Choose Me

by Xenia Ruiz

  As the elevator stopped on alternating floors letting people on and off, I noticed the man remained in the same position, like a statue, his lips moving silently. People stole curious glances at him, but he didn’t look up. His clothes hung off him like the teenagers who had created the oversized, sloppy dress mode that had yet to go out of style: cargo pants sagging, an extra-large plaid shirt with sleeves hanging down past the knuckles. But he wasn’t a kid. The higher the elevator went, the less people remained until we were all alone.

  I must have made a noise in my throat, or sighed, I can’t remember, because he looked up slightly startled. And then I saw the glasses on his face, amber colored and wire rimmed, sliding down his nose as he slowly lifted his head. But it was the shaggy eyebrows that stunned me, still thick and cryptic, more contrasting than before. My heart began pounding uncontrollably, and I touched my chest as if to keep it from pushing through my blouse.

  Our eyes met and we both smiled as we walked simultaneously toward each other and hugged, like old friends, my arm around his neck, his around my back. Unable to resist, I reached up and touched the back of his head.

  Adam. His name was on the tip of my tongue, but what came out of my mouth was, “Your hair.” I thought of Eli when he had chopped off his tresses.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, just as awestruck.

  “My son’s with his therapist. Then he’s got physical therapy, for his leg. You know, because of the shooting.”

  “Right. I remember. Eli. I was so sorry to hear about Tony.”

  I didn’t reply, just slightly nodded, not wanting to talk about it. Contrary to what everyone said, talking about my pain didn’t make it easier. I was tired of saying “thanks,” which seemed an inappropriate response to condolences. I knew it was proper etiquette, but decorum was not on my priority list.

  “How’s Eli doing?”

  “Much better. He had a rough time for a while, but he’s going back to school in the fall.”

  “To ISU?”

  “No, no. He’s transferring to North Carolina. That’s where he … my sons were born there and we still have family there. The change will be better for him.”

  “So you’re going to be all alone?”

  “I still have King.”

  “Ah, yes. The beast.”

  “Hey, don’t talk about my baby,” I said, smiling.

  “Baby?” He smiled, and then his face turned serious. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing good, considering. How about you? I heard about the cancer coming back.”

  “Yeah. My hair wasn’t so lucky this time.” He ran his hand over the circumference of his head, pulling off the bandana. His scalp was smooth, a lighter shade of butterscotch. There was now a bump at the bridge of his nose that gave him a Roman or Aztec look, and I recalled the day his ex-brother-in-law had broken it. It still looked painful, but it suited him, complemented his new haggard look.

  “You coming or going?” I asked.

  He glanced up at the numbers flashing higher and higher. “I was supposed to get off on the second floor. To the parking lot. I was kind of out of it when I got on.”

  Then I remembered that the last time I had been with him on an elevator, I couldn’t even look at him. “I’m going up to the sun deck. Want to come?”

  He nodded as he tied the bandana back on his head. We reached the twentieth floor, the sun deck, where I had come many times in an attempt to reconnect with God. It was too warm, a little stuffy, but the sun filled the enclosed deck with glorious light. At the end of the deck, a man sat facing a woman in a wheelchair, the woman’s head bent back in laughter. When she brought her head back up, I could see how thin and frail she was, a White Sox baseball cap turned backward on her hairless head. Adam waved at them, and I surmised that she was a cancer patient.

  I searched my purse for change to put in the coffee-vending machine, but he reached into his pocket and brought out two quarters.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He bought a bottle of water and we sat down in the lounge chairs facing east, where we could see the Chicago skyline and Lake Michigan very clearly. I started thinking about Montrose Harbor, about the last time I had been there, when I had my catharsis, and the time before that, when I had been there with Adam.

  He tapped my hand. “So, how are you, really?”

  I shook my head slowly “It’s been hard since, you know … But I’m dealing.” My eyes swelled with tears and I bit my top lip to keep them from spilling, turned away from him so he couldn’t see. It had been five months and I still could not say “Tony” without getting a lump in my throat, still could not look at his photos without getting weepy. Recently, at another college fair, a potential college student introduced himself as “Tony.” Instinctively, I replied, “That was my son’s name,” before bursting into tears. I didn’t know if it was just hearing the name or because I had used the past tense in referring to him.

  “You’ve lost weight,” Adam commented.

  “So have you.”

  “Grief and disease, guaranteed diet plans,” he remarked.

  We drank our respective beverages quietly, both of us periodically glancing at the couple talking and laughing.

  “Did you get my package?” he then asked.

  “I did. Thanks.”

  “Did you recognize the passage? The last verse in Proverbs; a virtuous woman.”

  I nodded, and sipped my coffee quietly. It was horrible watered-down coffee, but I drank it anyway. It kept my hands and mouth busy.

  “So, did you like the CD?” he prodded.

  “Yes. It was all very thoughtful. Thanks.” Sometimes I played it, to test myself, to remind myself of the superficial things on which I had placed so much value instead of remembering the important things in life, like keeping God first.

  I decided to change the subject before he went down memory lane. “Hey, I heard your screenplay was being opted for a cable movie.”

  “Yeah. I met this agent at the hospital, of all places. His brother was in for chemo. So we’re in negotiations.”

  “Congratulations. I’m happy for you. Did you finally settle on a title?”

  “In the Absence of Fathers.” He said it like a movie preview announcer.

  “I like it.”

  “Why are you changing the subject?”

  Caught, I didn’t reply. I brought the coffee cup to my mouth, but I didn’t drink, just used it as a prop to hide part of my face.

  “What about you? What have you been working on?” he then asked.

  “I wrote a series on school shootings and gun control for Diaspora. I didn’t think I could ever write about it, but it just came out.”

  “I read them,” he said, and I tried to keep from looking pleased. “My mom’s a subscriber. I thought they were very … powerful. That part about you feeling Tony’s spirit leaving his body, it was … deep.”

  I had been glancing back and forth, from him to the couple whose faces were so close to each other that any minute I thought they’d merge into one another. It was hard to keep my eyes fixed on Adam, the paleness of his skin, his gaunt face naked without the massive mane. He was a ghost of the old Adam. He was still handsome, his facial structure more defined and rugged. But the change was more than physical; there was something else, something deeper. I knew he was probably wrestling with his own demons, but I wasn’t ready to share battle wounds, not yet, so I didn’t pry. We continued to drink silently.

  “I did sort of the same thing, with my screen writing,” he continued. “I found myself transferring the cancer onto my main character and it helped a lot.”

  “They’ve made me their staff education writer. Diaspora” I added, aware that we were now talking at each other rather than to each other. Turning my attention to the couple, I saw the man kneeling in front of the woman and palming her skeletal face tenderly in his hands like she was glass. He was speaking and even though I couldn’t hear what was being said, the amorous way she l
ooked at him told me she was captivated by his words. I used to say that what I missed most about men was kissing. But now I realized what I missed most was the way Adam had held my face the same way, looked into my eyes. Until then I hadn’t realized how much I missed his voice, his eyes, his smile, and his laugh.

  “That’s great,” I heard Adam say. Then I heard him shift in his chair. I could feel his eyes on me as I pretended to be mesmerized by the blueness of the sky. “Eva … Mirame.”

  I turned to face him and tried to make eye contact. “Very good,” I praised him, adding a smile to cover up for my discomfort. “You’re still not rolling your ‘r’—”

  “I know I’m not as cute as I used to be,” he interrupted, then smiled. “But I’m still me.”

  “You’re still cute,” I teased. Then I realized that he might construe the comment as flirtatious, and again I changed the subject. “How’s your treatment going?”

  “I’m finished with chemo. I’m getting my strength back. I just came in for some tests today. Now I have to have this surgery and then hopefully, I’ll be cured.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I pray to God that I am.” My eyebrows shot up before I could stop them and he chuckled. “Yes, I’m a praying man again.”

  “Well, praise God,” I said automatically, happy for him. Now I knew what I had sensed—his changed spirit.

  “All the time.” He was smiling broadly, almost proudly, waiting for me to question him, and when I didn’t, he filled me in. “I got saved. Again. Baptized in the Holy Spirit and water, joined the church, the whole enchilada.”

  This time, I had to smile. “You need to stop with the ethnic epithets.”

  “What?” he said innocently, still smiling.

  “So when did this happen? Where?” I asked, intrigued.

  “Technically at the lakefront, about a month ago. Officially, on March 10. At TCCC.”

  “TCCC? You got baptized at my church?”

  “I didn’t know it was your church,” he said, amused.

  “How come I haven’t seen you?”

  “You know I’m an early bird. I go to the eight o’clock service.”

  I attended the eleven o’clock service, so that explained why we never bumped into each other. But why would he join my church and not his mother’s?

  “I figured I pass by it all the time,” he said, as if he read my mind. “It’s closer than my mama’s church on Eighty-ninth.” Then he got serious. “What about you? Are you still a praying woman?”

  I finished my coffee and set the cup on the table between us. Folding my hands in my lap, I leaned back and looked out the windows. The truth was that since my breakthrough at the lakefront, my faith had gone on mechanical mode. I was still going to church regularly, “religiously,” but I wasn’t there. My prayers were becoming perfunctory, my singing dispassionate; worse, I wasn’t feeling God. I remembered the very first night Adam walked me to my car, how I had thought I’d dread the day the Lord would test me and I would stop believing, and prayed that day would never come. But I hadn’t stopped believing, not really, and I tried to convince myself of this every day as I became more apathetic. I kept telling myself it was only temporary, but my lackadaisical attitude was beginning to frighten me.

  “I still pray,” I finally replied briefly.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw him lean forward and reach out; for some reason I flinched, not significantly, but enough so that it was obvious. I could only envision his face because I didn’t look at him.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not contagious,” he said.

  I glanced at him, slightly offended at his suggestion. “I know that. I’ve just been very jumpy lately.”

  “You still having those migraines?”

  “Not as bad, not as often. Just every once in a while.”

  “Jade said she saw you in Target a couple of weeks ago,” he said.

  I knew that was coming. I had seen the children first, at the end of the health and beauty aisle; Daelen sitting in the front basket of the shopping cart, and Kia inside the cart, surrounded by dishwashing liquid, toothpaste, and other sundries.

  “Hi, Kia. Hi, Daelen.”

  They stared at me with their identical almond-shaped eyes, bluntly and warily, as only children could look at strangers and get away with it. Of course, they didn’t remember me since it had been months since I last saw them.

  “Hello, Eva.” I looked up to see Jade peek around the end of the aisle, eyeing me coldly.

  “Hi, Jade. How’re you?”

  “Fine,” she said, curtly. “You?”

  “Good.” I reached over to squeeze one of Daelen’s cheeks because they were so irresistibly plump and because they reminded me of my own sons’ cheeks when they were little. But the look on Jade’s face stopped me, the look of a lioness protecting her cubs. Instead I said, “I used to put my sons in the cart the same way, one in the front, one in the back.”

  “Oh,” she cried out, her face, tone, and demeanor suddenly changing. “I heard … I’m sorry about your sons. How are you holding up?”

  “Okay. Taking it one day at a time.” I hated that people felt they needed to treat me with special care because of Tony, but I was beginning to accept the fact that his death would forever be a part of my identity.

  “I don’t know if you know, but Adam’s sick,” she then said. “The cancer came back.”

  Part of me thought the reason he hadn’t called was because he had finally realized I wasn’t worth it, that I was a waste of time and we were better off apart, not as friends, but as two people who had departed as was expected with certain relationships, the kind that could bump into each other later down the road and let bygones be bygones. But part of me still thought that perhaps something had happened to prevent him from calling. Something bad. Ever since Maya had broken her ties with Luciano, I hadn’t heard anything about him or Adam.

  “I was going to stop by …” I started. “I was going to call …” It was the truth, but it still sounded weak and pathetic, inadequate.

  “Why didn’t you?” he asked quietly, and I sensed an edge to his voice. He took a long swallow from his water bottle.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  I looked out past the buildings outlining the cloudless sky, at the water so clear and blue, so perfect and so blissful.

  “I don’t know,” I said again. “I just thought it’d be easier if we left things as they were.”

  “Unresolved?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” He finished the rest of his water and sat back.

  “No,” I then said. “It’s not okay. When Jade told me you were sick, I didn’t think I could handle it. Seeing you sick after watching my son … Tony never regained consciousness. I didn’t just lose my son, I lost a part of my life. He had always been the man of the house, my helper, my strength.”

  “I know. The first time I saw him, I saw how protective he was of you.”

  “I needed someone to lean on; I was in no condition to offer you support.”

  “We could’ve leaned on each other,” he suggested. Then he quickly added, “But I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “I watched my father die, remember? It’s a hard thing to watch.” He paused and sighed. “I finally went to the cemetery last month.”

  “You did? How was it?”

  “I went there with all these preconceptions, about what I wasn’t going to do, what I wasn’t going to feel. But I broke down. I guess the cancer has thrown my emotions out of whack.”

  “Why, because you don’t usually cry?”

  “No, I don’t,” he protested a little too adamantly.

  I smiled.

  “Well, I haven’t cried in a long, long, long time,” he admitted, cracking a smile.

  “I used to cry every day. Now I’m down to once a week.”

  He sat up again, sideways in the chair, and waited until I looked at him. He reached ove
r and unhooked my hands from their habitual position, and pulled me upright, facing him, our knees bumping. His touch was warm and familiar, but still I felt I should pull away before it was too late. I looked into his eyes and tried to determine if lurking in his mind was some veiled attempt to bring up the past. Don’t go there, please, I thought. But he looked tired and sad, not at all roused by our closeness.

  “Are you still boxing?” he asked.

  “Yes, why?”

  “Hands are getting kind of rough there,” he teased, causing me to laugh. He inspected my fingers closely. “Still biting your nails too, I see.”

  “Shut up.” I tried to pull my hands away but he tightened his grip.

  “Do you want me to pray for you?” he asked quietly.

  “What for?” I replied without thinking, and immediately regretted it. When someone wants to pray for you, you shouldn’t question it.

  But he didn’t flinch. “For your peace of mind. To ease your pain. And Eli’s.”

  A lump formed in my throat as I nodded with contrition and closed my eyes. He recited the King James version of Psalm 23 in a subdued voice. I had always thought it was one of the simplest psalms, but as Adam spoke the words, I began to visualize myself lying in a pasture beside a still river, my head being anointed with oil. When he was finished, I felt him slide his left hand into mine and interlock our fingers like we were about to wrestle. I kept my eyes closed.

  “Think a brothah can call you every once in a while? Or maybe a sistah can call a brothah? Or we can e-mail, whatever.”

  His request seemed casual, like it didn’t matter to him one way or another whether we kept in contact. What I had expected him to say was that he wanted to pick up where we left off, to try again now that he was the man I had prayed for: a man of God. I didn’t trust myself to respond. Grief had triggered an erosion of my strong woman persona, a sapping of my hard-core strength.