Both Sides Now

by Barbara Ferrer

  “You know, we really don’t have to talk if you don’t want.”

  I glanced up from shredding paper to find her studying me. “I want.” I took a sip of beer—forced a small smile. “Seriously, this is too good to pass up.”

  “All right then.” She smiled again—knew I was grasping at anything that would keep me hanging on.

  “My mother was—is—the Cuban hippy.” She shook her head and rolled her beer bottle between her palms. “My father is your garden variety gringo hippy tinged with Jack Kerouac beatnik aspirations, which means he spends most of his time wandering the country on a beat up Indian motorcycle that he keeps put together with some combination of baling wire, chewing gum, and spit, and working in an ever-expanding variety of indie-slash-organic-slash-Fair Trade coffee shops where he can shoot the shit over the latest draft of his Great American Novel with other aspiring Great American novelists. From time to time, he makes his way back down to Marathon so he can stop in and visit the old lady, and, yeah, they’re still utterly, irrevocably together.”

  God—my upbringing was so goddamn boring by comparison. “Come on, you can’t stop there,” I urged as the waiter reappeared with our meals.

  Lifting the lid on a covered dish of maduros, she said, “You honestly can’t want to know more about this, can you?”

  “Are you kidding? Come on, I come from your basic, straightforward Cuban family—living la vida American Dream complete with mortgage, two cars, and just enough assimilation. This is completely beyond the realm of my experience.”

  “Oh, how often I’ve wished it was beyond the realm of my experience.” She spooned black beans over her rice. “What I wouldn’t have given to be living la vida American Dream rather than reliving the Age of Aquarius well beyond its expiration date. Can you imagine how mightily it sucked to be me the first day of school? The one day where the teachers read, and, in my case, mangled, your entire name out loud, in front of the whole class?”

  I could imagine. Suddenly, Nicolas Miguel Azarias didn’t seem so bad.

  “There I was, stuck with Liberty Estrella in classrooms teeming with Jennifers and Tammys and Lisas having to explain, again, about my name.”

  Mouth full, I simply raised my eyebrows in question.

  She sighed again. “The easy explanation is that my birthday’s July fourth.”

  I swallowed. “And the real explanation?” Because clearly, “easy” did not translate to factual.

  “Because it’s the day after the anniversary of Jim Morrison’s liberation from the earthly chains that bound him or some such bullshit. Estrella to honor his rightful place dancing amongst the stars.”

  “What does Jim Morrison have to do with you?”

  “He’s my spiritual father.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “This is according to my mother who attended some music festival/memorial orgy thing where the plan was to summon the spirits of all those gone too soon in order to keep their gifts alive. Obviously, various psychotropics and herbal—” she paused for an air quote—unnecessary by now “—remedies were involved.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yeah, I know.” She grinned and rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “At any rate, also in attendance during that momentous occasion was—”

  “Your dad?”

  “Score one for the smart man.” She raised her bottle in toast. “In her stoned, sixteen-year-old hippy idiocy, she saw shining within him the spirit of old Jim, climbed on the back of his bike, and took off on an adventure that lasted two years, until she got too big to comfortably ride on the back of the Indian. That’s when she came back to Florida and when my nice, middle-class Cuban grandfather had a fit for the ages. Can you imagine what it must have been like for the man? Seeing his former Catholic schoolgirl daughter pregnant out to there and not married, even though Nora kept insisting they’d been married beneath the stars and the heavens and that nature recognized their union, blah, blah, blah.”

  “You call your mother by her first name?” Out of all of that, that’s what stood out.

  “She’s barely eighteen years older than I am. Besides, she has this crackpot theory where she sees us as equals.” Libby shrugged, although it seemed kind of tight. “Anyhow, after Abuelo had his fit, she took off for a commune of friends down in Marathon. That’s where I was born and grew up with Nora and the occasional flyby visits from Stan. My father,” she clarified, although by now, I could’ve guessed.

  “And eventually, Nora grew up—as much as she’s capable of, at any rate—gave up the communal living when I was about six, for a house where she still lives and makes custom jewelry.” She touched one of her ears, nudging the silver hoop with beads forward. “All very natural stuff, of course. Very organic and in tune with a Florida vibe, as she likes to say. Sells her stuff to one of the local boutiques and does pretty good with web-based mail orders. She’s got an amazing site.”

  A full out grin crossed her face. “Now see, there’s irony for you—the organic, down-to-earth hippy benefiting from the most modern of technology.”

  I found myself grinning back. “Hey, if it works for Ben and Jerry—”

  “Good point.”

  “So you’ve lived there your whole life, then?”

  “No.” She looked down at her plate, wiping at a stray blob of mojo with her finger. “Spent some time in Chicago.” And with those words, her whole face transformed. Just…lit up and softened all at the same time.

  But before I could ask anything about Chicago, a raucous cheer erupted from the bar area, drawing both of our attention. From the looks of the action on the wall-mounted television, it appeared the Marlins were getting something going.

  Glancing from the screen to Libby's rapt expression, I asked, “Do you like sports?”

  “I am the most unathletic human on the planet.” The edge of her mouth curled up in that half smile as she forked up a bite of pecan pie. “But I’m a great fan.”

  I dug into a slice of Key lime pie I didn’t remember ordering, but hell, I wasn’t complaining. “Any favorites?”

  “Well, baseball,” she said with a nod toward the screen, “and figure skating.”

  “Oh hell no, Libby, not figure skating. That’s not a real sport.”

  “Oh, and you can balance on a blade an eighth of an inch wide and not fall on your ass?”

  “As a matter of fact, I can, and I don’t have to wear sequins to do it,” I shot back.

  “Ah.” Comprehension dawned, lighting up her face. “Hockey player.”

  Man, I could feel how cocky my grin was, but it couldn’t be helped. “Guilty. At least once upon a time. You know someone who plays?”

  She shook her head. “No. But my husband’s a lifelong Blackhawks fan.” And there went that wistful expression again. Chicago had something to do with her husband. Maybe everything.

  After settling our bill, we headed out into the still-stifling heat to make our way back toward the hotel. Night had fallen completely, bringing a whole different vibe to the street, neon and bright lights illuminating the people wandering in and out of art galleries, shops, and restaurants with a cheery pastel glow.

  “Feels kind of surreal, doesn’t it? The way things just…go on.”

  “Yeah.” Again, I was unnerved as hell by that eerie way she knew things. However, when I glanced down at her, about to finally say something about how cool it was to be able to talk to someone without having to really talk, it became my turn to recognize something without her having to say a word. “Hey, Libby, are you okay?”

  “It’s nothing.” But her body—her expression—said different even as she tried to shrug it off. “I fell earlier today,” she confessed. “Smacked the shit out of my tailbone. But it’s no big. I’ll just force myself to swallow some ibuprofen when we get back and hope to hell I don’t lose dinner.”

  “Ibuprofen shouldn’t affect you on a full stomach.”

  She shook her head. “Not the medicine, the pills. I don’t do well t
aking a lot of pills.” She hesitated, then quietly added, “It’s kind of a mental thing.”

  “Can you swallow one big pill?”

  “I don’t know…maybe.”

  “I should have eight hundred milligram tabs.” Or maybe not. Who knew what the hell I had with me? I hadn’t even been sure about clean shirts.

  “Really, Nick, it’s okay. I’ll deal.”

  “Why should you have to when I’ve got something that can help?”

  Another ten or so obviously pained steps, and she finally sighed and gave in with a quiet, “Okay, thanks.”

  Good. Because in those ten steps it had become monumentally important that I help her. I wasn't going to question why it was important—I just knew I needed to.

  At my room, I swiped the key card and pushed it open, saying, “Should only take a sec—”

  That’s when it fell apart. Collapsed, like a house of cards.

  Sitting open on the huge king-size bed was my small case, a few precisely folded shirts and my favorite pair of jeans still neatly packed inside. On the bed beside the case was my toiletry kit, filled with all the essentials, including the bottle of ibuprofen I never traveled without and a brand-new toothbrush, still in its pristine, sealed packaging.

  It was the last that did me in. That had me dropping into a chair and tilting my head back, staring up at the ceiling and wondering again, how the hell were we going to get through this.

  A light touch on my forearm had me snapping my head down and meeting Libby’s worried gaze. “She packed for me.” I barely recognized that hoarse, choked sound as my own voice. “She packed it, even though I told her not to bother, because she always packs for my trips. And like any other trip, I must’ve opened my bag—changed my shirt. I went out and ate fucking grilled shrimp and Key lime pie.”

  God, what was I doing? It's not as if I'd forgotten, not really, but at the same time, I had. I’d at least pushed it to the back of my mind. Going out…eating, having what amounted to a good time while Katharine…my wife…my God, she was in the hospital, probably puking her guts out.

  “Here.” Lurching from the chair, I grabbed the bottle of pills and blindly shoved it into Libby’s hands as I urged her toward the door. “You have to go, Libby. I’m sorry. You have to—I have to…I need to go back.”

  “Nick, it’s okay—”

  “No, goddammit, it’s not okay.” For the first time, something she said wasn’t right. Pissed me off to a point where I saw red. “It’s not okay and you should know that, Libby. Just go, please. Go.” I shoved her past the threshold and pushed the door closed behind her, unable to hear whether or not it clicked shut over my heaving and gasping into the toilet I barely made it to in time.

  Nick

  I never made it back to the hospital that night. Had every intention of going—but I couldn’t. I was so afraid of what Kath might see. Of what I might see. All I could do was haul myself off the floor and stagger to the chair beside the window where I sat staring out into the night until my eyes felt gritty, and my throat felt clogged and raw with the tears I couldn’t release. At some point, I yanked off my damp shirt and fell across the bed in my shorts, not bothering to deal with the covers or even make certain I landed with my head on the pillows. Just let the exhaustion take over and swallow me whole.

  As a result, the next morning, I had cotton mouth the likes of which I hadn’t had since college, accompanied by the mother of all headaches that even all the hot water at my disposal couldn’t alleviate. But it wasn’t until I went to reach for one of my pain pills that it really hit me.

  No doubt about it, I was an insensitive prick for forgetting about Kath’s agony for a couple of hours, but the way I’d treated Libby? That was complete asshole territory. The woman had been nothing but good to me, and I’d repaid her kindness by losing my shit and kicking her out.

  Complete and total asshole.

  “Front desk, how may I help you, Mr. Azarias?”

  My hand fisted in the bedspread. “Yes, uh, can I be connected to Mrs. Walker’s room? Libby Walker?”

  “I’m sorry sir, she checked out this morning.”

  “Shit,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing—sorry. Thanks.” I shoved my hand through my hair. The receiver was halfway to the cradle before I realized the clerk was still talking—“Excuse me, what?”

  “I said, sir, that she left a message for you.”

  “Yeah?” Well, why hadn’t the cabrón said so from the start?

  “It will be waiting for you down here, Mr. Azarias.”

  Oh, a real message. Right. Hanging up, I finished getting ready, feeling another stab as I unwrapped the toothbrush and pulled my favorite toothpaste from the bag. Kath hadn’t forgotten anything. She never did; she was so unbelievably efficient. Part of what had made her so successful—Not had, dammit. Just, made. Makes.

  Downstairs at the desk, Carlos, the concierge, gave me a small manila envelope with a bulge in it. A suspiciously pill bottle-shaped bulge. Sighing, I ripped it open and upended it over the counter. Yep. Just as expected, my bottle of ibuprofen. Unexpected was the note that slid out behind the bottle.

  I wanted to make certain you got these back. Thank you so much—it really helped. I hope you don’t mind, but I took one more to have for the drive home today.

  Thanks again,

  Libby

  P.S. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask any of the gang hanging around in the waiting area. Nan, she’ll be the lady with the blonde hair and slight French accent (except do not refer to her as French—she's Canadian and crazy-proud of it), she’s got it more together than I ever could. She was my saving grace those first couple months.

  Please take care

  —L.

  You’d think I’d have been relieved not to see her again. To have an excuse to not see her again. And maybe I was, for about five seconds. But while I’ve never had a problem being an asshole to other guys, with a woman… Mira, it’s different. I’m just Cuban enough that that kind of behavior really bugs me. Not to mention, made me feel like my mother and my abuelitas and my three sisters were all hovering over me, each of them taking turns smacking me upside the head.

  I read the note over once again. “Please take care.” Even from a distance she was offering reassurance.

  “How long ago did she check out?”

  Dude’s gaze flickered down to the bottle of pills still on the counter, then back to me. I knew that look—assessing, checking out, top to bottom to see if there’s something of worth beneath the surface. I knew that look like I knew my own name. Just wasn’t something I was used to being on the receiving end of. However, this wasn’t my usual turf, and I couldn’t count on an automatic answer. Finally, though, he said, “Less than an hour ago.”

  It took longer than that to check someone out of the hospital. Even if it was a regular thing. At least, that’s what I was betting on as I drove toward the hospital, anxiety leaving my hands sweating and slipping on the steering wheel. Anxiety that stemmed from more than just wanting to make things right with Libby. Because if I was completely honest, I’d admit that I was scared to see Kath. Was I focusing on the Libby situation so I could avoid dealing with Kath for just a few minutes more?

  Who the hell knew? But it was sort of a moot point, since when I got to the hospital, Libby was nowhere to be found. But there was a blonde lady. I pulled the note from my pocket, skimming it again as I stood in the waiting area.

  “Excuse me—Nan?”

  The woman turned to face me, her blue gaze friendly and curious. “Hello…Nick, yes?”

  “Uh—yeah.” Guess she’d already spoken to Libby. Great.

  “Marilyn, this is the young man Libby was telling us about. Nick, this is Marilyn Ramirez.”

  I exchanged nods with the woman seated over by a window, a rosary twisted in her hands.

  “Have you seen Libby this morning?”

  “As a matter of fac
t,—” Nan’s chin lifted, as she looked past my shoulder. Following her gaze, I turned and there she was, standing outside a room with Dr. Aguirre. I watched as he took her chin in one hand, tilting her head to meet his gaze. As he spoke, she smiled, nodded, even reached up to give him a kiss on the cheek in parting. The second he was gone, however, her entire demeanor changed. Head down, shoulders slumping, not unlike the air slowly being let out of a balloon. A hollow pit sensation clawed at my stomach. Dios mío. Was that what I’d looked like? What she’d seen?

  With that in mind, I was careful as I approached, reaching out to touch her forearm. Like she’d done with me, I tried my best to keep it gentle, doing my best not to startle her.

  “Libby?”

  With a sharp breath she straightened, her shoulders squaring as she turned to meet my gaze with the same smile she’d used with Dr. Aguirre. “Hey, Nick. Wasn’t sure I was going to see you before we left. How are you doing?”

  Good God, that was fast—that transformation. “I—all right, I guess. Are you okay?”

  Another smile—a wave of her hand. “Oh, I’m fine. A little tired. A lot sore,” she said with a small laugh as she reached around to rub her back. “But good, otherwise. Thanks again for the pills, by the way.”

  “No problem.”

  “Have you seen your wife this morning? Is she doing okay?”

  “Uh…no. I’m on my way, but I wanted to see if I could catch you first.”

  She cocked her head.

  “I just…” I looked down to where I still held her note. “I had to say I’m sorry.”

  Libby

  “I had to say I’m sorry.”

  God love him, he really was a newbie, thinking he had to apologize to me for a minor freak out.