Cara, still in her baseball team shirt, sat up and let herself fall to the floor, pulled on a pair of baggy shorts and walked to the window. Squinting, she peaked through the blinds and noticed that Mom’s car was not there yet. She quietly went into Alex’s room, and saw that he was still sleeping, the sheets on the floor, his limbs spread like he had jumped out of a plane and was falling to earth.
Cara looked into her parents’ room, but there was no one there; so she tiptoed out into the living room. Octavio was lying on the couch also skydiving with one arm by his side and the other hanging to the floor. She tried not to make a sound, but Octavio opened his eyes, turned his head toward her and scanned the room.
“Hey pumpkin,” Octavio said in a tired voice.
“Hey Daddy,” she said walking towards him, her hands reaching out for a hug.
He sat up and held her. “Mommy will be here any moment—want to help me make breakfast?”
“Yes!”
“Have I ever told you that you’re the most wonderful little girl in the whole wide world? Cara, one day you’ll marry a prince—a perfect man—just like your father.” Octavio and Cara both giggled, looking into each other’s eyes.
“Actually, he doesn’t have to be perfect. You know your Mom and I are like beauty and the beast? Mom is like the beautiful Belle and I’m the hideous beast. I asked her over and over to marry me, but she wouldn’t do it. So I died of sadness.”
“Na-uhh! You didn’t die.” Cara smiled.
“She saw me and cried and her tear fell on me and turned me into a prince—she brought me back to life.”
They had only managed to get the eggs and some other ingredients out of the refrigerator when they heard the closing of a car door.
“Mommy’s home!” Cara said and ran out the door. Adriana, a garden of beauty, provided Cara’s eyes, hair and slender frame. She grabbed Cara by the arms and swung her until she came to rest with her legs around her nursing scrubs.
“How was the game last night?”
“We won.”
“That’s greatHijita. I wish I could’ve come. I work all night and you have fun—that’s not fair,” Adriana laughed.
“Why do you have to work?”
“That’s just how life is—work is good—I get to help people.”
“We were about to make breakfast for you.”
The two walked into the house. Octavio and Adriana exchanged Mi Vida’s and Mi Amor’s and kissed. A smiling Alex came put-putting out into the living room, the coy squint of his eyes exaggerated for sympathy and cuteness.
...
After breakfast, Octavio and Adriana were alone at the table drinking decaf. Cara and Alex could be heard giggling in another room. Adriana reached into her pocket, took out the paper sign and unfolded it.
“Miracle in progress,” Octavio said. “Yeah, you told me about that. What happened?”
Adriana looked down and shook her head.
“So the patient died,” Octavio whispered.
“Tavi, it was the most depressing thing—these people were so positive—the most positive people I’ve ever seen. Shows you how far being positive will get you—really depressing—you almost lose your ability to hope for anything.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without hope. Remember when you got pregnant at sixteen? It seemed like the end of all your dreams, but everything worked out—things work out somehow.”
“When Cara turns sixteen, you better believe she’s gonna be on birth control.”
“Adriana—My God—do we have to think about that kinda stuff already?”
“I’m serious, Tavi. Life shouldn’t be so hard. I’m working my butt off at night and you’re on the other side of the world getting shot at. And I’m starting to wonder if you’ve even thought about everything I’ve been telling you. We’re in serious trouble, Tavi—and you seem clueless.”
...
Cara sat on the doorsteps of the house next-door with her friend Michelle who was a couple of years older. Both had their chins on their knees looking down at ants that crawled along the grout on the tiled steps. Cara imagined the ants heading toward some underground metropolis of silent drama.
“Did you hear about Sheryl Janzovich?” Michelle asked.
“No.”
“My parents said she tried to commit suicide.”
Michelle could tell by the look on her face that Cara hadn’t understood what she said. “She tried to kill herself!”
Cara’s face went from a blank stare to a morbid amazement, her mouth open, not knowing what to say.
“She was texting her boyfriend and sent him dirty pictures, and then they broke up and he began sending the pictures to all the boys at school—”
“Dirty?” Cara didn’t understand what that meant.
“She had no clothes on!”
“Ohhh.”
“So they all started calling her a slut and teasing her—that’s why she cut her wrists.”
Cara also didn’t know whatslutmeant, but knew that it must have been a bad thing. If she had been so wrong aboutdirty, then what could slut mean? She pictured Sheryl Janzovich in her mind, associating her face with the terrible word.
Cara and Michelle heard soft thuds and got up and walked towards the source of the sound. Matt, her other next-door neighbor, was out in the front yard juggling a soccer ball with his legs, wearing a white shirt that said FREE HUGS in large bold letters. He was listening to his MP3 player, his attention fixed on the ball. Cara and Michelle both ran to see him.
“Hey Matt!” Michelle said.
“Hi Matt!” Cara said.
Matt pulled out his ear buds and asked, “Hey—think you can do this?” He stopped and let the ball fall to the grass.
Michelle picked up the ball and bounced it on her foot, which made the ball roll away from her.
“Try using the shoelace part of your foot,” Matt suggested.
Michelle tried it again, but was unable to start a juggle.
“Michelle—come here!” a voice in the distance shouted.
“That’s my mom—gotta go,” Michelle said and ran home.
“Want to try, Cara?” Matt said.
Cara was barefoot. She thought about where the laces would be on her foot and arched her toes to scoop the ball out of the grass. It popped straight up and she kneed it even higher. Matt snatched it out of the air, the ball having moved out of her reach.
“Whoa—that was really good! —try not to use your knees, just the thighs.”
Cara was giddy and could not stop smiling. She was with Matt. So many times she had seen him out of her bedroom window. A teenager. It was a little scary, especially after the story Michelle had just told. She wondered if Matt could ever cause a girl to kill herself—if he could ever do something that bad. Matt bounced the ball on the top of his foot and then to his thighs to demonstrate. Cara looked up past the juggling to his face. The bright sun set his straight light brown hair ablaze like a golden crown. She looked at the words FREE HUGS and wondered how she could get one.
Cara was glad that Matt wasn’t looking at her, that he wouldn’t be able to read her face—see into her heart. She was conscious of her mannerisms, her adoration.
“Want to try again?”
“Okay,” she said, startled, as if caught stealing.
Matt handed her the ball and she bounced it on her thigh very carefully holding her hands out to correct the trajectory. She heard screaming coming from her house. The ball fell to the ground. It took her a moment to realize that her parents were arguing. She thought she heard Adriana sayingI can’t live like thisand Octavio sayingwhat do you want from me?
Matt also noticed the screaming and said, “Hey—you wanna hear some really cool music?” He put his buds into her ears, which had been left on and screeching the whole time. Matt looked at her house with an expression of concern. Cara invaded Matt’s world of ferocious drum playing and thunderous guitars. She smiled and nodded her head to the snare. Matt gave her
his MP3 player and closed her hands around it.
For a few minutes Matt practiced his volleys and ground kicks into the bushes. Cara was unsure if she should take off the buds—if this would undermine Matt’s attempt to shield her from distressing sounds. A Kia pulled up on the driveway, and she decided that it might be a good time to remove the buds. The argument in her house had ended. A pretty blonde girl about Matt’s age got out of the car and walked toward him.
“Free hugs?” she said and jumped on Matt, tackling him to the ground and kissing him. Cara felt strange new emotions: jealousy and a desire to be older.
“Wanna go out and grab a bite?” the girl said.
“All right, let me tell my parents I’m gonna run out for a little bit.” Matt turned to Cara and said, “Hold on to my music for a while,” and went inside the house.
The girl walked up to Cara. “Hey bitch why don’t you go home—little slut!” A dull pain filled Cara’s being. She was too angry and humiliated to cry, but that was what her eyes were determined to do. She turned around to walk home and felt a shove in her back and fell to the ground. She quickly leaped to her feet and ran home, refusing to let her oppressor see her tears.
Cara was about to open the door to her house when she heard more screaming. It was Adriana’s anguished howling that seemed to give words to her own emotions, only the words made no sense, something about theadjustable rate mortgage—and then the critical stabs: You can’t even remember that you had a doctor’s appointment today...you can’t remember anything...we have bills to pay... none of these greedy companies care that you’re fighting for this country. Octavio I love you, but this is unbearable—no lo puedo soportar.
Cara didn’t want to go in the house, but needed a sanctuary. She kept her head down, not knowing if she had been seen entering and moved cautiously toward the feet of her parents. “I just wanted to say that I love you both very much. I just wanted to say that you’re the best Mommy and Papi in the whole world. And I know how hard you must work to take care of me and Alejandro. I just wanted to say that.”
...
Later that evening as it was getting dark, Octavio sat in his car, hardly able to lift his head. Adriana leaned against the car, clinging to his arm, reading his face with her palm. Her eyes felt warm and tired from the waves of tears that had poured out like dew on the yard.
Adriana spoke as if having to slaughter her prized lamb. “Baby—we should probably do this—honey. We have to do something to save our marriage. This isn’t a marriage—Tavi. We’re not intimate—we just fight. If this is marriage—then why be married?”
Octavio, unashamed to let Adriana see him cry, reacted with words that he could not anticipate. “I don’t want us to separate—I don’t want us to separate—please—please—this can’t happen—Oh God—oh God.”
“Baby—baby—I love you—it’s only to give us a chance. Sometimes at the hospital we have to do some drastic things to save people’s lives.”
Octavio took a deep breath and stared at some invisible and somber point of realization in front of him.
“I’m gonna try and get better. But if anything should happen—please promise me that you’ll never be bitter. Please don’t ever throw away our wedding pictures. You looked so beautiful in those pictures.”
“I won’t throw anything away, Octavio.”
Adriana wept as she kissed Octavio’s head. “I’m so sorry. Let’s do it for Alex and Cara. You get better—come by as much as you want. Just please get better Tavi. You know how much I love you. I need you to get better.”
Cara, once again, looked out the window at her father’s car. Adriana’s presence comforted her—it offered hope that perhaps her father’s needs were being tended to. She was just a girl—what could she possibly know about solving problems she couldn’t even understand? Things seemed simple enough. You love someone and you find ways to express that love. If Daddy was in a bad mood—then why not let him be in a bad mood? Yet there was much more. She knew this—life was a bit more complicated.
Cara heard the words echo back and forth,I love you. The car made a treacherous sound, the lights illuminating the night with bluish halogen as it rolled into the street.
The raft’s bobbing seemed tamed after the last band of showers. The men’s hands were swollen from their clinging, some surprised they hadn’t fallen into the ocean. One man interrupted the storyteller as if the details were more important than life.
She leaves him? The man is shell-shocked from war, and she leaves him?
He is corrected by another man.
She is asking for a separation, it’s not the same.
It might as well be.
The largest and strongest of the men gently scoffs by exhaling.
Let him tell his story. It will preserve our sanity. But make no mistake, there is much more to the telling of a story. We are all storytellers. We have a dark side within ourselves. We create tremendous dramas. Our emotions create thoughts and our thoughts create more emotions. So it seems to be the end of a marriage. Life goes on for them.
No—the storyteller says—Life doesn’t just go on. A man must survive his injuries.
Chapter Three
The summer Cara turned nineteen, the days had become cold and gray. Even as the South Florida temperatures soared, bleaching the roads and causing the skies to explode into heavy downpours—too much had happened for life to feel like a season of warmth. First there had been the foreclosure and eventually the divorce. Octavio was redeployed to Afghanistan and every time he returned, he was less the father, fading into a secret life of angst and emotional pain.
For a time after the foreclosure, Adriana knew homelessness, living with Cara and Alex in her car during the day, and at night inside a friend’s garage. It was only for a short time, but it broke her spirit. She never told Octavio, who had been on a tour at the time, but, in time, put together enough money to move to an apartment in Hallandale.
Alex had grown into an overweight young man, not as tall as his father, his glasses adding to his awkwardness and slight but detectable self-conscious bearing. Cara, slim and lovely, did everything she could not to stand out or reveal any splendor, dressing in grungy clothes, wearing her hair in a bun most of the time. She had hated high school so much that she only wanted it to be over, and when she graduated wanted no further education.
Adriana hid bottles of liquor in her bedroom, which she craved when she got home from work, deluding herself with notions about calculated drinking and stopping before it became a problem. Her drinking had started after she had married a man named Luciano, who entered her life like an aggressive salesman, promising an end to loneliness.
Luciano had worked for the hospital as an orderly when Adriana met him. Every night she would care for patients, and Luciano wouldn’t be far behind making beds and changing linens. Alex and Cara did not like Luciano. Even Adriana did not like him.
Aside from being a Cuban American, Luciano was a strange creature she had nothing in common with. During the wedding, Adriana’s skin broke out and her allergies assaulted her. She would regret not listening to her body screaming in protest. It was a miserable day, and she thought that when it ended she would feel better.
Luciano was a failed pinch hitter in his thirties still in the Class-A minor leagues. Although he spent much time weight training to improve his upper body strength, he only succeeded in becoming a large man with a substantial potbelly. His use of sports supplements made him irritable. He had unruly hair, gray at the sideburns, absurdly heavy stubble and a hairy neck. His eyes were puffy and swollen, which would have been his dominant feature if it weren’t for the large bushy mustache that made him look like a spaghetti western villain.
Most evenings, Luciano was absent, frequenting nightclubs and strip bars with younger baseball players. When he lost his job at the hospital, he became a terror—spending more time at home and becoming emotionally abusive. Alex and Cara avoided him, but any attempts not to speak to him wou
ld result in interrogations and more hostility. Adriana lost her nerve to argue with him; never sure of what he was capable of.
In the midst of her miserable family life, it was Adriana’s volunteer work at the VA that provided moments of joy and a sense of purpose. It allowed her to avoid the possibility of having to spend time with Luciano, and it was also a form of penance. Her failed marriage to a soldier had left her with guilt and regrets she could not utter. The separation had done the opposite of what had been intended—Octavio became more immersed in his waking dream and all but forgot his family.
Adriana was entering the VA hospital one day. As her eyes adjusted from sunlight, she saw a hand-cycle cruising down the hallway.
“Hey—look—I got it—it came in at last!” said a young soldier about Cara’s age wearing a leg prosthetic.
“Nice trike! Have you been outside yet?” Adriana said.
“No—not yet.”
“Let’s go!”
Adriana, with the help of another person entering the building, held the double doors open—allowing the hand powered recumbent trike access to the bright warm day. After watching the young soldier ride back and forth down the sidewalk several times, they both found shade under a tree. Adriana sat down to engage the soldier in the type of conversation she always hoped would help her better understand her former husband.
“Nice hand cycle. How’s the leg?”
“This leg’s much better—the battery lasts a lot longer.”
The soldier almost seemed too young to have served his country. A rocket-propelled grenade had hit his vehicle in an ambush in Afghanistan, forever changing how the world would look, taste, smell, sound and feel. He still needed a bone graft, about two more surgeries and some implants for missing teeth. He was fortunate; the facial scars weren’t too bad and only needed minor plastic surgery.
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