You’re sitting in a public place minding your own business. Than someone appears who captures your interest.

Is it possible to look at them and have their life open before your eyes?  You will find the answer in . . .

Shadow On Her Dreams

     I awoke a few minutes after ten on Saturday morning. Sleeping late on the weekend was a luxury I enjoyed. However, on this particular morning, waking up late was more a detriment than an asset, for I had to pick up my boss at the airport by noon and already I was running late.

     I felt lethargic. The past week hadn’t been very exciting—lots of routine stuff at work—and I guess the dullness of the week had followed me into the weekend. But I had to clear the cobwebs from my mind and get my butt in gear or my boss would have my head if I kept him waiting.

     Not wanting my name, Chuck Harding, to be mud, I managed to roll out of bed and trudge toward the bathroom. I washed up, dressed, and headed to the kitchen.

     I ate a little breakfast, some toast and oatmeal, and dragged myself to my Toyota Camry parked in the garage, backed out, and headed toward O’Hare Airport. After parking the car, I crossed the street and entered the main lobby of Terminal 3. There were people everywhere, rushing in all directions.

     I took the escalator to the second level. As I got off, I looked at a large sign overhead that read, “Gates 16 to 21.” Following the arrows, I entered a large waiting room surrounded by passenger boarding areas. I spied the “Arrival/Departure Board and searched for Flight 222. “Oh hell,” I muttered. “The flight’s going to be over an hour late. Now what do I do?”

     Already bored out of my mind, I needed to find something interesting to occupy my time. At twenty-two years old, disenchanted with everyday life and the monotony of my job as an assistant copy editor at the local rag, The Daily Sentinel, I needed to spice up my life.

     I saw an empty seat in the center of the room. I sat down and attempted to make myself comfortable. On the table beside the seat was a copy of the Chicago Tribune, dated April 3, 1976. I reached over to pick it up, but pulled my hand back. The last thing I needed was another boring newspaper playing a part in my life. So I leaned back and began to daydream.

     “Flight 253 from Seattle now arriving at Gate 17,” blasted through the overhead speaker. Startled, I lunged forward in my seat. I rubbed my eyes and struggled to escape from my trancelike state.   

     Pulling myself together, I got up, and walked into open area in front of the restrooms. All of a sudden, a noisy, fast moving, pushy mob emerged from Gate 17 and charged toward me. I made a quick evasive move to keep from being trampled and stood on the sidelines scanning the faces in the crowd.

     One, in particular caught my attention. “She’s beautiful,” I whispered. Her long black hair, highlighted with red tones, flowed over her shoulders accentuating her delicate facial features. Her dark complexion presented a striking contrast to the bright yellow dress she wore. A shiny gold pendant engraved with her name, “Bonita,” dangled about her neck. With perfect posture, she strutted toward me. She appeared to be on a mission. 

     As she came closer, our eyes met. I smiled and she smiled back, a soft accepting smile. She gave the impression of being happy, yet her eyes seemed to have tears in them. She’s been crying. But why? I thought. She appears too confident and driven—a woman with a dream—yet perhaps a dream on which a shadow has been cast.

     She moved past me and descended down the escalator. I went back to my seat and began to fantasize about this elegant woman. She intrigued me. I wanted to know more about her. Then I began to drift off. As I did, visions of her life appeared before me—her meager beginnings, needs, aspirations, and conflicts—her story. Where these images came from, eluded me. But I could see them and, in time, would come to treasure them forever.

     The pictures, at first murky, became clear. A sterile Chicago hospital waiting room served as the backdrop. A short muscular man, with graying, uncombed hair, and shabby clothing, in complete disarray, paced back and forth. Showing signs of stress and lack of sleep, as he peered through the room’s window into the darkness of the night, Luis stammered, “They said it wasn’t possible, that it couldn’t happen. Told us we were too old to have our first child. Me, fifty, and my Maria, forty-five. Too risky at her age, the doctors had informed us. What have we done?” Tears ran from his eyes as he collapsed onto a couch and within seconds fell into an uneasy sleep.

     The hours slipped by. The morning sun cast a glow upon the room. Luis tossed and turned on the couch. The rays of the sun touched his face. Dazed, he sat up, looking around the room as if lost. At that moment, a doctor came around the corner and approached him. 

     “It’s a girl, a beautiful baby girl. Mother and daughter are doing fine. Your wife is back in her room,” Dr. Grayson said. “She’s asking for you.”

     “Gracias, gracias,” Luis exclaimed in ecstasy. Then, he jumped to his feet, threw open the doors of the waiting room, raced down the hospital corridor, and burst into Maria’s room yelling, “Maria, Maria, mi àngel.”

     Maria’s eyes met his. No words had to be spoken. Their “gift” may have arrived late, but they felt enormous love for the “little one” who had entered their lives. She was their dream and they had great plans for her future. They called her Bonita, a Spanish name meaning beautiful and lively.

     The pretty infant became an attractive child—her black, silky hair hanging to her waist, her clear olive complexion sparkling with happiness. The girl’s feet never touched the ground, as she danced through her youthful years.

     The Romano’s, a family of modest means, struggled and sacrificed to give Bonita the things they never had. But she grew up too fast for Luis and Maria. They realized their child, now a beautiful young woman, would soon be leaving home to build a life of her own. 

     Maria, sitting in a worn-out, green armchair in the living room, whispered over and over again, “Where have all the years gone? Where have they gone?” She gazed across the room at Luis who’d fallen asleep on the couch. He looked old and tired, his skin dry and wrinkled. With adoring tenderness in her heart, she watched him—the man she cared for so much. Then her eyes shifted to a picture of Bonita, clad in a cap and gown, on the coffee table. Tears came to her eyes, tears of happiness, as she thought about her seventeen-year-old daughter, now a high school graduate.

     Meanwhile, Bonita, dressed in her nightgown, sat on the edge of her bed. She felt troubled and confused. With the lights in her bedroom off, she stared into the darkness of the night. The warm summer wind blew through the open window and caressed her hair causing it to flutter about her face and shoulders. Her eyes became misty and tears began to roll down her cheeks. “What do I do? How do I tell them? I love them, but I’m going to hurt them. But I have to be me,” she sobbed.

     Her thoughts flashed back to the conversation her family had earlier in the evening.  After they’d finished dinner, Luis leaned back in his chair. “Mi àngel,” he sighed, looking at Bonita with love in his eyes. “Your mother and I have worked hard and sacrificed to give you the best life we could. You are the center of our world.” He paused and looked at Maria to get a sign he should continue.

     Maria smiled and Luis went on. “Mi chiquita,” he mumbled, “Your mama and I have talked. To have a future to be proud of and to bring honor to our family, you will go to college and become a teacher. You will make a difference in the lives of children. We love you.”

     Bonita did not say a word, for it wasn’t polite to interrupt the head of the house when he spoke. Her eyes met her mother’s eyes. They sparkled, for she agreed with her husband’s vision of their daughter’s future.

     Upon returning to her room, Bonita fell on the bed, placed her head on the pillow, and began to cry. Over and over again, she muttered, “I love them. I love them.” They’ve been good to me. I’ve had everything in life I could’ve hoped for, but I don’t want this. How do I tell them? Confused, she rubbed the tears from her eyes and fell into a restless sleep.

     The morning came and with it a bright sunny day. Bonita rolled over and looked at the rays of the sun dancing across the ceiling of her room. A smile erupted on her face. “I will go to college. I will teach. They want me to do this and I owe it to them,” she sang out with enthusiasm in her voice. 

     Summer faded into fall. A jovial mood pervaded the Romano’s house. However, when school began, the once cheerful atmosphere turned into a tense nightmare. Bonita didn’t study unless coerced—using any excuse she could find to avoid this chore—and, therefore, earned dismal grades in her classes.

     Living at home complicated matters. She stayed away until late each evening because she feared facing her parents and the questions they would ask about how she fared in her studies. Everywhere she turned, obstacles appeared in her path to happiness. The few friends she had began to avoid her because she became argumentative in their presence.

     One afternoon, Bonita sat alone at the coffee shop on campus wondering how she would survive her life’s dilemma. Her head buried in her hands, she didn’t notice the tall, handsome young man who sat down across from her.

     Jesse Vasquez had been attracted to Bonita since grade school. He liked to think of himself as her boyfriend, but he, too, had been pushed from her life by her unhappiness.

     “Bonita, what’s wrong? You look awful. Do you want to talk?” he asked in a gentle manner.

     Bonita burst into tears. Through her sobs, she gasped, “I don’t want to do what I’m doing. I don’t want to become a teacher. I don’t even know if I want to be in college.”

     Jesse leaned across the table and wiped the tears from her eyes with his handkerchief. “Then why do it?” he asked. “Drop out. Do something else.”

     “I can’t. It would kill them,” she murmured. 

     “Kill who?” Jesse retorted.

“My parents,” Bonita whimpered. “They want me to be something I’m not. I can’t be a teacher. I can’t concentrate on my classes. I can’t get the grades to succeed. Maybe I don’t want to. But, in any case, it’s not working out.” 

     “Explain this to them. Be honest,” Jesse said in a low, calming voice.

     “I have tried to hide my failure from them, but sooner or later they will find out. It will destroy them, especially Papa. He has a dream, but I can’t be part of it.”

     Jesse stared at her. “What about you? Do you have a dream?”

     Bonita looked at him, her soft eyes glowing through the tears, and whispered, “Yes.”

     Several days passed before Bonita got up the courage to confront her parents. The words didn’t come easily as she explained the way she felt and what she desired out of life. 

     Her parents paid close attention to each word spoken for they loved their daughter. With some hesitance, Bonita elaborated on her dream. “Ever since my childhood, I’ve envied people who could draw and, most of all, those who created clothing. I want to be an artist, a fashion designer. I know I can be good, maybe not the best, but I can be happy.”

     Tears came to Maria’s eyes, as she listened. Luis appeared

stunned by his daughter’s revelation. The pain her parents felt could not be translated into words, but neither could the love they had for their only child—their “gift.” 

     Luis spoke for both of them. “Bonita, I’m not a young man and I don’t understand why you want to do this, but your mother and I will not stand in your way.”

     Had they given her their blessing? Maybe not. However, they did grant permission for Bonita, the pride of their life, to pursue her goal at the Seattle Academy of Fashion and to face the world on her own terms. And so, one dream died that fall day in 1974, but a second dream came alive—a dream, however, on which a shadow was cast.

     The picture I’d envisioned again became blurry and images faded. Two years had passed since Bonita left to pursue her desire to become a fashion designer, and now she had come home.

     I left the airport and went on with my life. However, the vision of a gorgeous, but sad, young woman, who managed to smile at me, remained fixed in my mind for years to come.

     Now thirty-two, my life had taken many circuitous and wonderful turns. As a feature writer for a major national publication, World Magazine, I came into contact with many interesting and wonderful people. 

     As I sat at my desk, pondering my next assignment, my editor, Tom Warrick, stuck his head through the door. “Chuck, I’ve got one hell of an interview for you—a fashion designer who conquered her fears and rigid upbringing to become a rising star in the industry. Today, 4:00 p.m., main conference room,” he barked.

     At 3:55, I made my way to the building’s main conference room on the second floor. Upon entering, an attractive young woman stood up from the conference table and greeted me. Dressed in a stunning purple dress, she looked at me and smiled, a soft pleasing smile. My heart melted as we sat down across from each other, and I began Bonita Romano’s interview.

     There had been a reason I saw the vision and story of this beautiful young woman ten years earlier at the airport. For in my heart, I knew that meeting had not been a coincidence. I believed someday we would be reunited and today our paths did cross again, with shadows removed from both our dreams.

Copyright © 2013 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.