Page 73 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

Though American by birth, Paloma’s family was originally from Mexico. Paloma identified herself as a “bruja” and practiced Mexican Folk Magic, though I knew nothing of such things to decide if it was all a performance or genuine. It didn’t matter to me either way. When she had found out I was Catholic, I assumed she would be bothered, or at least be less open to being friendly with me while I lived with her. However, quite graciously, Paloma explained to me that folk magic in Mexico was greatly influenced by Catholic beliefs—or maybe it was the other way around—and many brujas also identified as Catholic. The fact that my French Catholicism didn’t prejudice me against her beliefs endeared me to her.

We were both the “live and let live” sort of people. Do no harm and I’ll leave you to it.

She made her living producing folk art which she sold online and at local art galleries and craft fairs. Additionally, she had a side business with charms, potions, and magic work for believers of her craft. For her method of making a living, she did well. I wasn’t certain that I’d ever be a person who could believe in magic or mysticism of any kind, but I found it fascinating. Then again, I realized that Catholicism required a great suspension of disbelief, so maybe magic was real? Who could say for sure until the time came when we all found out?

In the short time I’d stayed with her, Paloma had invited me into her kitchen to cook with her. Teaching me more than I’d probably ever need to know about Mexican food, especially all of the varieties of peppers used in the cuisine, I loved sharing French recipes with her in return. But I could never learn enough from her. Needless to say, I ate well while staying with her. We hadn’t had enough time to grow incredibly close in two months, but I found that I already missed her. I knew that if ever I wanted to visit, she wouldn’t be averse.

Now, for the second time in my life, I had no one.

I loved my apartment, and it was home, but it was empty.

There was no one to talk to or cook with or bump into in the hallway. No one to cook breakfast for or wake with kisses and a “good morning.” No one to share a meal with or talk about a new television show with over said meal. I had me and only me.

Instead of rushing out the door to buy groceries, find something to occupy my brain, or run an errand that wasn’t incredibly important so that I wouldn’t be left with my thoughts, I sat down. In the one chair I had that I’d put in the corner of the living room by the windows. Staring out at the gray, misty city below.

I wanted to cry. Not because I was sad or suddenly lonely. But because I felt that I should.

I’d left Peter, moved in with Paloma, and two months later, I was on my own in a city where I had a job and few friends. When Peter and I had decided to get married at the end of my two-week vacation those years ago, I’d envisioned a much different future. But there I was. Alone. Living in an apartment once again, with only myself to rely on for company and comfort.

It wasn’t only the sudden loneliness that bothered me. It was the six years from the moment I’d met Peter, and how my life had turned into a tornado that swept me away. I didn’t land in Oz where life suddenly became technicolor. I’d simply been dropped back in Kansas having only achieved financial independence and security. I’d failed at everything else.

I’d failed at my marriage.

I’d failed Peter.

I was enraged thinking of him, though I had no idea why, and I had no energy to do anything with that rage. I didn’t lack energy as I had—going back to my old medication had returned me to normal within a week. Simply stated, I no longer knew what to say or do when it came to the feelings I had about the last four years of my life. The last six years. Everything that had transpired in my life since that fateful night in Montreal and a doughnut vendor tried to overcharge an American simply because he could.

I didn’t know where to begin. So, I couldn’t spare the energy. Until I knew where to direct it, I’d save it. The fact that I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment where things had gone askew with our marriage only made it worse. Certainly, having a doctor who didn’t care to understand my condition and history pressuring me to switch medications didn’t help. The medication stole my energy, my spirit, and drive for everything in my life.

That wasn’t the entire problem, though. I couldn’t lie well enough to myself to believe it.

Moving to a new country and finding I had no friends had been an issue.

Struggling to find a job before I received my citizenship had been demoralizing.

Realizing that I had not been equal with Peter for the first part of our marriage had been humiliating.

Feeling purposeless in my own life had been paralyzing.

American culture shock had contributed to my feelings of being lost.

Looking back, I realized that I hadn’t been as dedicated to my Catholic faith as I had been when my family was alive, or when I’d been alone in Montreal. So, what did that mean for my faith?

Everything I knew about myself—or thought I knew—was upended.

I was a new version of Enzo that I did not recognize.

Why had I married Peter? Had it been love?

Of course, it had been love. I loved Peter deeply, even as the thought of him enraged me. But why did thinking of Peter set me on edge; make me heated and physically tense? What had happened that I had not paid attention to in the years since our meeting?

Ultimately, in the six years I’d met Peter, and the four years before that, my life had been guided by forces outside of my control. Death and grief had not been within my control. Immigration and the prejudice against immigrants had not been within my control. How to handle my own health needs was outside of my control. For nearly a decade, my ship had harnessed the winds that propelled it forward with no method of steering.

And here I was. What was I to do with what my life had become?

The box containing my favorite memories, nestled against the wall in the living got picked up and placed gently in the back corner closet in my bedroom. Back in the living room, I was left with my emptiness again.

Sliding my phone from my pocket, I clicked on a contact that had been my lifeline for longer than I deserved.