by Johnny Diaz
I lean my head against Mami’s, and I hold her soft freckled hand, as it rests on my shoulder. Mami’s Estée Lauder perfume mixes with the raw smell of the just-mowed grass and the gardenias’ sweet intoxicating fragrance. The scene reminds me of an image Monet or Van Gogh painted depicting a lovely garden with a little bit of heaven and home.
“And one more thing, believe in yourself. I do. Papi does. Lourdes does. Hasta tu amigo tambien. Do not fall for these muchachos who have boyfriends and want to get to know you just because you are a cute Cubanito from Miami. Don’t settle for porqueria. You are better than that. When you least expect it, something good will happen,” she says, with a sonic clap to underscore her point. “Te lo prometo. Now, I must get back to my gardenias. They don’t like it when I ignore them,” she says, getting up and walking back to her bountiful tree, which is also surrounded by a glowing white light as if it had its own aura.
“But Mami…don’t go…Wait…I want to…” I run and call out to her, but she slowly fades away into the garden’s ethereal white light. She waves good-bye to me before she finally disappears. My cell phone rings, and I’m abruptly summoned back to reality and awaken from my dream.
I look at my cell phone, and it’s Papi.
“Hola, chico, did I wake you up?” I turn on my side in my bed with my cell phone pressed to my right ear. I stretch my legs and several yawns escape. My alarm clock reads 10 a.m.
“It’s okay,” I yawn loudly. “My dream was ending anyway. How are you, Papi?”
“Everything is good here. Lourdes and I made our flight reservations. We will be there in seven days. Lourdes says she will cook the turkey. Are you ready for our visit, hijo?”
“Sí, Papi. More than you know. I think you and Lourdes are going to have a nice time up here. Preparate! It’s already snowing.”
“We are looking forward to it, Carlos. Bueno, I will let you sleep. We will talk later.”
“Okay, Papi. Bye.” I hang up my phone. I stretch myself like the letter “T” in my bed and moan loudly.
I actually feel better after last night. Mami was right. She’s no longer alive, but her dreams feel as real as if she is. Using the past tense to describe her state of being somehow feels wrong because I feel she is still with me although it’s in the realm of my dreams or in the depths of my heart. Her pep talk rekindles my enthusiasm for my newfound life. Standing in my living room, I declare to myself: No more pity parties and no more lusting after men with boyfriends. I need to focus on the good things I have. My family. New friends. My new city. My job. I am tired of being the sorry and depressed Carlos. I want to be happy again. I want to feel like I used to, but I know I can’t completely with Mami gone. But I have to learn to forge ahead. I will away the negative thoughts, the constant depressing track that spins in my mind relentlessly. This is Carlos Martin 2.0, the Cuban in Boston who will embrace life instead of lamenting of what was or could have been. Marcello lost out on a great guy. Perhaps there is a future husband for me running around Boston or somewhere in Massachusetts looking for me. I’m here and waiting! I want to be with someone again to share my thoughts, stories about my family and my students, someone who will nurture me as I nurture him. I smile to myself as I get up and think these inspirational thoughts with renewed energy and put it to good use. I decide I am going to clean this place and start decorating. I want to make this place look and feel like home. A stack of unopened boxes still remain in my closet, and today feels like a good day to tackle them. After making some cafécito (I still cannot replicate Mami’s magic formula) I go to the closet, squat down, and start opening the boxes I dreaded rummaging through.
I remove some framed photos of Papi, Mami, and Lourdes with me. There is one from our Carnival cruise to Conzumel when I was fifteen. I remember how much Papi and Mami acted like honeymooners and how that embarassed Lourdes and me. There’s another photo of all of us standing in front of the house with our arms around each other. I remember that day so clearly. I was twenty-two and had just graduated from FIU. I didn’t care to attend the graduation ceremony under the sweltering ninety-degree heat in early May, but Papi insisted on seeing his only son accept his college diploma. As I dig deeper into the box, I find my framed education degree from FIU.
I whip out the photographs and good-bye cards that my former students at Braddock High made for me. I gather all these things, and I begin to hang them up around my living room and my bedroom. I fill my noteboard above my desk with my former students’ cards. There is one from Miguel, one of my freshman students who came to the United States three years before. He thanked me in a beautiful essay for being his role model and for letting him know it’s okay to speak with a thick Spanish accent. He is now a senior and preparing to go to Harvard. (I credit myself with helping make that happen. I wrote him a recommendation a few months ago.) He’s exactly why I wanted to become a teacher. To show that no matter where you are from, you can always reinvent yourself in Miami and in this country. Life is limitless if you put forth some effort. And, like him, I am going to try harder to be the person I know I can be and was meant to be. The guy Mami believes in.
I stand in the middle of my bedroom and study all the frames, photographs, and cards that fill my home. I hope that Papi and Lourdes feel as comfortable as they do in Miami when they visit Boston.
12
Tommy
When I pull up to the scene, Mikey is standing alongside his Volkswagen Rabbit or something that resembles what it used to look like. He looks dazed, disoriented, and pained as he walks around with his hand kneading his forehead. His front tire is flattened, and his front fender is folded back, crushed, and mangled as if two giant hands squeezed the front of the car into metal mush. Black liquid spews from the car and onto the street. The bunny is disabled.
“Mikey, are you okay?” I climb out of the Jeep and dash toward him. The lights of a police car flare and spin, illuminating the street with blue and red hues.
“Oh, Tommy. I’m so glad you’re here,” he smiles, rubbing his forehead. “Yeah, I was just scared. This woman hit me as I pulled out of the Barnes & Noble parking lot. She ran a red light.” When he removes his hand from his forehand, I notice a red bruise marks the spot above his thin light brown eyebrows. I want to kiss it and make him feel better.
“Well, it looks like you’ll survive.” I closely examine the bruise. “You just got banged up a little. Look at it this way, Mikey, at least you don’t look like your car. The bunny is banged up!” I say, holding up my two index fingers on each side of my head like a rabbit. Mikey warmly smiles back.
“Thanks for coming. I guess I freaked out and called you. The crash happened so fast.” I put my arm around him and wait as the Braintree police officer finishes speaking to the other driver, who looks worried. The cop then walks over to us. He talks to Mikey, who recounts his version of the story: He was pulling out of the bookstore’s parking lot at the bottom of the hill when a driver ran a red light and clipped the front of his car. After examining both cars for about twenty minutes, the officer hands the woman a ticket for running the light and reckless driving. Mikey looks relieved.
“Whew! With my DUI from earlier this year, I thought I’d get arrested.” Mikey leans against the police cruiser.
“But you weren’t drinking. It was an accident, Mikey. It can happen to anyone,” I reassure him.
“I know, but I was just scared. Thank you for keeping me company.” Mikey looks at me with those beautiful blue orbs of his. He continues to rub his head and his temples.
“Mr. Williams, you might want to go to the emergency room and have that bruise checked out, and just to make sure nothing’s broken. But first, one of you has to move the car. It’s blocking some traffic.” I volunteer and grab Mikey’s keys. I slowly park the limping car on the side of the road and out of traffic’s way. When I emerge from the car, I notice the headlights of a Ford Taurus quickly pulling up with its hazards on. A middle-aged couple steps out.
“Oh, Mikey
!” the woman wails in a Boston accent while rushing over to him.
“Ma, I’m okay. Really. I just hit my head against my sun visor,” Mikey explains, looking all embarrassed. His mother cradles his face with her hands and examines his head.
His father grabs a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs the bruise.
“You have to be careful with those sun visors. You never know when one can smack you in the face,” his father says.
And I just stand there smiling awkwardly, feeling a bit out of place during this family reunion. Why am I here again?
“I think he should go to the hospital, just to be sure that everything is all right,” I suggest as his parents study me, probably wondering who I am.
Mikey picks up on my discomfort and realizes that his parents don’t know who I am or what I’m doing there. He makes a pleasant introduction.
“Ma, Pa, this is Tommy, a good friend of mine. He’s the one who writes for the Daily, the one I’ve told you about. I called him too.”
I notice how much his mother, Susan, looks like Mikey. The same sky-blue eyes but instead of light brown straight hair, hers is curly. A perm I suspect. She’s also pasty white. Small freckles dot her nose, just like Mikey’s. His father, Ron, looks like a tall school principal with white, bushy, straight hair. Both have kind, caring eyes.
“Oh, nice to meet you, Tommy. Mikey has mentioned you before. We read your articles. We’ve never met a real reporter,” his mother warms up to me. “Thank you for being here for our son,” Susan says with a familiar Boston accent.
“I saw your story on the soccer player. Good stuff,” Ron adds, shaking my hand firmly.
Mikey’s mother decides to take him to a nearby hospital and invites me along. I explain to her that I don’t want to impose, but she insists.
“Mikey gets all nervous around doctors and hospitals. Having a friend there might take the edge off him. Do you want to ride with us or follow us?” she asks.
“I couldn’t. I don’t want to intrude.”
“Not at all! Just follow me. We’re going to South Shore Medical,” she says.
I cave in. I have trouble saying no at times. I look over at the Ford’s passenger seat, and Mikey smiles impishly, embarrassed that his ma is making such a fuss over him. I wave good-bye to him, hop into my Jeep, and tail his mother’s Ford. His father stays behind with the crippled Volkswagen and waits for a tow truck to haul it back to their house in Duxbury.
About fifteen minutes later, Mikey, his mother, and I are in the emergency room at the hospital. A nurse has escorted Mikey into an examination room. It’s just me and Susan in the lobby. An easy, nice conversation takes place.
“I think he’ll be okay. The bruise didn’t look too bad,” I say, sitting in an uncomfortable chair as Channel 3 rebroadcasts its 11 p.m. newscast on a small TV set in the waiting room. Susan holds a women’s magazine in her hand as we chat.
“I know. It’s just better to make sure that everything is still in place. How did you know about the accident?” she asks.
“We had gone to Providence for dinner and to see the U2 in 3-D concert at the IMAX theater. We had a lot of fun. We had met up at the bookstore earlier so I had to drop him off. When I left, he called me about the accident so I turned around and came back. I think I broke some traffic rules to get back here.”
“Well, that’s sweet of you, being here. I’m sure Mikey appreciates it. He doesn’t have a lot of close friends. Most of them were his drinking buddies and don’t hang out with him anymore because he doesn’t drink. So I want to thank you, Tommy, for being there for my son, for supporting him.”
“Anytime,” I grin.
Susan and I exchange stories about our jobs. She’s a middle school teacher with a sixth grade class. Ron works as a principal at another school in the South Shore. They are a family of educators.
“My sister Mary is a teacher in Miami Beach, where I grew up,” I say. “I feel like I’m always surrounded by teachers. It’s always been my second career choice if I ever get bored with writing and journalism. But for the last year and a half or so, I’ve been enjoying Boston. In a way, journalism is like teaching. We’re informing people on what’s going on in the community, and in some ways, I feel like I’m a teacher.”
“That’s very sweet. I learn something new whenever I read the paper, Tommy. I grew up in Dedham reading the Daily. Your parents must be so proud.” She smiles with the warm friendliness of a caring teacher. “What brought you up here? Your whole family is in Miami, right?”
“Yes, which makes it hard sometimes. I miss being able to drop by my parents’ house every Sunday for lunch or to do laundry. I came here to write for the Daily, which is like an institution in New England, as you know. It’s such a great newspaper, and I couldn’t say no when they offered me my job. Being in Boston has been like a new chapter in my life. I’m enjoying this city and all it has to offer. I still visit my parents, but it’s hard. I miss them. They call me every night at eight o’clock on the dot.”
Susan laughs as if she knows the feeling.
“My mom always calls me too, and she’s eighty-five and lives with me!” she chuckles. “I do that to Mikey. It sounds like you have a wonderful family and a nice job. I’m glad you and Mikey are friends.”
“Me too,” I say.
After talking about our hair products (Susan says she wishes she had natural curly hair like I do), she suggests, “Why don’t you go inside the examining room and keep him company. If I know my son, he’s probably all nervous hearing the beeps and other sounds from the machines, wondering what is going on. He probably wouldn’t want me in there anyway, fussing over him and treating him like a baby.”
“Sure, I’ll go and check on him.” I rise from my seat and head into the examining room area. I poke my head into each of the examining rooms until I spot Mikey, sitting hunched over with a bandage on his forehead. He looks like a sad plush toy doll, but he lights up when I walk into the sterile-smelling room.
“I heard the doctors talking in the hallway. They say they’re going to have to amputate both your legs,” I joke.
“If they do, I’ll amputate you, cutie.”
I shake his hand, and I sit by the edge of his examining bed to keep him company.
“Tommy, you don’t have to be here. Go home. I know it’s late and you must be tired from our drive to and from Providence. Besides, isn’t there a Providence rerun on Channel 4 or Lifetime right about now that you’re missing?”
“Nah, I’d rather watch this. It’s like the real ER or Grey’s Anatomy.”
Mikey gently holds my hand and squeezes it. He rubs each of my fingers. I’m instantly excited; a rush of sensation tingles my spine and heart. I have to adjust my sitting position to make room for my boner, but it’s more than that. My feelings for Mikey are blooming strongly like the tulips in Boston during spring.
“Thank you for coming to the crash scene and for being here. Seriously, that was nice of you.”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” I say with a wink.
As we hold hands, the doctor comes in, and we quickly separate. He tells Mikey that the tests and X-rays came back fine and that Mikey has a slight concussion. He releases him but urges Mikey to call him if he feels dizzy or light-headed.
I walk out with Mikey and return to the area where Susan and Ron are waiting.
“They say Mikey has a bad case of sun-visor bruising. There’s no cure!” I announce. Mikey, Susan, and Ron burst out laughing.
“Maybe there is a chiropractor who specializes in that,” his father says, laughing loudly at his own corny joke. We’re all laughing, but I secretly smile, inwardly happy that I’ve bonded with the Williams family.
Mikey explains to them that he has a slight concussion and that it’s not too serious.
“But you know what I could really use right now?” he announces as we stand outside the hospital under the starry night.
“What?” we all answer.
“Fo
od! I’m starving,” he says, making “starving” sound like “stah-ving.”
“Now I know for sure that my little boy is going to be okay. Despite his skinny frame, you’d never know that Mikey eats like a horse. At night, I hear him scraping the fork against the plate, all the way downstairs. It’s Mikey eating his late night snacks,” Susan explains with a certain loving gleam in her eye.
“Well, we can get something to eat. There’s an IHOP nearby in Quincy that’s open late,” I offer.
“Mikey, why don’t you get something to eat with Tommy as long as he doesn’t keep you out too late and drops you off at home? Can you do that for us, Tommy?” Susan says.
“Sure. As long as Mikey gives me directions, I’ll get him home safely and with a full stomach.”
“What about my car?” Mikey asks.
“It’s already back at the house. Don’t worry about it for now. We’ll take it to the repair shop on Monday. You probably have about $1,000 in damages. Once we swap the front tire, it should be drivable, if you don’t mind the dents in the front,” Ron says, patting Mikey on the shoulder.
“Thanks, Dad!”
His parents hug him and kiss him. We say our good-byes, and I give Susan a hug and a kiss on the cheek and shake Ron’s hand.
“It was great meeting you, Tommy. Maybe we can have you over for dinner sometime. I make a mean lasagna,” Susan says.
“That’s why I have this belly.” Ron pats his stomach. She playfully punches him, and they head back to their car.
After Mikey and I each eat a stack of pancakes topped with blueberries, strawberries, and banana slices at the IHOP, I drive him back to his parents’ house on the Marshfield-Duxbury border. The whole way, we talk about the accident, and I tell him how fun his parents are.