by Chie Alemán
After the first closet, I’m hesitant to open the second, but I still need a shirt, so I tug the doors open, relieved when I see this one is more what I was expecting. Clothing hangs from two bars, one above the other; the top has a handle Santiago can use to pull the rack down if he’s in his chair (also helpful for short people like me). Dress shirts on top, pants on bottom, along with several zippered cloth bags that probably contain suits.
Houston is hot. Really hot. Most of the year our temperature is above eighty degrees, and in summer, it gets well above a hundred with regularity. As a result, most businesses are much more casual in their dress codes than they might be up north; suits are a rare sight in most offices as a result of our delightful heat and humidity. So it strikes me as particularly strange that Santiago has so many suits, considering he’s a proofreader; maybe his editor at Houston magazine is a real stickler for strict dress codes? I shrug the idea aside. From the look of the first closet, maybe he’s the type of person who doesn’t like to get rid of anything.
Like the other closet, there’s a row of cubbies, also filled with shoes. I pick one up; it’s definitely a size or two smaller than the shoes I removed from him while he was wearing his braces. Perhaps these are shoes he wears, like at ECAC, when he sticks to his chair? Like his kitchen, it strikes me how his dual mobility must complicate things, even to the point of having two pairs of every shoe. On the other side of the cubby his casual shirts hang, dozens of tees in nearly every color of the rainbow, his favorites indicated by how faded some of them are. I pull one of these off and slip it on, lifting the front to my nose. It smells like him—comforting, masculine—and makes me smile.
Walking toward the bathroom, the bookshelf catches my eye again. As a writer and an editor, I’m a big believer in the idea that you can discern a lot about someone based on the contents of their bookshelf. I check Santiago again; he’s still sleeping, so I take a moment to peruse his books. He’s got eclectic taste, ranging from literary classics (in both English and Spanish) to contemporary fiction, poetry, philosophy, law. I notice a few medical texts: a large black volume catches my eye—Atlas of Human Anatomy, Frank H. Netter, MD. A few others about neuromuscular physiology and pathology, then one that seems slightly less technical: Living with Muscular Dystrophy. I slip it off the shelf and flip through it quickly. I wonder if he’d let me borrow it? Because I know I want to learn more about Becker’s muscular dystrophy. I glance through the book; a few pages are marked. I skip the section called “Muscular Damage: What is Rhabdomyolysis?” and turn to the next: a dog-eared page titled “Take Care of Your Heart.” I notice a few phrases have been highlighted in neat, yellow ink. “Cardiomyopathy” is the first word; I’m not sure what it means, so I scan further.
Because the heart is a muscle, it is affected by a lack of dystrophin, the book says. As a result, most boys with Duchenne’s suffer heart weakness and failure; it can also affect carriers and those with the milder form, Becker’s. There’s more, but I almost drop the book. Heart failure? I think, looking back at Santiago. I remember now what I read on that blog, and my own heart beats faster in my chest as I slip the book back into place with the others.
I don’t have too much time to process, because I hear the front door opening, and a moment later, a female voice calls out, “Dieguito?”
I freeze, glance over at Santiago, who sleeps on. A flash of panic flares in my stomach. It occurs to me he has never really been bothered by the fact that I’m married. What if I’m just a bit of stuff for him on the side, as the British would say, and his real girlfriend has decided to show up? I wonder if I should hide. Or wake him up. Or what. I hear her call his name again and the bedroom door handle starts to jiggle. Thank God we closed the door earlier.
I just have time to dash to the bathroom and duck behind the door, peering into the room through the crack between the door and the frame. I hear the clap of flip-flops on the floor and the voice whisper “Dieguito” again. A moment later, a woman with super-straight, chin-length hair almost the same color as Santiago’s approaches his side of the bed, stepping around his chair and leaning over him. She feels his forehead with the back of her hand, then his cheek. She shifts, her body now blocking my view, and I hear rustling. Has Santiago woken up?
The woman has her back to me, and I can see she has nice legs—I’ll give her that. I wonder if she uses a step machine or runs or something; they’re that toned. Or maybe normally she wears heels, even though I can clearly see her flip-flops. She’s wearing formfitting, but not tight, capris, and a loose tank top.
I hear the rustle of sheets and Santiago’s voice, heavy with sleep. “What are you doing here?” I can just make out the outline of his head past her shoulder; he must have sat up.
“I phoned your office and they said you called in sick. I tried your phone and you didn’t answer, so I got worried.” She sinks onto the bed beside him, laying a hand on his thigh. “After what happened…I thought I should come check on you. You didn’t answer the door, so I let myself in.”
Santiago sighs, pinches his nose, rubs his eyes. “It’s sweet of you, but maybe I just needed a day off.” He reaches over and smoothes her arm, just below the shoulder. I can’t see her face clearly, because her hair falls to the side, obscuring most of it. Is she beautiful? Probably much more attractive than me. I want to sigh but remember I’m hiding and need to be quiet. Suddenly I recall I really have to pee. Ugh.
I have to cover my mouth to stop from screaming when she leans in to kiss him. I can’t really see what type of kiss—just a peck, or is there some tongue?—because of her damn hair again. She pulls back.
“You know I worry about you.”
Santiago seems to be searching the bed for something. For me? The idea is silly. It’s not like I could have gotten lost in the sheets. My necklace? It should still be on the bedside table where I left it, but what if mystery woman sees it? Will Santiago be able to write it off as his?
“Something’s bothering you,” the woman says, watching him, looking around at the tangled sheets, the clothes tossed and twisted up with them.
Santiago sighs, exasperated. “I’m fine. Really. Could you just give me a minute?”
She hesitates, then nods, standing up. “All right. I’ll make some coffee.”
“Sure,” he says, seemingly to get rid of her.
She turns, and I never get to see her face, because soon she’s offscreen.
“Close the door,” Santiago calls out.
Either he’s trying to get rid of her for my sake, he’s not comfortable with her seeing him completely naked, or he doesn’t want to put on his braces when she’s around. I wait until I hear the door shut, then want to dash to the toilet, but I hesitate, watching Santiago shift himself in bed until his legs hang over the edge. He grabs one of his braces, and I want to watch him put it on so badly, but I know I’ll pee myself if I do.
Like the rest of his apartment, Santiago’s bathroom is large and open, although I notice the layout—floor textured, grab bars everywhere—means he could easily walk around the room just like his bedroom, without his crutches, always having something to reach for support when he needs it. Along the door side of the wall is a long roll-under vanity with two sinks. Across from it is a large tiled shower, custom built of stone and tile, its entry wide and doorless.
Next to it, I find the toilet area, which mimics the shower—surrounded by walls, a wide entry—although the outside wall is half height—for privacy—but I wonder if it’s also partially so Santiago has yet another surface for support if he needs it. The commode is high and pushed off to the side, leaving him plenty of room to transfer, but in addition to the expected horizontal grab bars, there are also a few vertical ones—more evidence of his dual mobility, I presume.
When I finish and emerge from the toilet, Santiago is standing, half-naked, bracing himself with one hand against the shower wall. I notice he’s missed a few buttons on his track pants.
“So what’s your plan?
You distract your girlfriend while I sneak out the door?”
He laughs.
“What?” I wonder if he’s laughing at my outfit, his tee big enough on me that the neck dips over my shoulder, like a fashion from the ‘80s.
“You’re jealous.”
“Because your hot girlfriend came to check on you and I had to hide in here so she didn’t see me? That’s not jealousy, just…” I let my voice trail off, because I don’t know what else to say. I’m not surprised he has another woman, someone obviously more attractive than me, but it still hurts. Ironic, I know, considering I’m the married one.
He laughs harder.
“This might be really funny to you, but you’re the only one laughing here,” I say, angry, and start to storm past him. I’m shocked when he grabs me, not just with one hand but two.
He seems to be carefully balancing, and I’m a little worried he’ll fall on top of me. He’s not a huge guy, but he’s not small, either, and I’m petite. For a moment, I’m scared.
“Go put your clothes on, and wait for me.” He seems to sense my apprehension and relaxes his grip. “Everything’ll be okay,” he says, trying to reassure me even though he’s still chuckling. He holds up his hand, and my St. Anthony medal drops out of it, the chain dangling from his fingers. “Don’t forget your necklace.”
I scowl but nod, grabbing it from him, waiting for him to release me. He does, and I duck around him quickly, but he’s stable. I cast a glance back at him as he carefully makes his way toward the toilet. Whether or not this baby is his, I tell myself as I reenter the bedroom, I’m not seeing him again if he asks for a three-way.
I’ve just pulled my shirt over my head and slipped the medal beneath the fabric when he appears in the doorway, his hair brushed and his pants fixed. He holds the door frame with one hand, looking almost sexy enough to melt my anger.
“Toss me my shirt.”
I throw him the one I’d been wearing and watch as he slips it on, leaning into the door frame slightly with his hip. “You ready to meet my ‘girlfriend’?” He snickers.
Casting him another look, I accent it by heaving his crutches at him. I’m a little disappointed he catches them. Then I turn to the door, intent on stomping out, past Ms. Perfect “I Worry about You,” through the front door and down to my car. It hurts that he was willing to show his braces, walk without his crutches, in front of me, things he obviously couldn’t do in front of whoever she is, and yet he gives me no explanation, only mocking laughter.
Maybe Santiago isn’t the man I thought he is. If Santiago is the type of guy who has multiple girlfriends—because who knows if Ms. Flip-Flops is the only one? If he’s the guy who lies when he assures you he isn’t—then maybe I don’t need to see him anymore, don’t need my baby to know him, even if he is the biological father.
I push open the door and charge toward the kitchen. I can see the woman busily making coffee, her back once again toward me.
“The coffee’ll probably be a little weak,” she says, pouring water into the machine. “You ran out. Hope that’s—” She turns, obviously thinking I’m “Dieguito,” and her mouth falls open.
I can hear the very subtle squeak of Santiago’s crutches on the floor, so I know he’s right behind me, although I don’t look. Instead, I stride forward, offering my hand. “Di Monroe,” I say snidely.
She stares at me, confused, then to Santiago. I force myself to turn my head just enough to see his face. He’s leaning on his crutches, each of them angled a little more than normal, almost lazily, a smile etched deeply into his face. I’m standing on his left, but I imagine his cheek’s dimpled on the other side. The bastard. Are all men assholes? What was I thinking? At least Stephen doesn’t cheat on me. I guess turnabout’s fair play.
And this woman—whoever she is—is beautiful. Older than him, very Mediterranean looking, with almond-shaped, deep brown eyes the color of wet dirt, and lips perfect enough she could be in a lipstick commercial. I hold my ground, still waiting for her to shake, despite the fact that I know I have no chance against her. I might be younger, but that’s all I have going for me. Did I mention she’s tall? Even without heels, almost as tall as Santiago. Taller, especially now, the way he’s leaning on his crutches, his back arched.
Only a few seconds have passed between us, even though it seems like I’ve been standing here forever, arm extended, feeling like an idiot for thinking he could actually like me, actually find me attractive. Realizing that every sweet thing he’s said has all been a line. Just like every other guy. Saying what I want to hear because they know I want to hear it. At least Stephen has always been straightforward with me. Sometimes too annoyingly cold and logical, but that’s better than betrayal and false words, isn’t it?
I hear Santiago laugh, and suddenly she’s smiling too. Oh, don’t tell me he told her about me. The poor little married girl he’s fucking with. Yes, with. My thoughts could probably have gone on like this forever, but Santiago finally speaks.
“Di, this is Eugenia,” Santiago says, pronouncing her name in Spanish, full of vowels, eh-oo-hen-ee-ah. “Genie. Genie, Di.”
We shake. She has a strong grip, especially for a woman. Is this her way of asserting dominance? But that name is familiar…
“Nice to meet you,” she says. “I’m Diego’s oldest sister.”
My arm suddenly grows limp, and I clamp my other hand on my face, which has instantly, and completely involuntarily, grown scarlet and fiery. Santiago’s laughing, so as soon as I get my hand back, I backhand slap the side of his arm.
“But I saw her kiss you!”
Now she’s laughing too, which makes me want to disintegrate into the floor.
“On the cheek,” he says.
Well, it makes sense why he kicked her out, since he was naked. I feel like a complete idiot. He told me several times he has four sisters and even mentioned Genie by name more than once. I force myself to look up, and now I can definitely see the resemblance. The hair color is similar. Although she probably dyes it, I realize, her highlights are good enough you could mistake them for being natural. While they don’t share the same eyes, there’s an undeniable likeness in the face shape. And I can see now that despite her beauty, Genie is at least ten to twelve years older than Santiago, meaning she has to be nearly fifty. Still, she’s in fantastic shape. I hope I look that good when I’m her age. Hell. Who am I kidding? I don’t look that good now.
“The coffee’ll be a few more minutes. Shall we sit?”
I glance over at Santiago, who frowns at his sister but nods.
The three of us make our way to the couch. I sit next to Santiago but not too close. I’m still a little angry at him. Why didn’t he just tell me she was his sister?
As soon as we’re all settled, Genie speaks again. “Have you known Diego long? He hasn’t mentioned you,” she says, sneering at him.
I look at Santiago, not sure how much he wants his sister to know. Oh, by the way, Di’s married and is probably going to have my baby out of wedlock in about seven months. Can your brother pick ’em or what?
“We met at ECAC,” Santiago says. “So only a few weeks.”
Genie’s eyebrows rise, and she smiles. In some ways this feels more like meeting his mother than his sister. At least it’s only one. I’m not sure if I could handle being scrutinized by all four Durán sisters at once. She nods knowingly. The coffeemaker gurgles, the smell of dark roast filling the air. The sudden urge to leave, to go home, coupled with the desire to curl up in Santiago’s arms, washes over me. Conflicted, I don’t move.
We all sit in silence a moment, listening to the coffee brew, the sound of our own breathing. Finally, Genie speaks. “So, Di. You’re an editor?”
I swallow. Suddenly I’m very thirsty. “Yes. I don’t edit anything exciting, though.”
She laughs. “I used to be an attorney. Decided to stay home when I had my third child. But now that they’re all teenagers, I’ve been thinking of going back.” She shrugs, cr
osses her legs. “But I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’s not worth it. I think Dieguito was right to give it up. He’s so much happier now.”
What is she talking about? I look to Santiago, who’s visibly angrier than I’ve ever seen, scowling at his sister. I want to say something, but the silent standoff that ensues between them makes me think it’s better to keep quiet.
Finally, Santiago slips on his crutches and pushes himself up. “The coffee’s probably ready. Why don’t you help me with it, Genie?” he says in a commanding tone.
She smiles at me, clearly not caring that he’s so mad, and follows him to the kitchen. I’m left alone on the couch, thinking again I should just go, but the thought of that big empty house is so depressing I stay, pulling my legs up in lotus position, holding my ankle with one hand, smoothing my fingers over my medal with the other.
I hear the opening and closing of cabinets, the clink of mugs, and the rumble of whispers. I lean back and strain my ears, trying to see if I can hear anything they’re saying.
“…always do that,” I hear Santiago say, his whisper harsh and angry, as if he’s speaking through clenched teeth.
She says something I can’t hear, her voice either too quiet or muffled by the sound of pouring coffee.
“Because…then I have to tell her why.” I can make out only about 30 percent of what Santiago says because his voice grows tenser, louder, for a few of the words. But I hear enough to guess that whatever his sister is talking about is only scratching the surface, and Santiago either doesn’t want to—or isn’t ready—to go there with me yet.
“She’s not an idiot,” I hear Genie say, followed by the clink of mugs that makes me wonder if she’s stirring sugar into one of them. She lowers her voice some more, perhaps from Santiago’s signal, and I can just make out what she says, filling in the missing words from context. “She has to wonder how you can afford this condo, the car, on a proofreader’s salary. Not to mention those,” she adds, and I wonder what she means. His braces, maybe? He mentioned they were expensive, and they definitely seem like it, but I honestly have no idea how much something like that costs.