Jesse collapsed in a heap. To no one now, she repeated, “I’m Isabel’s mother. I’m her mother. I’m her mother. I’m her mothe—”
Cesar blinked and watched Jesse start to cry again. At first, his face registered nothing but disgust. Slowly he surveyed the empty room. By the time he made it back around to look at his wife, he was almost the Cesar that Jesse met in New York. The Cesar that made his mother tea while she wept in a dark room. “I’ll take care of it.” He swallowed. “Of this. Come on. Get up.”
Jesse didn’t rise, but she raised her chin at the softer tone. Cesar averted his eyes in shame. He held out his hand. What choice did she have? Jesse slid her hand into his and stood. She put her head down as she followed him meekly out of the room.
At the door Cesar barked at the guards to back off. He ordered them to sit in the basement and do nothing, forbade them to call his father. Jesse wondered if they would obey.
Cesar led Jesse upstairs to her old bedroom. He sat her on the bed and drew a bath. Jesse didn’t move from wherever he led her. When he returned, she let him undress her and walk her to the tub. Jesse’s bones stuck out at every angle. When she slipped into the warm water, she let her head sink under. When Cesar had to pull her up for air, he had tears in his eyes.
Cesar washed her hair and wiped her face with a wet cloth. He wrapped her in a clean white towel and laid her on the bed while he picked out fresh clothes. Then, as Jesse watched listlessly, he packed a suitcase. When he put in Isabel’s favorite doll, Jesse’s heart began to beat again. Her mind realigned with the living. Jesse let out a strangled sob. Thank God. Thank God.
Cesar met her eyes.
“Thank you,” Jesse managed.
At her gratitude, Cesar’s face flooded with regret, like dark water breaking through a levee. He came and knelt before the bed, leveling his face with hers. “I am sorry, angelita.” A nickname from a million years ago. “I never—”
“Thought we’d end up like this?” Jesse said. The turn of the phrase struck Jesse as suddenly funny, absurd. She let out a strange, awkward laugh. She was out of practice.
Cesar didn’t laugh, he watched her—his wife, clean and shiny again, smiling that gleaming smile of hers. But everything about her seemed off-kilter, and he was like the museum director that spots the imposter Picasso the thieves left behind. But wasn’t he the thief? Cesar shook his head. It was too late to say anything more. Too late in too many thousands of ways. He would never be a good husband. He would never be a good father. He had done too many horrible things to ever be forgiven by God, let alone by himself. The only gift he could give his wife and daughter was a oneway ticket away from him and everything his family stood for. Everything he had become.
Cesar stood up and finished packing.
CHAPTER
22
JESSE EXHALED AND SAT FORWARD IN HER wooden chair on the porch. She slapped her two hands flat on the table, signaling that she was done. She gave a loud, unladylike sniff and puffed out her cheeks like Dizzy Gillespie. She turned to Isabel as she exhaled. “Cesar’s personal guard took me to the airport and waited in the parking lot. An hour later, you were in my arms. Hours and hours later we were in Texas. I was shell-shocked for a while. Lost. Scared. I worried something else would happen, but—no. That was the last gasp of power for Alfredo Guerra. Cesar was in charge now. Six months later, I received the divorce papers and a gigantic check in the mail. When an old friend called from D.C., we went to visit. I loved it so much, I decided to move and open my spa in the suburbs.”
Jesse stood up and gave an exaggerated stretch of her arms. A ripple of movement ran through the group. Jesse shimmied her shoulders and wiggled her butt. “Cha-cha-cha. And that is how the story goes.”
Arshan and Cornell laughed, mostly to release tension.
“Holy shit,” said Lynette.
Isabel lit another cigarette. She still hadn’t said anything.
Jesse spun around and pointed at me with both hands. “For two hundred points—what is the moral of the story? Tick-tock. Tick-tock—”
“That marriage sucks? Especially to someone rich, handsome, famous and powerful, like Cesar Guerra? Or Remy Badeau?”
“Eh…wrong,” Jesse said, and pointed at Cornell.
“That you have to choose the right person?” he said, and gave Lynette a squeeze.
“Aww. Heh-heh. Lynette?”
“That when life gives you lemons, you make lemon vodka martinis?” Lynette said, teasing her friend with a favorite saying.
“Fifty points,” Jesse said.
“That life doesn’t deal in safe bets,” Isabel said in a small but rising voice. “Love can turn ugly, mean and dangerous. But that doesn’t mean you should hold back or run and hide. You laugh and you smile and you hope for the best. But you don’t hold back—” sabel’s voice cracked and I could barely take what welled inside me.
Jesse looked square at her daughter and pressed her lips together. “That’s exactly right, my smart little angel.” Tears sparkled in Jesse’s eyelashes and then she winked. “You got it exactly right.”
November 22
Samantha
I’m glad you liked your surprise. I wasn’t sure if it would seem morbid (“Things to do before I go”). But I figured we needed to lighten up a little, do something besides stand around your bed and hold back tears. How funny was Kendra’s reaction to the stripper gram?! I can’t believe your dad didn’t come in! (Grouchy and prude as ever, I see.) But, listen—stripper cops, caviar, hookah—of course, those are the kind of “never trieds” I’d come up with, but please, bebe, come up with your own, too. I’m at your service.
So, I think I’ve about overdosed on reading about the Copenhagen Theory and Many Worlds. Somewhere in the middle is probably the answer. The power of consciousness (ala Marlee Matlin in What the Bleep Do We Know!?) and the existence of alternate realities (ala Gwyneth Paltrow in Sliding Doors). I think what we’ll do is: A) me keep an open mind and try everything we’ve planned (short of knocking myself unconscious) and B) you find me out there from the whatever it is.
I’m not saying I’m not gonna keep at it—our research, but…
Is it like Jesse says—time to laugh, to smile, and hope for the best?
Luvvvvv, Sam.
CHAPTER
23
THE INCOMING TEXT MESSAGES BUZZED KENDRA’S phone inside the gym locker room.
Roller-skating might appeal to some people, but Kendra swam her way through inner turmoil. Makes sense she wouldn’t like something improvisational and whimsical that shifted with the stereo tunes. Kendra loved laps. Back and forth, orderly and repetitive—that was the mature way to sort through life-changing decisions.
That night after work, she headed for the indoor pool. She had it all planned out. A lap for every angle of the decision, then choose. Kendra sat down on the rough lip of the pool, and plunged her feet into the chemically balanced water. She stared down the lanes. This was Kendra’s version of a pep talk. By the time you get out of the water, you will have decided whether to A-bomb your life or not.
Michael was exasperated, and done discussing it. That left Kendra roiling in an isolated limbo of hesitation. And in unfamiliar territory. She made million-dollar decisions every week, by following a personally honed formula. One pro, one con, on down the list, a run-through of all pertinent information, a quick projection of consequence scenarios, and then she decided. And then she stuck to it. That’s it. That’s how Kendra approached everything from buying bath towels to firing interns. Practice. Plan. Execute. And no looking back. She could completely avoid regret by approaching everything this way.
With a firm nod to agree with herself, Kendra slipped into the water. The chill awakened all her senses. She felt almost elated. Routine would save her. She had made countless major decisions this way. This would be no different.
I don’t believe in luck, Mina. Hard work and planning. That’s what matters.
Lap one. It’s what Mich
ael wants. Michael was the only person who hated surprises more than Kendra. He would want to have a baby on his schedule, in order for him to be a good father. This was the thrust of his argument these past few days. And it made Kendra’s arms slice through the water with aplomb. He wanted to have a baby with her. Just not now.
Lap two. She was too old to consider abortion. It was her mistake and the adult thing to do was to take responsibility for it. She had the means to take care of a child. Apparently just not the backbone. Kendra suddenly wondered what would happen if you had to throw up while swimming.
Lap three. Moral implications. Kendra’s mother always said that the right choice was the one that made your heart pound but didn’t make your stomach churn. In that case, it was time for mental imaging.
Lap four. Kendra chopped at the water with her hands as she filled her head with the first scenario. She envisioned the huge fight with Michael, the standoff that would follow, the terrifying possibility of being pregnant alone, of being pregnant at work, the whispers, dealing with the vacation club in every incarnation—pity, concern, opinion, advice. Kendra’s heart began to race, sending a whale’s heartbeat pulsing through the water. She pictured the agony of giving birth, the destruction of her figure, the flood of hormones and helplessness. Then she focused on the thing in her hands, a tiny wrinkled screaming mashup of herself and the man she once thought she would marry, knowing that Michael would abandon her eventually if she went against his wishes. She counted the toes, stroked the little fingers, smoothed down the damp hair.
Stop! Kendra realized she was about to go into a full-blown panic attack—her heart was pounding her ribs like an Olympic sprinter’s sneakers pound track. Her right hand reached out and found the edge of the pool. Thank God.
Lap five. Deep breath and then back under the water. She saw herself on the operating table, sedated, a flurry of efficient doctors and nurses quickly removing the problem. Now she walked into the waiting room, into Michael’s open arms. At home, he made her tea and microwaved the heating pad. There were roses on the table, with a handwritten card. He held her all night long. The next day she returned to work and never mentioned it to anyone, except her two best friends. Everything was exactly the same as it was. Exactly.
Ouch! Kendra smacked her head against the side of the pool. She came up sputtering, surprised and in pain. She treaded water and looked around. The echoes of the last vision bounced back to her. Hooking her arms over the edge of the pool, she gave a nod. It was clear what the better decision was. Kendra slipped out of the water. She reached up to take off her swimming cap.
Then she doubled over and projectile vomited onto the concrete. A nearby child shrieked in horror.
Two hours later, Kendra hung her keys on the ring by the door and dropped down to the couch like a goldfish flinging itself into a puddle. Chills crept along her skin as she fished her phone out of her gym bag.
She read the texts one by one, the initial smile on her mouth fading as the tears pooled in her eyes. Kendra’s stomach lurched along with her heart. Dizziness swept over her and she lay back down. They were right, she knew. They could take it. It was time to tell them.
She started to hit the call button but the room began to spin like a disco ball. Kendra closed her eyes and held onto the couch. The thought of talking to the vacation club was exhausting beyond measure, the sheer number of them daunting. And she definitely did not want to speak to her mother about it, maybe ever. The thought made Kendra put a hand to her forehead, where a fine sweat beaded above her eyebrows.
More than anything, Kendra was tired, the kind of tired that clogs your veins with wool. Or lead. Kendra felt she would never be able to lift herself off the couch again.
She caught sight of her calendar on the wall. She loved nothing more than the promise of hanging a new calendar every January. But now she wrenched her eyes away, the new implications of months and days too overbearing.
She looked at her phone, ready to dial again. Instead, she hit reply and typed out a text message three lines long.
Kendra hit send and the message disappeared. She leaned forward to get a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair stuck up like a holly bush from all the scalp scratching. Kendra thought briefly of shaving it all off. Black women can pull that shit off, she thought, and gave the mirror a smirk.
She let out a craggy cough.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, stop being such a baby,” she told the mirror. At which point, the girl in the reflection curled up into the fetal position and closed her eyes.
“Kendra wrote,” I told Isabel when she returned from the bathroom, ready for bed.
“Yeah? But didn’t call us.” Isabel climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling.
I looked at my phone and read the text again. I’m sorry. I’ll call soon. I love you all. I rolled onto my side facing Isabel. “What do you think?”
“I think people keep too many goddamn secrets.”
November 23
Samantha
Besides Ivy League physicists—there are plenty of “pseudoscientists” out there connecting physics to the paranormal. Okay, Deepak Chopra, Amit Goswami, and Fred Alan Wolf would certainly not appreciate being called pseudoscientists, nor would they agree with the term “paranormal.” They are all Ph.D.’s and M.D.’s and world-renowned speakers and authors. They are, however, the ones that guest appear on Oprah specials on The Secret. Hollywood yoga moms download their books onto Kindles and devour them over skinny vanilla soy lattes.
Jeez—why am I being so harsh?
These guys are the ones we need to believe in the most. And when I’m reading them in the wee hours of the morning…I do feel like I’ve found what you were hoping for. They talk about dying in one parallel universe and being reborn in another. They say that in our dreams we experience glimpses of these parallel universes, and of our other lives. They say that if we believe in something strongly enough, it will happen, for better or worse.
But then I come to see you in the morning, you shrinking in your big bed. And I think they’re all full of shit. My best friend is dying and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. That’s when I begin to suspect that you gave me this project to distract me, because you know me better than anyone in the world, better than I know myself. You raised me, you know. I’ve always been like the child. Who’s going to take care of me when I fall now? I always fall. I’m rash and I’m impatient and I’m bossy. You know it’s all a defense. Who’s going to understand me better than you? Who’s going to calm me, soothe me, tell me to shut up? If I only get to see you in my dreams, I might never want to wake up. Life is going to be scary without you, Mina. I’m not ready.
CHAPTER
24
I OPENED MY EYES. DARKNESS. I LOOKED FRANTICALLY left and right for what could have woken me up, since I wouldn’t hear a stampeding bull over the thumping of my heart. Then the nightmare came coursing back.
Any time I faced conflict in my life, I proved adept enough at managing it during the day. Struggling with Remy, Mina, or day-to-day crises—I usually appeared pretty laissez-faire. But the hidden turmoil always surfaced in merciless nightmares.
Frightening fragments now stampeded my waking mind—combining like crashing water. I listened to my shallow breathing, interrupted by a whimper from across the room. Isabel. Now I remembered.
It started out as a happy memory. Summer at the beach. Before our vacations got steadily more exotic, Jesse and Lynette used to pack us up and drive everybody to a beach or a lake. The summer we were eight years old, we went to Atlantic City.
Jesse and Lynette were still debating the ethics of taking us into the casinos, so until they agreed, they spread us out on the sand in front of the hotel. They doled out beach bags with our names written on them in glitter paint. Each bag had a shovel, a pail, a blowup doughnut floatie, and a bag of potato chips.
Isabel and Kendra set to work huffing and puffing to blow up their floaties. Kendra pretended to pass out and
we all thought that was hilarious. Isabel started to bury her in the sand until Kendra popped up like an offended cobra. “This is brand-new!” she shouted, pointing at her navy-blue swimsuit with a ruffle around the hips. Lynette looked over and told Kendra to cool it. “Guess you’d better go take a bath,” Mina said, and chuckled. She pointed at the ocean. Kendra stuck out her tongue. “I will!” she shouted as she took off for the water, Isabel right on her heels.
Mina waited with me while I scarfed down my potato chips. When we hopped up to join them, Lynette grabbed my wrist. “Thirty minutes, honey. Some rules aren’t made to be broken.” Jesse looked over. “Not many, sugar. But some.”
Mina offered to wait, but I shooed her off. Jesse braided my hair while I watched my three best friends scamper on the wet sand near the waves, splashing each other and turning cartwheels.
I smiled in my little bed in Honduras as I relived simple pleasures from simpler times. I could picture each of them so clearly. Kendra with her hair done up in pigtails and barrettes; Isabel flurrying by as a blur of wavy hair and tanned limbs. Mina circled around them with her arms to the sky, smiling with her eyes closed.
And then a shift occurred. In the real memory, Lynette had played tic-tac-toe with me until my thirty minutes were up. But now, as my head sank back into the pillow, I reexperienced how a dream can turn into a nightmare.
Jesse and Lynette stood up and walked toward the water. I pouted, annoyed at them and at myself for having to stay out of the fun. The three girls waded into the waves, ringed in Lynette and Jesse’s laughter. I watched them with a reluctant grin, echoing their shiny smiles. The five of them rode up the crest of a wave like a family of ducks. When the wave broke in front of them, they all watched the shore in glee. Mina waved at me and I waved back.
The Summer We Came to Life Page 11