No. Jesus, no. That’s not what he wants. None of this is what he wants.
That time, apparently to teach him a lesson, she let days go by before she returned with food and water. He was convinced she’d abandoned him to die.
Maybe he wishes she would have. Just get it over with, instead of keeping him alive . . . for what?
“I thought you’d like to know,” she tells him now, “that last night’s test was negative.”
Test. She’s talking about pregnancy tests again. She’s been doing that, the last few times he’s seen her—telling him that the tests are negative but it might be too soon and she’ll try again tomorrow.
“You have one more chance,” she tells him now.
One more chance . . .
“I’ll take another test tonight.”
“You’re crazy! You can’t—”
“If it goes well,” she talks over him, raising her voice, “then you’ll be the first to know. And if it doesn’t . . .”
She trails off ominously.
He doesn’t prompt her to continue. Gut twisting, he forces himself to remain calm and still, trying to figure a way out of here. There must be something, some way to slip out of these chains that don’t allow him to venture past the bed, the chair, and the portable toilet . . .
She turns off the flashlight with a click and he hears her moving across the room.
Silhouetted in the doorway, she tells him, “I’ll leave the tray. If I were you, I’d eat that. You have to keep up your strength. Just in case the test is negative again.”
With that, she’s gone.
Locked into the dank black cell once more, Carlos lets out a breath of relief. Anything is better than lying here listening to her talk about what she wants from him; what she needs from him.
A baby.
No—not a baby.
“My baby,” she’s told him, over and over. “I just need my baby. I need you to give me my baby.”
My baby. It’s strange.
She’s strange; she’s freaking loco.
And the thought of a baby—his baby—growing inside of her is enough to make him vomit.
But it’s possible, he knows. He slept with her willingly that first night; didn’t even stop to think to use protection. Who cared? That, he figured, was her problem.
Little did he know that pregnancy wouldn’t be a problem for her. On the contrary: it was her goal.
She told him—after she cornered him here—how she’d hand-selected him; how she’d timed their date to coincide with the most fertile day in her—cycle.
“Why couldn’t you just let me go after that?” he’d been naive enough to ask.
The answer sent chills down his spine.
“In case it didn’t work. We’ll need to try again.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Oh, Carlos, don’t talk like that.” Her tone had been eerily calm.
“If you think I’m ever going to touch you again, then you’re—”
“If I can’t have you one way,” she cut in, “then trust me, I’ll have you another.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll see. Or maybe you won’t. Let’s just hope the first time was the charm.”
Okay, he thought, what if it was?
What would happen to him after she got what she wanted?
And . . . what would happen to him if she didn’t?
Now, common sense tells him that either way, she’s not going to simply unchain him, open the door, and let him walk back out into the world, back to his life.
“Gabriela.”
He watches her open her mouth and close again, wide-eyed. Finally, she manages, “Hi, Ben.”
“What are you doing here? Wait. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“How did it sound?”
“Like . . . I don’t know. You know.”
She doesn’t say anything, just stands there looking as startled to see him as he was to see her—even though he’s had a good forty-five minutes to get used to the idea.
It was Luis who first spotted her sitting about twenty rows ahead of them. He grabbed Ben’s arm during the second inning and pointed. “Oh my God, look.”
Ben looked. Thinking his brother was referring to a belligerent standoff between opposing fans in the aisle below, he shook his head. “That’s crazy.”
“It is. I mean, I thought I saw her when we first got here and I was going to say something to you then, but I wasn’t sure it was her, and I didn’t want to ruin your night by bringing her up.”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
“Your ex-wife—Gaby.”
“What? What about her?”
“She’s right there.” Luis pointed again, just as Ben saw her for himself.
It was Gaby all right. Her long hair was down and wavy, the way it always looked in sticky summer weather. He used to love to watch her run her fingers through it, twisting it into a bun and holding it there to get it off her neck; loved how it would be even more tousled when she let go and it cascaded down her back again.
She was doing that tonight. He watched her, aching for the old days, aching to be right there with her instead of perched above like a voyeuristic stranger.
But she was with someone else.
Ben had never seen him before. He wore a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Was he someone she met on InTune? If so, it couldn’t be a first date. Even from a distance he could tell there was a connection between Gaby and the stranger. They laughed with their heads tilted together, shared a hot pretzel, and his arm rested across the back of her seat for a while, even in this heat.
Ben watched them for the rest of that inning and into the next, so distracted he lost track of the score and wasn’t even properly thrilled when he and his brother were shown on the Jumbotron, a longtime ambition.
Luis was proud enough for both of them. “I wonder if we were on TV?”
Who knows? Who cares?
Gaby is here. She’s here, with some guy.
“Try to ignore it,” Luis advised him, but he found that impossible to do.
It’s been so long since he’d seen her.
He couldn’t help but fixate on her, remembering old times, wondering how the hell they’d come to this. Wondering how the hell he’d become the stranger, on the outside looking in, as some guy he’d never seen before fed his wife a pretzel.
Ex-wife.
Intellectually, he’s well aware of their marital status. It’s easy enough to remember with Gaby conspicuously absent from his day-to-day life.
But now, seeing her again, he was suddenly second-guessing everything.
Then Gaby was on her feet, pushing her way determinedly up the aisle. He impulsively leapt out of his seat. So did everyone else, but it was because they were watching the batter hit a pop-up.
Ben tried to chase her, but he lost sight of her in the cheering crowd as an outfielder caught the ball.
He checked the concession lines, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
Now that they’re face-to-face, he still doesn’t know what to do. But he has to say something.
“I just . . . I’m surprised to see you at the game . . . I mean, you were never a big Yankees fan, so . . .”
“Yeah? How do you know I haven’t gone over to the dark side?”
“What?”
“Red Sox Nation.” She manages a weak smile. “It was a joke.”
“Oh!” He laughs. Belatedly, but with relief.
It’s been so long since he’s seen Gaby, he’s no longer accustomed to her sharp wit. Or is it that she’d lost her sense of humor long before, when he last saw her?
This person isn’t quite the old Gaby he used to know, but she isn’t the angry, brittle woman he’d last seen either.
“You look good,” she tells him.
“So do you. The same.”
The same . . . what does that even mean? The same as what? The same as when?
; She doesn’t look the same as she did when he left. Nor does she look the same as she did when he fell in love with her.
Back then she was a young woman with a heavy mane of untamed curls, a quick smile, a quicker laugh, and an unlined face that he assumed had never known true heartache.
Pushing the memories away, he asks Gaby, “So how have you been?”
“Fine. You?”
“Fine.”
They stare at each other, but not uncomfortably. That surprises him as much as anything else.
After all this time, after all that’s happened, you’d think they would be cringing and making excuses to walk off in opposite directions. But he doesn’t want to move, even though something is happening down on the field—the crowd is up and cheering, organ music is playing jauntily, and a quick glance reveals that there’s a Yankee on base. “Maybe we can talk,” he suggests. “You know, not . . .”
“Here?”
“Right. Not here. Someplace . . .”
“Else?” she supplies, dark eyes smiling.
He nods. “Yeah.”
This is not the first time she’s ever had him tongue-tied.
Years ago, when they first met, he took one look at the raven-haired knockout in a bright orange-red tank suit and was infatuated. They were both in college then, undergoing the city’s rigorous lifeguard training program after having passed the initial qualifying test.
All the trainees bonded quickly during their demanding weeks at the practice facility, but there was little time for flirting. Their numbers dwindled as one waterlogged and exhausted candidate after another dropped out. Those who survived—Gaby and Ben among them—were hired. They found themselves working together at Orchard Beach in the Bronx.
The guards were a tight-knit bunch—a summer family that was occasionally dysfunctional, as most families are. They worked together by day, played together by night. Some played harder than others. Ben wasn’t that guy. Gabriela wasn’t that girl.
“You’re not a partier, huh?” she guessed when they found themselves sitting away from a decidedly rowdier bunch at the first get-together of the season.
“I don’t even like the word.”
“Party?”
“Not as a verb.”
The future editor was mildly impressed by his grammatical reference. Later, he teased her that she initially thought he was just a dim-witted beefcake type. She swore it wasn’t true.
“I liked you from the moment I first saw you,” she said. “I was hoping you’d ask me out.”
He did—finally. But his parents had taught him early on that it’s a good idea not to jump headlong into any situation.
“No hay nada tan atrevido como la ignorancia,” his mother used to caution him.
Translation: Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
“Just use your head, Benito. Watch your step and don’t be a fool.”
His college roommate had similar advice when he came to visit one weekend that first summer.
“You’ll screw up the friendship if you sleep with her,” Peter told him. “Bad idea.”
“I said I want to ask her out, not sleep with her.”
“Eventually, you’ll sleep with her and that will make her your girlfriend because that’s the kind of guy you are. And eventually you’ll break up with her.”
“Because that’s the kind of guy I am?”
“Because everyone breaks up eventually, son.”
They were in college. That was how it seemed.
“If you want to keep her in your life—don’t do it,” Peter counseled him.
Maybe he should have taken Peter’s advice, ignored his own instincts, and stuck with the friendship. If he had, Gaby might still be in his life. As a very good friend. Like some of the old lifeguard gang he stays in touch with online, touching base every once in a while with cursory updates about their lives now, or to add a nostalgic comment whenever someone posts an old photo on a social networking site . . .
No. That’s not how he wants it to be with Gaby. She wasn’t his friend. She was his wife.
In an ideal world, she’d still be both.
“How about if I text you?” he asks. “And we can set up a time to talk. Just . . . you know, to catch up. It’s been a long time.”
“It has.” Is it his imagination or does she sound—and look—wistful?
“Okay. So I’ll text. Same number?”
“Yes. Wait—no. I switched carriers when I moved, so the number changed. Maybe I gave it to you . . .”
“You didn’t.” His tone is sharper than he intended. But the fact that she changed her phone number and didn’t bother to update him doesn’t sit well with him. It means that for all these months apart, he couldn’t have even gotten in touch with her if he wanted to.
“Do you have anything to write on?” she asks him. “I left my bag at my seat.”
“No. I left mine at the office. I have my phone, though, if you want to just call it now so I’ll have the number.” He pulls his iPhone out of his pocket, glad he always has it close at hand. Not only is it his communication lifeline, but it’s replaced his iPod, camera, date book, watch . . .
“Hey—I have the same phone in the same exact case,” Gaby notices. “But it’s in my bag back at my seat. Just send me an e-mail at my work address. That hasn’t changed.”
“Or I can message you through InTune,” he says, and wishes that he hadn’t.
The light goes out of her eyes. “I don’t check that very often.”
“Me either. I’ll just send an e-mail. Okay?”
“Okay. Oh, and Ben—I still have your box.”
“What?”
“From your father’s house. Your mementos. From when you were a kid. You know . . .”
He does know. He thought he’d lost the box in the move. “I figured it accidentally got thrown away.”
“No, I have it.”
“That’s great. I thought it was gone forever. A lifetime’s worth of memories—just like that. I’ll have to come get it. Thank you for . . .” For not throwing it away.
“No problem.” She shifts her weight. “I have to get back to . . . you know. My seat.”
Right. Her seat.
“Good seeing you, Gabriela. I’ll be in touch.”
“I hope so.” With a little wave, she walks away.
Sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, Alex stares at the plastic stick for a long time, willing it to change.
Of course it doesn’t.
One stripe. Just one.
The test is negative.
Not pregnant.
With a curse, she tosses the stick blindly toward the wastebasket beside the sink and leans forward, resting her forehead against her knees.
She’d thought for sure it would happen this time. She’d thought he was the one. He looks so much like Carmen, even acts like him—the way he tilts his head, the way he narrows his dark brows when he’s angry . . .
And he’s so angry. Whenever she’s with him, even in the dim light, she can see the fury etched on his features, can feel it crackling in the air.
He hates me.
That’s pretty clear.
They all wind up hating her.
But it doesn’t matter. They don’t have to love her, or even like her. She doesn’t need their affection or their sympathy or understanding. She just needs . . .
“My baby,” she whispers. “I need my baby. My boy . . .”
Now it will be almost two weeks before she can try again. Even if it works, almost a year before she’ll hold her son in her arms again.
She can wait, though. As long as she knows it’s going to happen.
“Over my dead body,” Carlos Diaz had the nerve to say before, clearly wanting her to know that his desire for her has completely withered away.
Be that as it may . . . he won’t have much choice in the matter.
He has two more chances.
Three strikes and you’re out.
Carlos will
understand that. He wrote in his online profile that he loves baseball. He’s a Yankees fan. One more thing he has in common with Carmen.
And with my baby . . .
My boy.
Dante.
It was Carmen who chose the name for their son. In Spanish, he said, it means “enduring.”
Alex lifts her head slowly, then gets to her feet and sighs heavily.
She splashes water on her face, standing at the scarred porcelain sink where she taught her son to brush his teeth and wash his face before bed, standing on a step stool. She was always so worried he was going to burn himself, because Carmen insisted on keeping the old home’s ancient hot water heater turned up high.
Memories.
How she hated this small hall bathroom—the only one in the house—when they first moved in! Hated the old-fashioned fixtures, olive-green subway tile, rectangular bathtub with the cheap glass sliding doors framed by too much sloppy, rubbery white caulking.
Carmen was going to redo it—one of the many things on the household to-do list. But he was always busy working, and when he wasn’t, he was focused on designing their dream house.
He never got around to doing much of anything to this one before—
Well, now it doesn’t matter.
Alex jerks the faucets, dries her hands on a limp towel that’s been hanging there for God knows how long, and leaves the bathroom.
Walking down the short hall that connects the two bedrooms, she glimpses a streak of black fur scooting across the threshold into Dante’s room. She’d forgotten and left the door ajar.
“No, Gato!” she calls. “Don’t you mess things up in there!”
Like the bathroom, like the rest of the house—except the basement—it’s been unchanged now for . . . how many years? Five? Seven? Ten?
She can’t be sure. Sometimes, it seems like yesterday that she last saw her son here in the house; other times, he’s part of a past so distant she can barely recall it.
All she knows for certain is that the room hasn’t been changed since the last time Dante left it: Legos on the floor, a bookmarked book on the pillow, crayons and a thick stack of drawing paper on the desk,
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