Wildfire

Chapter 35: The Visit

Monday, October 10th

I turned off my engine and looked at the notepad. Yeah, this is the place. A wooden beige façade, with a surrounding porch and a Ford parked on the side. The only thing missing was the American flag stuck to one of the columns. Not very patriotic, Dad would have discounted a few brownie points on that alone.

Last night I couldn't sleep. The anticipation of visiting Mark at his parent's house did all sorts of knots in my stomach. Was it anxiety from being in the presence of his parents? The other day after Mark wrote his address, he leaned over and whispered: "My parents believe that I got cured. So, you can play it cool."

Either way, Mark and I must talk. With my renewed confidence, I marched to the entrance and rang the doorbell. When no one answered, I knocked thrice. I peered over the rails at the worn-out Ford when the door opened. A petite woman had what looked like an apron with a checkered pattern and embroidery on its front pockets. She looked at me for quite a while and said in a Spanish accent, a familiar voice: "Hello. Can I help you with something?"

"Hi, I'm looking for Mark Reyes." The name itself sparked a reaction from her.

"Oh, you must be one of his employees from Oregon. Please, come on in." She stood aside as I let myself into the vast household. It smelled of spicy food, and the TV was on Seinfeld.

A voice descended from the staircase past the living room on the left side. A huge man with the same skin complexion as Mark reached the kitchen and looked at me with bulging eyes. "Nice to meet you. You must be the guy who worked with Mark in Oregon." He engulfed my hand with his mammoth-sized palms. I smiled sheepishly.

"That's me! Nice to meet both of you." The woman, who I assumed was Mark's mom, had his face, almond eyes, and dark hair, while the dad had more of his hard jawline and skin tone.

"Mark is upstairs. Please take a seat. Make yourself at home." I appreciated her courtesy, but I didn't want to feel at home. An hour ago, I bailed just in time before the doctor pulled over the sidewalk, dodging a bullet of fits from my Dad while the doctor scolds him for sneaking beer underneath the mattress.

There was a glistening-looking couch on the right side. I sat, only to realize that the shiny stuff was, in fact, plastic that wrapped all over. Without anyone watching, I moved to a much comfier futon; this one was plastic-free. The woman yelled for Mark to come downstairs in Spanish.

I watched Jerry Seinfeld say a one-liner, followed by an overused audio track of laughter. Around the television were the essentials of a stable family: Portraits of two parents and a smiling child wearing some poncho. A Virgin Mary next to a vase with a white rose, artificial, perhaps? Certificate templates and a few medals of participation. Lots of red, white, and green textiles. On the end table was the phone and a photo of a gorgeous woman with bright red lips and black hair, but it wasn't Mark's mom. Maybe it's a relative.

When the audience laughed hysterically and cut to commercials, I turned my head to the sound of footsteps. Mark had a black, embroider buttoned shirt and faded jeans. All he was missing was a cowboy hat to fit the look. He walked towards me, and I stood, both smiling in what I describe as friendly.

"Heath, how are you?" He greeted me the same way I approach Jeffrey. It was heart-warming and kind of painful. "Have you met my family already?"

"Primero que tú." His father said with a joke on his face.

"English, pa."

"I understand a bit," I reassured Mark. "I'm not fluent, but I can manage."

Mark rolled his eyes slightly at me. "Good. You better get used to this." He grabbed my shoulder and muttered. "We're just going to have lunch, and then we'll bail."