Diego smiled. “Why are you all by yourself, Cara?”
Cara took a moment to look at the bookcase, making small nodding movements to relieve frustration. “Between you and Dad, you’ve set my standards for men very high. A good—decent man—that’s all I want. And he doesn’t have to be like you, Mr. successful yet sensitive man-of-the-world—just good and decent.”
“Thanks—you’re very kind.”
Cara raised her voice in anger. “Priscilla’s been waiting on this one guy for years. He travels and has girlfriends all over the world. He’s just using her. I spoke to her today, and she said she’s gonna see him again. I think it’s just so she can forget about you—I think you hurt her.”
“It just doesn’t make any sense—a beautiful woman—the best she can do is an old guy like me?”
“You’re not that old.”
“How old is Priscilla?”
“Twenty eight.”
“Cara, I don’t want to go somewhere and have people assume that she’s my daughter.”
“If you both love each other, who cares?”
“I prefer someone old and grumpy like me. Besides, older women are more beautiful on the inside—look, there’s someone else in my life.”
“Who?”
“Someone special. She wants to meet you. I work with her—she has some personal problems, but maybe one day—when everything is better.”
Cara thought for a moment and smiled. “We’re the same, Tio—we really are related. We both want what we can’t have.”
Diego raised an eyebrow. “Tell me about your guy.”
“His name is Matt. I’ve loved him my entire life. Now that he’s available, I’m gonna try and find the right time and place to accidentally bump into him.” Cara smiled when she heard herself.
“Sounds like a plan,” Diego laughed.
“He’s going off to law school in the fall, so I only have this small window of opportunity.”
“Is he a good guy?”
“I think so.”
“Don’t wait too long.”
“I know.”
“Don’t get hurt.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Cara, you know I care very much about you. Not only do I not want you getting your heart kicked around, I care very much about your future. I want you to go to the school and show Ling your drawing book. She’s been teaching for a long time—she knows how to help students with their careers. I’m going to give you her number. Call her and make an appointment to see her—just don’t bring up the subject of me.”
“I’ve been thinking about what you’ve said about college.”
“Good girl. I knew you’d come around.”
“So tell me—what is she like?”
“Well, I have to warn you—right now, since she’s going through some stuff—she doesn’t seem like a very friendly person. She can be irritable and nasty.”
“Wonderful,” Cara said sarcastically.
“Her name is Ling Woo—the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“More beautiful than the actress in the picture?”
“Yes—I think so. She’s the other half of me. We feel and think exactly the same about so many things. The only difference between us are the wounds—the scars—the emotional injuries.
“You really do love her.”
“Don’t tell her anything I said—Okay? She’s got some serious problems right now. You don’t want to make her mad—understand?”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
“All right—I’ll go talk to her and show her my drawings. I won’t say anything to make her blow up at me.”
“Good—I hope you like her. I hope you can see what others can’t—a very special person.”
“Well it’s about time you got a life.” Cara laughed.
“Very funny.”
“Tio, I think a lot about you—what you might have been like when you were my age. Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Did you have a wild and crazy youth?”
“I was your typical teenager. I went to a lot of concerts.”
“Who did you see?”
“Everyone.”
“Everyone?”
“Yeah, Stones, Floyd, Springsteen, everyone. So what kind of music do you like?”
“Actually, I like some of the same kind of stuff you do—I like all those t-shirts you wear.”
“Tell me if you like these guys—”
Diego typed the name of a band into a text field, selected a media file and turned up the speakers. He turned the screen so that Cara could see the video. There was a silhouette of a man on a stage shaking a tambourine, jumping with excitement. Cara smiled when she recognized the sound of the electric keyboard repeating a sequence of spacey marimba tones. As the lights faded on, a man with a black guitar was hitting the tambourine with his fist and manically bouncing to the drums.
“Keep your eye on the guitar player. Do you see how alive he is? He loves his life. There’s no other place he would rather be, nothing else in the whole world he would rather be doing at this moment.”
“Maybe he’s on drugs.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he’s high on life. Okay, watch this. He’s about to deliver his first power chord.”
The guitarist throws away his tambourine and swings his arms over the strings. He looks up at the heavens with lips apart as if experiencing religious ecstasy.
“Cara, love your life. Love every moment. The earth is filled with God’s glory—everything that is good is from above. Did you know that listening to music is a spiritual experience?”
“Yeah, I think I knew that.”
“Good. I’m glad I’m not imagining things. Speaking of imaginary, I can play air guitar better than you.”
“No you can’t!”
Alex heard the music and walked in the room to witness fierce strumming and jubilance. He sat down, bashing imaginary drums.
...
Alfred didn’t open for business until after two on Sundays. He was proud that his restaurant had become a church for a few hours in the morning. The décor consisted of brilliant yellow walls with high orange wainscoting and small spherical lights that hung from a black ceiling. The group liked to sit at the shiny metallic green tables by the window facing the street. There were only eight in the group that day—discussing the mysteries of life—as if they were stranded at sea and could somehow aid in their own rescue.
Diego, the guest of honor, was seated at one end of the three tables that had been arranged into a row. The small talk consisted of the ninety-eight degree heat in Miami, which, coupled with the high humidity, oppressed the people who wanted to revolt against nature and the elements. The topic of organized religion was brought up when the group asked Diego to introduce himself.
“My name is Diego. I used to be a tech guy, but now I teach art. My fifteen year old nephew told me about all this—unorganized church stuff, but I have a lot of questions. I used to be very active in my church, my big organized church.”
The group laughed. A man in his early thirties with long blonde hair coiled into dreadlocks cackled the loudest. “It’s all right. We won’t hold that against you.”
Diego smiled. “With the exception of one or two of you, I’m much older than you guys—so I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”
“No—no—” said some in the group.
Alfred, the restaurant owner, sat at the far end of the tables. Diego couldn’t tell if he was Latino or Middle Eastern. Alfred seemed almost brotherly when he shouted. “I had to threaten these guys to let me join the group!”
A woman in her twenties, the only female in the group snickered. “He’s not kidding. I’m Karen, by the way.”
There was a tall and lanky man in his late thirties wearing glasses that looked like swimming goggles. He cleared his throat to speak. “Diego, welcome to our group. My name is Belarenus. First of
all, there’s no one leading this group—in case you’re wondering. We’re not trying to set up any kind of hierarchy where some people are more important than other people. That’s what we mean by not being organized. We might consider ourselves teachers and leaders, but only in spirit. We’re not a cult—we don’t all think the same here. My friend Alfred has completely different political views than I do, for instance.”
Alfred sighed. “We are diametrically opposed in every conceivable way.”
“See, we’re not a cult. So what do we believe? That depends on who you ask. See what you get with unorganized religion?”
Diego smiled.
“All right, basically many of us’ve had bad experiences. There’re a lot of good churches out there—I suppose—but I guess we’re still recovering from the bad kind—you know, corrupt, manipulative, all that fun stuff.”
“Things usually start off nice,” Alfred said. “Until the guy with all the organizational skills comes and organizes the spirit of God right out of everything and turns the whole thing into an institution.”
Alfred rubbed his balding head, pushed back his seat and said, “Diego, if you have anything you need to talk about, we’d be glad to listen.”
“Well—my brother-in-law is fighting in Afghanistan. Please pray for him. His kids are staying with me—they seem to be doing well. Their mother—my sister—is in rehab. And someone who I care about is severely depressed. Oh, and I rejected a very beautiful woman.”
“Dude!” Tom laughed.
“But right now all I can think about is my friend with depression—I guess I’m in love with her.”
“O-ohh,” moaned the group.
“Don’t you think that’s kind of dangerous for you to be involved with someone who’s unstable?” Karen asked.
Diego smiled, “I already told her that I would wait for her to get better.”
Belarenus adjusted his glasses and gazed at Diego sadly. “Is it a medical condition?”
“I don’t know.”
“It must be terrible what she’s going through. There are all kinds of things that are helpful—meditation, cognitive behavioral therapy—contemplative prayer. I’ve known a lot of Catholic contemplatives—good people. None of these things work for everyone, but why not exhaust every possible remedy?”
“Amen,” Tom said.
“When Mother Teresa opened a home for the dying in Calcutta, the nuns gave water from the Ganges to the Hindus and read the Qur'an to the Muslims. They understood love to the point of sacrificing their Christian pride so that love would be best served. And that’s the question we should always ask ourselves before we say or do anything. How is love going to be best served?”
Diego nodded.
“So is your friend getting help?”
“Yeah, she’s doing everything she can to get better.”
“Good. I hope things work out for you one day. You’ve already made your decision—so we need to support you. If you were a ninety-pound girl going out with some big guy who likes to beat up women, that would be one thing, but you look like you can take care of yourself. But please, do wait until she gets better. Unless both of you are positive-happy people, it’ll never work. If you can’t be happy by yourself, you’ll never be happy in a relationship.”
Karen beamed as she rested the side of her head against her hand. “It’s very romantic that you would love someone, despite her problems. It must be a pretty severe depression—you would think that it would be hard to be sad, knowing that someone is in love with you.”
Diego also rested his chin on his hands. “It’s terrible what she’s going through. I feel so bad for her. And she’s actually quite normal. I’ve met truly neurotic people before—people with serious issues—always complaining, accusing people of things, convinced the world is out to get them—childish and selfish. No—she’s not like that—she’s just feeling very sick, and her medications aren’t helping—they make her feel worse. I don’t understand why bad things have to happen to good people.”
Belarenus looked at Diego sadly. “I don’t think anyone knows the answer to that. So, I guess she’s beautiful then?” Belarenus smiled mischievously.
Diego laughed. “More beautiful than anything in heaven or earth.”
Chapter Twenty Three
For Cara and Alex, the much anticipated moment had arrived, a Skype session with their father. It was the middle of the night, and yet their excitement made it seem like morning. Octavio’s smile caused their eyes to become watery.
“Hey guys,” Octavio said.
“Hey Dad.”
“How’s life with Tio Diego?”
“He’s awesome. Life is really good.”
“I’m so glad to hear that.”
“When are you coming home, Dad?” Alex asked.
“Maybe by the end of the year.”
“Is it okay over there?”
“You don’t want to know,” Octavio laughed. “But you know that I’m the toughest person here. Nothing is going to happen to me.”
“I’ll never be as brave as you,” Alex said.
“We’re made of the same stuff, Alejandro. Remember, you clobbered Luciano over the head with a chair. You took down a giant. Believe in yourself. Always ignore the voice in your head. I’m only starting to realize that myself. We’ll talk more some day.”
“I miss you so much,” Cara said.
“I miss you guys more than you’ll ever know…”
…
Diego’s steps were quickening as the treadmill sped up in the cardiologist’s office. He was shirtless and covered in electrodes, wearing a pair of jeans with a thick black belt around his waist—several wires becoming one cable that led to a laptop. Behind the computer cart was a young Asian woman monitoring the cardiac stress test. Diego thought about the possibility of the test results being skewed by the young woman’s presence. She reminded him of Priscilla, another beauty, young enough to be his daughter.
Diego found the pastel painting in front of the treadmill quite boring and chose instead to look at the nurse. “You use your left hand a lot more—are you a lefty?”
“Yes,” she said.
“So you must be very creative.”
“No, not really,” She smiled.
“I bet you have some hidden talent—you like to draw?”
“No—can’t draw.”
“You have musical talent?”
“No, I’m not the stereotypical Chinese girl that had to learn an instrument when I was growing up.”
“You write?”
“No—I’m terrible at writing,” she laughed.
“I got it—you have a genius for dance.”
“Nope—I’m really not good at anything.”
“But you’re left-handed—you’ve missed your calling somehow. Someone must’ve convinced you that you had no talent, and you believed the lie,” Diego smiled.
“I’m telling you—I have no talent. Okay, so what else—can you think of anything else?
Diego felt a surge of delight, knowing that his questions were welcomed—that the attention was flattering the beauty.
“Hmm—you’re an actor.”
“No—not an actor.”
“Do you know how to lie?”
She laughed. “Yes—I know how to lie.”
“Ah—then you’re an actor.”
“Maybe I am. You’ve been feeling all right?” she asked.
“Yeah—I feel pretty good. Got away from corporate hell.”
“What do you do now?”
“I teach art.”
“A-ah—so were you trying to discover new talent?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, I’m going to speed up the treadmill quite a bit—let’s see what kind of shape you’re in.”
Diego felt that he was about to be humbled—a lean and muscular middle-aged man—fit enough to be vain, yet being analyzed by a young attractive woman. This is where reality shatters all illusions, he thought, where self-es
teem vanishes. I deserve it—being so shallow—obsessed with physical beauty—why the strange obsessions with Asian women? What has Ling done to me? Why are women popping up everywhere to remind me of her? Just a lonely old guy—wanting what I can’t have—nature offering me alternatives—My heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest.
“You haven’t had any chest pain—have you?” she said.
“No,” Diego said almost too winded to speak.
“Okay—we’re going to slow it down—the test is almost over. How do you feel?”
“Well—you’re here—so I’m doing just splendidly.”
She smiled, not knowing how to respond.
Later, as he passed the receptionist to leave the office, Diego turned around, hoping to see the nurse again. Standing in the hallway, she smiled, her eyes following him out the office. He said goodbye, closed the door and walked through the waiting room and then out the main entrance into a bright and chilling sun. Maybe I should have told her that right hand—left hand doesn’t mean anything. That I just wanted to talk. Maybe I should have told her that I had a pain in my chest—that her beauty made my heart ache.
Chapter Twenty Four
There seemed to be no one in the art department by the time Cara had arrived. Behind the oval counter and the workstation desk, she noticed the hands of a woman in another room typing on a computer keyboard. Cara walked closer and leaned in front of the door. “I’m here to see Ling Woo.”
“She might be in the lounge—just walk down the hall and it’s on the left,” she said.
Cara quickly found Ling, sitting at a small table, using her handheld device. She was as beautiful as Diego had mentioned, but what he had said about her temperament made her hesitate. Her voice felt weak, like a tool she was unsure she could rely on. “Hi—Miss Woo?”
Cara was surprised to see her smile. It wasn’t a big smile, but enough to disarm her.
“You must be Cara.” Ling sprang up to shake her hand. Cara thought her hand felt cold and fragile. “Nice to meet you—a lot of beautiful people in your family.”
“Nice to meet you also,” Cara said.
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