A Trip to California (Part Eight)

I was almost killed at one point. This happened on my first night in Jennifer’s home. We were sleeping in a spare room, a room that I think was reserved for the husband (Jennifer had her own set up with a bed designed just for her needs and with other apparatuses for more mobility). The house was a one-floor mansion with sliding doors in the living room leading to the front yard and the back yard. I remember that those doors were opened with the screens locked in place and the curtain slightly open. It was still humid (the temperature was 38 Celsius) and we all decided to go straight to bed after such a long trip. But there was one thing I forgot to do before turning in: use the facilities. I had seen the bathroom when we were shown around the house and knew that I would have to walk across the living room to get there. I was quiet as I stepped along the floor, but I still managed to startle Jennifer’s husband. This remains my sharpest memory of the stay; not Disneyland; not the ugly malls we visited; not even the man-made lake we visited where I was made acquainted with a large group of Nathalies (as fake and as irritating as that lake). Remember, I was just a child in a new country that I did not really understand. Nothing else lingers in my memory like that moment.


His hand clearly held a gun. There was some light in that living room and he woke from his sleep with his hand on the barrel of what looked like a weapon Clint Eastwood would have been proud to use in his next Dirty Harry film (they were still making them then). When he saw it was me, he dropped his hand, screwed up his face and asked what I was doing. There was no doubt about me needing a bathroom break now. And there was no apology. I did not mention this to my mother for the rest of the trip and nothing more was said after that night.