“Like when I tell Mami I will be good?”
“Something like that.”
“Mi papá me dijo que mami es la reina de mi casa.”
Her mother was the queen of their house. It must have been nice to be so revered. Caia thought about Gregg, and tried to recall how it was in the beginning. She’d been so enamored with him, and really, she’d been so grateful for his attentions that she’d promised him the world. A rush of sadness overcame her—sorrow for the youngsters they had been. Regret was such an ugly sentiment. There was so much Caía would do differently if she had it to do all over again, but maybe it was time to forgive herself—and Gregg—and move on.
Caía stopped again, taking in the view, overdosing on the bittersweet familiarity of the conversation. She inhaled a breath, exhaling slowly. Olive trees grew everywhere, but here more than in Jeréz, it was the scent of orange blossoms that filled the air, even in the middle of November.
Along the edges of the path grew wild cucumbers. Caía had never seen any quite so tiny, and never in the wild. They would be ideal for pickling. She meant to stop and pick one to give it a closer inspection, but she had already lingered too long and, not wanting to be left behind, she hurried to catch up, leaving the cucumbers for later. Pinching her jacket together to stay warm, she moved behind Nick, because the higher they climbed, the windier it got, and he made a great windshield. Right now, even her toes were cold, and what was worse, if she wasn’t slipping and sliding, she was stubbing her toes on the rocks.
Around the midway point, between the overlook and the tower, they passed what appeared to be a mass of old ruins. Probably having noticed her struggling, Nick came over and took Caía by the hand. “Bedouin huts,” he said, pointing to the ruins and guiding her up the path. Marta spied his gesture and smiled, taking her daughter by the hand and hurrying up ahead to give them privacy.
Caía tried to free her hand, but Nick held it firmly. “It’s steep here,” he said.
“I’m a big girl,” Caía reassured him, and shook her hand free, half embarrassed, and maybe half annoyed at herself for the mess she’d created.
Up ahead, Laura crawled like a spider on four legs. Marta lifted her up, carrying her. Feeling like an intruder in a special moment, Caía stopped again, her emotions getting the better of her. From the top of the hill, they intended to launch Jimmy’s ashes on Chinese lanterns. They’d brought along a picnic snack, which Nick carried in his backpack. But she shouldn’t be here. What was she doing holding his hand?
Admittedly, the view from this height was spectacular, especially with the sun shining over the bright blue lake. One glimpse of the turquoise-blue waters of the Embalse de Zahara and it was difficult to imagine why Ponce de León would ever go searching elsewhere for the Fountain of Youth. She peered up the hill, at Marta and her child. Both disappeared around the bend.
“Even big girls need help now and again,” Nick said. “Big boys do too.” He put one arm around Caía’s waist and drew her close, kissing her nose.
Hating herself for it, Caía gave into the desire to be held. “So, you’re saying you need me to hold your hand?”
He smiled. “Maybe.”
For a blissful moment, Caía stood there, looking at Nick—his winsome smile and little boy eyes—and realized that she could never have hurt him. Even now, in the broad light of day, with Marta and Laura traipsing up ahead, she wanted to take her hands out of her pockets and put her arms around his waist and hold him tight. Loss was a touchstone for depression, she realized. Depression was a sort of madness. She was well acquainted with that form of insanity, but in her darkest hour, when it seemed no relief would be forthcoming, it showed up in the most unexpected place . . . in the arms of the man she’d thought she wanted to kill.
What a pair they were.
Where to go from here.
Only one way.
Down.
Nick turned his back to her, looking over the horizon. They were up so high now that an eagle flew by, but the castle was higher yet.
Nick had his back to Caía, giving her time to rest. He stepped close to the edge, peering below, as though daring her to push him off.
She moved closer . . . so close she might have put her hand on the small of his back . . . but she didn’t. She didn’t even take her hands out of her pockets. Some part of her longed to comfort Nick, but she didn’t dare. Her emotions were even closer to the edge than he was. “It’s so beautiful,” she said.
“Gorgeous.” He turned to look at her over his shoulder. “Jimmy proposed to Marta up there,” he said, pointing to the castle on the summit. The narrow path wound itself about the hill. Marta and Laura were on the other side of the mountain now, and if they stayed in this spot long enough, they might reappear on a shelf above.
Succulents, cacti, and rosemary thrived, but barely anything else. It was more like a promontory, craggy and rocky, with paths that wandered dangerously close to the edge—like the spot where Nick was standing now. But despite its desolate appearance, the land it governed was gorgeous. Serene. Never ending. Olive groves for miles.
It made sense that Marta would wish to come here to let Jimmy go.
It was time to do that for Jack as well.
Caía peered up at the castle, pulling her jacket tighter, wishing things could have been different. And once again, her gaze fell on more of those little wild cucumbers near Nick’s feet. She took one hand out of her pocket, reaching to pick one to inspect it, hoping to move on to another subject. “What are these?”
“Exploding cucumbers,” he said, just as Caía touched one.
In the blink of an eye, she saw Nick’s car driving down the road . . . her son nearing the crosswalk, perfectly aligned, a perfect storm.
Seeds burst from the cucumber pod, shooting into Caía’s eyes. The impact was violent, like a BB in the eye. Caía squealed, leaping back, losing her footing. The back of her sandal caught on a rock. Through teary eyes, she saw the fear in Nick’s gaze and reached for him—too late.
Nick’s arm shot out, grasping at thin air as Caía plummeted backward, free-falling until she grabbed for a thorny cactus, shredding the skin on her hand.
Yowling in pain, she let go again . . . peering up into Nick’s eyes. And this, she thought, before she felt the impact, was the last face her son had spied before he died.
This was not the way Caía meant for anything to end.
But this was the thing, right? Things don’t necessarily end up the way you think they should. Like maybe you believe you’re going to be happy all your life, and suddenly you’re not. Or maybe you think revenge is what you need, and it turns out it’s not. All you ever needed or wanted was to commiserate with someone who understands.
Fifteen
And we wept that one so lovely
should have a life so brief.
– William Cullen Bryant
Chicago, Wednesday, June 15, 2016
Caía
Oh, God! Jack’s cake.
Caía was supposed to have picked it up by 2:00 p.m. She’d almost forgotten, and the realization came to her as she sat staring at the Village Tap’s front door. The green neon sign above the glass door read: Beer Garden. The windows were clean. There was no one outside.
No Lindsey. No Gregg.
She’d been so wrapped up in Lindsay’s email this morning that she didn’t even remember to wish her son happy birthday. No wonder he’d had attitude. He probably thought she’d forgotten. Well, she didn’t forget, but admittedly, she did forget a lot these days. Her head was so wrapped up in her failing marriage. She and Gregg walked through their house like strangers, barely looking at one another, barely tolerating each other, and her son had become a hungry ghost.
After all this was over, Caía intended to make it up to him. But right now, she needed to call him and tell him happy birthday. The problem was that
she was already two beers in, and such a lightweight. And her whole life was on the verge of change.
From Caía’s vantage at the back of the bar, she could see everyone who walked through the front door. Noon, the email had said. Noon. She glanced at her cell phone, checking the time. Five more minutes, and then she would go home—even if they did come in. The point was for them to see her, and for Caía to see them. But, of course, she wouldn’t tell Jack. Not today. She’d leave here and go pick up his cake, and then go home, and give him his present, and then . . . and then . . .
But what if she called and slurred her words? What if he asked where she was? Caía was a terrible liar. She set the phone down again, waiting just another moment . . . and then she picked it up and punched in her son’s number.
The waitress came over, and Caía put a hand to her throat, making the kill sign. One way or the other, she was out of here in five minutes. “Come on, Jack, answer,” she said, her eyes glued to the front door. When he didn’t, she checked the time again—12:02 p.m. She hung up, waited another moment, and tried one more time. This time it went straight to voicemail.
Finally, finally! Lindsey walked in, and Caía found herself reluctant to leave. She ordered one more beer, feeling in her gut that Gregg would follow any moment. She hid her face as Lindsey walked past, making her way to the back, into the beer garden. Such a cozy spot, with awnings over the patio. Vines on the brick wall. She and Gregg used to nestle in a corner.
Any minute now and it will all be over.
A sense of excitement bubbled through Caía’s veins, because finally, finally she would learn the truth. She would have a reason to leave.
*
Jack
He loved the sound of his wheels turning over the pavement, the rumble beneath his feet. It wasn’t a sound that could be imitated by anyone.
A memory popped into Jack’s head—of his mom seated on the living room floor going, “Vroom, vroom, vroom.” It made him smile, but only for a second, and then he remembered.
Everything was shit.
Lately, this was the only time he was happy—on his skateboard.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew what was up. His parents looked at each other like they hated one another. And his mother—the one person he counted on most—she sometimes looked at him now like he was a spider crawling out from under a bed.
It was that same look she gave his dad, and it made him angry. This was the reason he sometimes took his father’s side, because he knew it would piss her off.
This morning, she’d been so wrapped up in whatever stupid thing she’d found on her computer that she wouldn’t even look him in the eyes, and then, when she did, it was all about, “Jack, Jack, Jack. Did you clean your room, Jack? Where’d you get the Coke, Jack?” Jack, Jack, Jack. In that hateful way she sometimes said his name, maybe like everything was all his fault.
Noise was all it was, just noise.
It’s my birthday, man.
He wished they would get it all over with. He wished that his mother would stop pretending. Yeah, he wanted to piss her off, because that was the only time she didn’t remind him of a zombie, walking around with that dead look on her face. She wouldn’t like that he’d gone to Millennium Park today, and she probably thought he was going somewhere closer to home, but what did it matter? By the time she figured out he was gone, he would be home again.
Way back in the day, when things were different, she used to tell him “happy birthday” even before he ever got out of bed, and now she couldn’t even remember.
What was she? Like eighty or something? What was wrong with her head? Even Pop called to wish him happy birthday on his brand-new phone.
Once again, the phone buzzed in his pocket, and Jack wondered if it could be his mom. Some part of him wanted to keep her guessing, except he knew he wouldn’t do that.
Skating along, he fished the cell phone out of his pocket and stared at the number on the screen, paying no attention to the walk sign, telling him when it was okay to cross.
It was 12:02 p.m.
It was her, probably wanting him to come home already. Maybe she went and checked his room. Or maybe she was going to finally tell him happy birthday. Or maybe she just wanted to yell at him some more. Jack looked up—and screamed.
The impact knocked him off his skateboard. He heard the crack of wood beneath a tire as he flew up, over the car’s silver hood. Somehow, he managed to hang tight to his new phone, but it went flying out of his hand when he hit his head. “Mom,” he said.
It was the last word he ever said.
Sixteen
Forgiveness is the attribute
of the strong.
– Mahatma Gandhi
Chicago, Saturday, June 18, 2016
Caía
Caía felt a hand on her shoulder, rubbing gently. She recognized her father’s touch and a tear slid past her guard. He didn’t speak. He rarely did, unless he had something important to say; otherwise, he had that soothing way about him that needed no words to convey his love.
Strong and silent, steadfast and loyal, her pop had been her touchstone all her life. He comforted her now as he had that day so long ago when Caía ran home crying over Robbie Bowles. Up until now, no matter what befell her, Caía always knew her dad would be there to help her pull her socks up and keep on marching.
But not this time.
No one can help me this time.
“He can’t hear me,” she said softly. “He can’t hear me anymore, Daddy. I talk and talk and talk . . . but he can’t hear me.” She cried softly, brokenhearted.
Her father pulled her close, with more strength in his frail old arms than a man of ninety-seven should have. And with her daddy at her side, Caía worked up the nerve to reach out and touch the shining teakwood casket, hoping to feel her son.
It was cold and smooth, like glass . . .
They called her first—someone at the scene. Caía hadn’t answered. Because she didn’t recognize the number. They called his father next, and of course, Gregg went running. That’s why he never showed up at the Village Tap. He’d called Caia as well, but Caía was so tuned into Lindsey that she hadn’t dared answer a phone call from her own husband. How long did she sit there waiting for Gregg to come in? Nursing yet another beer, waiting, waiting, waiting . . . for what?
She had been so sure Gregg would come. So sure. And so she’d sat there, all the while planning all the terrible things she would say to him. Meantime, a few blocks south, her son’s lifeless body was being hauled into an ambulance.
“You want to go with him?” her father said. He stopped petting her and let his hand rest upon her arm, trembling slightly. He was too old to travel, she thought numbly. She’d told him not to come because she fully intended on going home to Georgia after the funeral. At least for a while. Caía swallowed but didn’t answer, knowing instinctively that he wouldn’t like what she had to say. Gregg was across the room, still on his phone. No doubt talking to her. But at least he had the decency not to invite her here. Although even if he had, Caía wasn’t so sure she would have cared. She was numb inside.
Cold.
Dead.
Like her son.
“Caía,” her father said quietly. “Your place is here.”
Caía flicked another glance across the room, at Gregg. Not with him. “There’s nothing left for me, Pop,” she said, lifting a hanky to her nose, secure in the knowledge that her father couldn’t possibly understand how she felt. Her depth of despair was far too great. And she didn’t mean just here, in Chicago. She meant anywhere. She couldn’t picture any life without her son.
She moved her hand over the cold casket, mimicking the way her father had caressed her back, and, after a long moment, Caía met her father’s pale blue eyes, clouded with age.
There was evidence of cataracts forming in his eyes. Why
hadn’t she noticed? Naturally, he had adored Jack, his only grandchild, and nothing would have kept him from the funeral. But for the first time in Caía’s life, she saw her father as less than hale. He was no longer the quiet, looming giant he had once been. For a moment, she was lost, blinking as she peered into the mirror of her father’s eyes. And she realized . . . he felt exactly what she felt. He loved her, but he wanted to be with her mother. “You have no room to talk,” she said, returning her gaze to the casket.
How could he ask her to stay if he didn’t want to be here, himself?
“Ah, Caía. You think there is nothing left for you now, no tears left to shed, but drop by drop, there will be an ocean of your tears before you leave this world. And, one day, you will know what it means to want to stay.”
Caía swallowed over the lump in her throat. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Dad.” Silence wedged between them. Snippets of whispered conversations came in and out of focus, forcing their way into Caía’s bubble.
“There must be trouble in paradise, right?” “Look at him over there on his cell phone.” “So sad.” “Well, yeah, but I would never, ever let my son skate out in traffic like that.”
“Caía,” her dad said, dragging her back.
Caía couldn’t look at him. She didn’t want to look at anyone. There was a tsunami building deep down, and if she let go, she would weep, and she wouldn’t stop weeping until everyone in this room lay six-feet underwater.
“Caía,” he said again, very soberly, “I never thought to burden you with this . . . but I see now that it has a purpose. When your mother and I left Poland . . . we left a boy . . .”
For a moment, she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right, and then her gaze snapped to meet her father’s, her eyes wide with horror over the implication of his confession. “What do you mean you left a boy?”
His eyes glistened with unshed tears. “A son,” he said, and clenched his trembling jaw, but he did not avert his gaze. It was a stoic, sad look Caía had glimpsed a hundred thousand times on her father, but never once had she wondered if he could be mourning a child. He pursed his lips, but they defied him, trembling.
Redemption Song Page 16