’t, of course, about money, since the salary was very modest and matched the economic circumstances the country was going through, but about learning and gaining experience.

  It happened a week before Christmas. The manager of the shop, who was the owner as well, organised a dinner for the employees to celebrate together and have some fun, just like in any other shop or business. I told Oscar. He said it was okay and accepted it was something I needed to do. “Of course you have to go!” However, as the date approached, he started behaving like a jerk. The day before, he wouldn’t speak to me at all, and when I asked him what was going on, he wouldn’t tell me.

  “Oscar, is everything all right?”

  “Yes, why do you ask?” he answered, pretending the question had surprised him. He wasn’t happy. He had been thinking about me going out for dinner all day long, and he evidently didn’t quite like the idea.

  “You have been very distant today,” I told him.

  “You’re crazy. Seriously, I’m okay. Just leave me alone.” He didn’t sound like he was okay, so I approached him to kiss his cheek.

  “What are you doing?” he said, moving away.

  “What?” I replied.

  “I told you to leave me alone!” he shouted.

  “What’s wrong with you, Oscar? I just wanted to kiss you!”

  “There’s nothing wrong! What’s wrong with you?”

  “What? You have been acting like a jerk today, and I don’t know why! Does it have to do with tomorrow’s dinner?” The look in his eyes changed. He was enraged, and I was right. He couldn’t stand me going out on my own, but he wouldn’t admit it, so he went mad.

  “Listen to you!” he shouted. “Who do you think I am? Go wherever you want! I don’t care! I already told you that you could go!”

  “No, listen to you!” I shouted back. “Do you think I need your permission to go out? Who do you think you are? Of course I’ll go!” And I slammed the door as I left the room.

  I didn’t speak to him for the rest of the day. I hardly ever went out because I knew he wouldn’t like it, even though he’d never say anything. He always pretended it was okay when we spoke about it, but then, when the time was close, his behaviour would change to the point that I couldn’t even talk to him. That day, I decided I’d had too much. I loved him, but I saw for the first time where our relationship was going. My problem was that I always forgot too quickly and was too eager to focus on the positive things.

  The next day, I was still angry, and he didn’t do anything to fix it. I felt I hated him for the first time. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. How could he be so stupid? It wasn’t all right. He didn’t accept that I had a life or other friends. Even my family was a problem for him. But he didn’t even think this was wrong, as if he wasn’t aware of the harm he was doing.

  Go to hell. I put my best dress on. I loved the way I looked in it. It was a long green gown with a beautiful neckline which showed just a little of my cleavage, appropriate enough for a work dinner. I didn’t need a bra to wear it back then, and I really liked the way it respected the shape of my upper body and the line of my waist and hips. It was very tight around my thighs but very comfortable as well, and I felt very confident and attractive in it. My black high heels were a perfect match, and I never wore that dress without the silver necklace my mother gave to me for my twentieth birthday. It was a gorgeous chain made of small links and finished in a flat little disc hanging on my chest. A couple of silver earrings and a purse I had recently bought completed the combination, and I put on some make-up before leaving home as well. I didn’t say a word or even look at Oscar, but I knew he was following me with his eyes as I was passing by.

  The restaurant where we’d have dinner was just twenty minutes away, so I decided to walk. I didn’t want to drive because I had the intention of drinking as much as I felt like, particularly after all that had happened with Oscar. I know, and I knew back then, that alcohol and spite aren’t a good combination, but I wanted to switch off, have fun and forget my problems. I wanted to feel free again, to do whatever I felt like, to be in control of my life, even if I had to drink my way through the city night.

  It wasn’t a cold evening considering the date, although I wasn’t wearing the warmest clothes I had, so it felt quite chilly while walking the grey streets of Compostela, already several hours after sunset. It wasn’t raining for a change, and many people were having dinners and Christmas parties. The city was busy with people who had the exact same intentions as me: to use that night to disconnect, to have fun, and just maybe, to meet new people.

  When I entered the restaurant my boss and three of my colleagues were already there, having a drink while waiting for everyone to gather before dinner. I ordered a glass of Albariño, an autochthonous white I used to like because it’s very fruity and aromatic and soft to the palate. It had been a while since I could taste a good wine without the nasty, disapproving look in Oscar’s eyes, so I enjoyed every drop of it, I savoured every sip, feeling the alcohol in my mouth and running down my throat.

  “Laura, you sure look beautiful tonight!” Oliver said to me as soon as he saw me. I felt flattered like a teenager who is complimented for the first time in her life.

  “Thank you.” I smiled.

  Oliver was the owner of the shop where I worked. He was tall and tanned, and although he wasn’t the most handsome man in the world, I found him fairly attractive. The desire of flirting with him crossed my mind, but I wasn’t like that. I wasn’t going to cheat on Oscar just because we had an argument. I know now it was much more than a fight, but still I knew it wasn’t right, so I tried not to think about it anymore. Besides, it was a bit weird and inappropriate to be complimented by my boss, especially considering he hadn’t shown the slightest interest in me before. He wouldn’t stop staring at me, though, but I didn’t feel uncomfortable, so I couldn’t help smiling whenever our eyes met each other’s.

  I felt tempted to order one more glass before dinner, but the responsible part of my brain stopped me. I didn’t want my dinner to be ruined because I couldn’t drink sensibly, and I had already decided it was going to be a long, long night. There’d be excesses, but one step at a time. Maria arrived last. She was kind of my best friend, or at least the closest friend I had. She was the only one who listened to me when I had to get something off my chest, and we knew each other well. When she saw me in my dress, she frowned and smiled. She didn’t like Oscar. Of course, she only knew a one-sided version of every argument, of every fight, but she knew enough to decide she didn’t like him.

  “Look at you!” she said. “You look gorgeous! What are you up to tonight?”

  “Oh, please!” I answered. “You know me better than that.” And we both laughed.

  We entered the dining room. It was a rustic hall, with old stone walls and wooden beams. Hanging from the ceiling there was a net holding all sorts of nautical motifs, from small oars to fish traps, baskets and shells. The tables were made from a whole oak trunk cut lengthwise to flatten the surface, and the chairs were just smaller trunks with an attached back to make them more comfortable. It was the closest thing to a traditional sailor home you could find in Compostela, although I wasn’t convinced that was the way they used nets and baskets.

  Next to a window, a long table was ready with six place settings. It might look like a trivial detail, but it’s very important to choose your seat wisely, as you will be there for a while – from two to three hours, most likely – and you don’t want to be sitting next to a person you just can’t stand. I wasn’t the first one choosing, but I strategically approached the middle of the table to make sure I could switch from one conversation to another if I didn’t like what I w
as hearing or in case I found it boring. Besides, being in the centre would allow me to have a good perspective of what was going on, and most importantly, I’d have full access to all of the bottles of wine spread along the table.

  The food was very good. We had one of the best polbo á feira I’ve ever tried as a starter. I reckon it looks like an exotic delicatessen if you’re not born and raised in Galicia, but having salted octopus with pepper and olive oil is one of the most common and traditional feasts you can have here, and it’s even a matter of national pride for us. It’s meant to be eaten using a toothpick, and it’s not unusual to meet Galician people who find disgraceful the use of forks.

  The laughter grew loud as the wine flowed, and the conversations were moving from the boring work topic to most interesting and fun matters, like the whereabouts of Maria’s knickers after the night she attended to a hen party which got out of hand. As for my boss, even when I wasn’t looking, I could feel the pressure of his eyes scanning my body.

  When the mains came, I was already tipsy and not very hungry anymore, although the fish looked so delicious that I couldn’t resist it. It was a good piece of sea bass with potatoes grilled along with vegetables, just the perfect match for my white wine. I wouldn’t have room left for the dessert!

  Oliver rushed the food and the wine, proving himself the alpha male at the table and the only one who could make it to the pudding without hesitation. Not something I find attractive in a man, to be honest, particularly when it’s so obvious he’s doing it on purpose and to project that image. It’s not a competition, mate. Just enjoy the food!