by Chie Alemán
“There we go, all done,” my doctor says.
I open my eyes and see the nurse placing a small bandage on the entry site.
“You need to lie here about five, ten minutes, to let everything settle,” the doctor says, “and then you’re free to go. You may have some minor cramping and even some light bleeding, like the last day of your period, for the next twenty-four hours or so. If it gets worse or it’s very bad, though, be sure to give my office a call.”
She gives my arm a gentle squeeze and heads out with the nurse. Now that it’s over, the pain in my bladder hits me, and I hope the remaining minutes pass quickly.
“You did great,” Santiago says, leaning forward to kiss me on the forehead.
“It’s kind of scary that in a week we’ll know…”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice thin.
I try not to think about what I’ll do once I know. Instead I think about what Santiago was revealing before my doctor entered. I want to bring it up again but figure if he hasn’t, it may be better to leave it. After several minutes of neither of us speaking, I decide I need to break the silence, my words spilling out like water from a broken faucet.
“I was barely nineteen when I met Stephen, going to school at Loyola. He was a young engineer working at one of the chemical plants outside Baton Rouge, but he lived in New Orleans and commuted.” I sigh. “My parents had just died and, believe it or not, Stephen was actually kind of charming back then, in his own way.”
Suddenly, I cover my mouth with my other hand, sobbing. It takes us both by surprise. Santiago leans in, kissing my forehead. “Shh, it’s okay. Está bien, linda,” he says in between pecks.
I open my eyes, blurry with my sudden pregnancy-fueled tears, and attempt a smile. “I was young, scared, all alone…and so I let him rescue me.” I blink, trying to focus, but I can’t read Santiago’s expression. Sucking in a breath, I hurriedly remove my necklace and shove it into his hand.
Santiago looks at me, bewildered, the chain spilling out between his fingers.
“My parents gave that to me, not long before they died, when I started college.”
Dark brows furrow over mocha eyes, and he brings it closer, examining it front and back. “The inscription is worn. I can’t read it.”
I laugh nervously. “I’ve rubbed it off. It says, ‘So you can always find your way.’” I stroke my belly absently. Santiago’s staring at the medal as if trying to read the engraving anyway. “I never really felt like it did much. I guess I did find Stephen, but even with him, I’ve felt…lost.” I struggle to meet his eyes. “And then I met you, and even though you turned my world upside down…” I feel tears threatening again and hold my breath to try to keep them at bay.
Santiago shakes his head, attempts to push the necklace back into my palm. “I can’t accept this.”
I push back, pressing both hands on his fist to keep the medal in his grip. “No. I want you to have it. It’s the most precious thing I own, and I want to give it to you.”
He looks up, and our eyes meet. His are so full, like two galaxies it would take lifetimes to explore. Before he can try and protest again, the nurse returns to tell me I can go, reminding me of the restroom down the hall. They’ll call me in seven to ten days to tell me the results of the test.
I sniffle and push myself up with Santiago’s help. “Please call the 713 number, not the 281,” I say. “That’s my cell phone, and I want to make sure I don’t miss it. And you have my permission to leave a voice mail, including the sex of the baby. I’ll sign something if I have to.”
The nurse checks my file and leaves a note. “Of course,” she says, then leaves.
Santiago very gentlemanly helps me off the table, keeping his other hand braced on the table for stability. “Go ahead. I’ll be in the waiting room,” he says.
I hug him, holding the embrace a little longer than I’d planned, inhaling that scent that I love so much. That I find so comforting. That I never want to forget.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I fall asleep almost as soon as I lie down on the unfolded futon in my office, waking up several hours later from a dreamless sleep. Santiago sits beside me, the St. Anthony medal around his neck, chest bare, in only his boxers. His braces off, he has one leg stretched out and the other pulled up toward his chest, reading from a tablet held against his knee.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he says when I roll over with a slight groan. “How you feeling?”
He sets the tablet aside and strokes my hair gently.
“Like I have the worst period of my life,” I say, exaggerating. Then I flush. I normally don’t talk about my “time of the month” with anyone.
He chuckles but keeps smoothing my face. “I grew up with five women, remember? It’s not too bad, though, is it? Do you need me to get you anything?”
The doors are a tight squeeze for his chair, and even though he can put his braces on pretty quickly, I don’t want him to go through that trouble on my account, so I shake my head. “I’m okay.”
He smiles. “I thought I could make you something to eat in a little bit, unless you want leftovers. Or I could order something. Unless you’re not up to much. I could make you more pancakes.”
“Maybe later.”
He watches as I snuggle closer to him, embracing his leg. I slide my finger over the slight indentations in his skin where the brace pads were, feeling the shift in texture from the areas compressed by the pads and the rougher feel of the hairs on the rest of his leg.
“Your novel is really good.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t’ve, but your tablet was the only thing I could easily get to without putting my braces back on, and I didn’t want to leave you. I didn’t mean to, but I saw it, and…it’s good. Really good.”
I push myself up and snatch the tablet away, which is silly, since he already read it. I also know I’m being a total hypocrite, since I practically searched and seized his whole bedroom the other day while he was asleep.
“It’s not. Besides, I can’t figure out how to end it anyway.”
He leans over and kisses me, distracting me enough to pry the tablet back.
“Hey!” I say, trying to grab it, but he keeps it just out of reach.
“Let me just read this one line. It’s my favorite.” He unlocks the tablet—how could I have forgotten to set a pass-code lock like I have on my phone?—and opens my novel in progress. He scrolls, mumbling under his breath as he searches for the passage he wants. “Here. Here it is.” He clears his throat. “‘She knew that something was missing, something she wasn’t quite sure she could elucidate. It felt like looking up at the sky on a moonless night and trying to describe to someone—someone who had somehow never seen the moon before—what it looked like. Trying to put into words how that vast, dark emptiness was in fact only a fraction of our existence, and how, in reality, a bright, glowing beauty—not fixed, like the stars, but rather, ever changing in a cycle—was really there, even when we couldn’t see it.’” He lays the tablet down. “That’s beautiful, Di. I really think you should try to get this published. I have a few connections—when you finish it, I could help you.”
I take the tablet back. Set it aside. I’m still a little angry, but…does he really think it’s good? Good enough to publish? I’d told myself just writing it was enough, but I know my mom would want me to put myself out there.
“You really think people would want to read it?”
He pushes himself down and onto his side so we’re lying, facing each other, hands propping up our heads. “I told you I wouldn’t lie to you. I think, once you get the ending done, with a good editor, you could have a really fantastic first novel.”
“Really?”
He smiles, laughs quietly, his eyes sparkling. “Yes. And I say that not just as your lover”—he laughs at the word—“but as a reader and a former English major.”
I smile, imagining the cover of my novel—my novel—on displ
ay. “I didn’t realize you were a lit major.”
“That’s why you need to keep me around, so you can discover all my many secrets.” His eyes gleam before he leans in and kisses me, slowly, passionately, tracing my mouth with his tongue almost as if it’s the first time he’s exploring it. He pulls away, studying my eyes, his soft with that look I’ve come to consider mine. His fingertips trace my cheek. He takes a breath; then he says, “I love you.”
My breath catches. I know that’s normally the type of thing you immediately reply in kind with, but without my little fairy on my shoulder… “Santiago…”
“It’s okay,” he says, smiling warmly and releasing his hand so he sinks down onto the bed, lying flat. “I just needed to say it. I’ve been wanting to for a long time, and I know, depending on how the test goes…” He clears his throat. “I love you, Di. And I believe in you. You need to believe in you too.”
* * * *
Even though I’ve lived in Houston for almost ten years, and within a stone’s throw of the Woodlands for most of that time, I’ve never been to the Cynthia Woods Mitchell Pavilion, so I honestly don’t know what to expect. Thanks to his accessible tickets, Santiago is able to park in the garage just a couple blocks from the theater, so we don’t have far to go. He gave me the option of eating somewhere in the Town Center before the concert, but the idea of someone seeing me made me too nervous, so instead we grabbed a quick bite somewhere else and pull into one of the handicapped spaces around seven.
I’ve been out with Santiago multiple times, both here and in New Orleans, but this feels different. Maybe it’s because of his three-word confession earlier, maybe because of the weight of the test hovering over our heads. I’m simultaneously nervous and excited, and a little nauseated. I lay a hand on my stomach and rub it lightly, worried it’ll be too hot for us.
“You okay?” Santiago asks, gently brushing the back of his hand along my cheek.
I nod. “Yeah. Just thought I felt the baby fluttering.”
“Really?” His face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning.
I laugh. “It was probably just my imagination.” But I take his hand and lay it on my stomach anyway. I watch him as he closes his eyes and just breathes, as if he’s trying to make some kind of psychic link with our baby.
He opens his eyes and smiles that sweet, genuine smile of his as he pushes his door open. “You know my lap’s always available if you two need a ride.” He winks, hesitates a moment, then points to some knobs and buttons between the seats, just behind the gearshift. “Do me a favor?”
I tilt my head, confused. There are three rows of switches. The first looks like a road, and maybe some tires and a mountain. In the middle, it says “sport,” “normal,” and “comfort.” The third row has two icons of an SUV with arrows in between.
Santiago points to the last row. “You can raise or lower the entire car. After I get out, lower it by pushing here,” he says, taking my finger and placing it on the dial.
I look at him nervously, afraid I’ll break something.
He laughs. “It’s all right. It just makes transferring easier. And if I have the feature, I figure I should use it.” He leans over and gives me a light peck before grabbing his crutches and pushing out of the car.
I wait till he’s safely out, then do as he asked, marveling as I feel the car lower. Whoa.
By the time I join him, he’s seated on the edge of the trunk, now noticeably closer to the ground, attaching the second wheel to his chair, his crutches lying beside him.
I stand, one hand on the car, just watching him. “God, you’re so sexy,” I say out loud without realizing it at first, blushing when he grins.
“You get a two-for-one deal tonight,” he says with a flash of those nearly perfect teeth as he rights his wheelchair on the ground. He spins it around so its back is to him, slipping his crutches into the brackets. Then he pulls his wallet, phone, and keys out of his pockets, setting them beside him on the soft carpet of the trunk.
He notices me watching him manipulate his chair so it’s roughly perpendicular to him and grins at me, tilting his head to one side. “You like it, don’t you?”
My cheeks match the color of his chair’s frame. Since my confession, we haven’t really talked about my “thing,” and I was kind of hoping he wouldn’t make a big deal out of it. “Um…well…” He’s not going to let me get by without an answer. “Let’s just say it’s very ‘you.’ Very sexy.”
He laughs, grabs his phone and wallet, and slips them in the pouch suspended beneath his seat. “The one I had before this I got in law school, and it was pretty vanilla. A few years ago, when I started needing a chair more, Genie talked me into going bold.” He reaches for my hand and pulls me into his lap.
“Then I’ll have to thank her.” I giggle, blowing on his neck. He shrugs his shoulder, guarding his neck, feeling the tickle.
I cradle his neck with one hand, and he pulls me closer. We gaze into each other’s eyes for a moment before I let mine fall shut and press into a kiss. Every time, every kiss with him I feel as if I’m melting. I’ve never felt like this before, with anyone.
But I think back to what he said, about his chair, and I realize how much his life must have changed over the years, how much it will change in the future. We pull back from the kiss, his arms still wrapped around me, and his crutches catch my eye.
“Santiago…” My breath is hot, tickling his neck. I can tell by the way he tilts his head away, lips curled into a relaxed smile. “How long have you…” I swallow, force myself to finish the question. “…needed crutches?”
He sighs, shifts me in his lap so we can better look at each other. He’s frowning, and I remember last night and hate myself for asking, especially when tonight promises to be so special. He tucks some hair behind my ear, scrutinizing me, biting his lip, as if debating how to respond.
“It’s okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,” I mumble quickly, trying to hop off him.
But he holds me fast, shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. You should ask, and you deserve an answer.” He kisses me, just a light peck on my jaw. “Your hip and butt muscles are what help you keep your balance,” he says slowly. “So if those are weak, you compensate by using other muscles to try to keep yourself from falling on your ass.” He laughs sadly, tucks some of my hair behind my ear. “Let’s just say it’s taken me a few years, PT, some really good braces, and admitting that using the crutches are better than not to get my walk more natural and ease the strain on the muscles I do have.” He squeezes me, then adds, “Not to mention it makes it a helluva lot easier to stand up. And I don’t have to worry about falling.”
Our eyes meet; although he’s been completely honest with me, and he seems relaxed, I see a hesitancy in his eyes. My gaze catches the St. Anthony medal I gave him earlier in the week, and which he’s worn without fail since.
“I just… I want to understand you better.”
Santiago smiles. “I can’t make any promises—to you, or even myself—but I’m not a kid anymore. And I will promise you I will be honest and take care of myself.” He takes my hand and places it on his heart as if to emphasize his sincerity.
I can feel the soft thrum beneath my palm, and my eyes drop to his chest. “Santiago. Tell me. Your heart…”
He brushes his thumb over the top of my hand and lets out a long breath.
“I read online…”
When our eyes find each other again, perhaps he can see the fear in mine, because his face softens, and his cheek tilts in a gentle, reassuring smile. “My heart is fine,” he says, cradling my cheek. “I see a cardiologist every year for an evaluation.” He studies me, perhaps seeing the unease in my face. “I may never have problems. But if I do, because I go annually, they can treat it if they find anything. I’ll be okay.” He places a gentle kiss on my cheek. “Come here, linda,” he says, cradling me tight, rocking me against him. I feel so secure in his arms, even if the world were coming down around us, I
’d be okay as long as he keeps holding me like this.
I hum a bit of The All-American Rejects’ “Mona Lisa” to myself, inhaling his scent.
He kisses the top of my head. We pass several minutes in silence, neither of us talking, and I find I don’t mind it. Finally, he adds, “I…I will get weaker.” I hear him swallow. “Someday I won’t be able to walk anymore, and eventually…” He hugs me tighter, and I return the embrace, realizing he needs my support as much as I need his. “But that’ll hopefully be years and years in the future. And if there’s anything I’ve learned in the past couple decades, it’s that happiness is now. It doesn’t matter what has happened or what will happen if you’re not enjoying the life you’re living right now.” Santiago grins. Then he worms his fingers under my arms, tickling me until I’m writhing, laughing so hard I’m nearly in tears, struggling to extract myself to escape him.
When I look at him, I see he’s smiling that sweet, genuine grin, the amber of his irises sparkling ever so subtly. I’m surprised I’m not scared or panicked about what being with him could mean; instead, all I want is those eyes. Looking at me, like that, every day. Oh God, if only life were so easy. I fall toward him, our mouths meeting, our tongues sliding along each other, our cheeks tilting in mirrored grins.
* * * *
Santiago, in typical fashion, flirts with the ticket-check girl as we pass through the gates, but I hardly notice, because I’m not expecting the scene that unfolds in front of us. Just on the other side of the ticket gates is a wide-open space filled with booths of all kinds, mostly selling any kind of beer you could imagine. It reminds me of a more sedate, urban slice of Jazz Fest, surrounded by people of all sorts, music floating around our heads. Along the wall on one side are concessions, and I follow Santiago toward the line, grateful we ate in advance when I see it costs fifteen dollars for a hamburger.
“I don’t want you to get overheated or dehydrated,” Santiago says, the skin between his brows dimpling in concern. “So I’m going to get some water. Do you want anything else?”