Never Leave Again

kaboom

Elisabet Segura and I have never met before. I suppose she'd have seen me play for Barcelona, or perhaps even the club's matches against Sevilla, and she would know who I am if I grant myself the presumption that Alexia has mentioned me to her. Probably as her new, young teammate who is out of her depth and kicking as hard as she can to stay above the water. Or maybe the captain of various youth teams.

Elisabet Segura and I have never met before, but she embraces me over the barrier as though I am her daughter.

Her arms carry the strength of child-bearing, and are firm, as though they are pleading me to never part from her. The hug is suffocatingly tight, and I am at her mercy, much to her daughters' horror.

A second more, and Alexia places her hand on her mother's shoulder. "Mami," she says sternly, as though she is the one in charge. The captain's armband stretches across her bicep as she grips the fabric of Eli's jersey. "Let her go."

Though Eli shakes her head, she releases me. I stumble backwards, falling into Clàudia's chest as she watches on with a concerning curiosity. Her lack of alarm scares me. She looks like she had expected this to happen.

"What the fuck," I murmur into her ear as Alexia and Alba begin to apologise profusely.

"Hey, Talia," she says back, "go talk to her again."

The air grows heavy and the rain clouds drop lower, overcasting my vision as I try my hardest to understand what she means. My heart rate picks up and I suddenly feel too cold in this city, wishing with every fibre of my being to be returned home into the warmth of the sun and Mamá's comfort. I long to walk through my city without the fear of losing myself in a sea of tourists, and to find my way to the church whenever my head won't be cleared by the repetitive action of kicking a ball over and over. Distantly, I hear Manuel's voice, but he is warning me. He is telling me that something is very wrong with the way Eli Segura just greeted me. He is advising me to turn around and walk into the tunnel, and then to head south until the language drops its 's'.

But I can't.

I can't go to Córdoba without knowing who Marc Ivorra is, and I can't fail to discover Mamá's ghosts. Those wisps of the past are what has created me, and there is something so instinctive about needing to know. I withheld my questions for twenty years, and there has always been more to my relocation than what is simply best for my career.

Alexia and Alba go silent as I step forwards, and I have to tell myself that I am not walking on liquid ground before my knees buckle and I hit the dirt.

Knowing I should speak but unable to construct anything of substance, I reach the barrier with parted lips and a dry mouth. The seats behind Eli and Alba have emptied, and there is an eerie silence settled into the stadium, blanketing the pitch as though to return it to its natural, uninhabited state. The emptiness does nothing to open up the world for me, and I become trapped between two voices: Manuel's deep collectedness, and Eli's shriller, excited Catalan.

As I stare at the face in front of me, floating despite the hands cupping my cheeks, I begin to remember the crease of her forehead, and the shape of her eyes. Her nose protrudes from her face with the same unassuming curvature as one I have grown up. She looks like Mamá.

I feel my eyes widen and I pull my head backwards, gasping for air as Alexia wars with herself, unsure of whether she should intervene. Unsure of what is really happening.

"Talia," I hear Manuel instruct me, voice echoed by Mamá's. "Talia, go. Go now, and come back to Córdoba."

I shake my head, wanting them to be quiet. Not wanting to be told what to do, or how to think, or who created the world and how and why or 'no, you must not'. I look to Eli as if she holds the answers to my questions.