“Hello, Dr. De Leon,” she said, quietly closing the door. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by.”
“Are you a spirit?” I asked, leaning my head against the chair, feeling heavy and euphoric. “Eres una muerta?”
“Of course,” she said in Spanish, amused. “I’m Yoanna.” Her voluptuous breasts bounced as she sauntered around the desk and hiked up her short skirt to reveal nothing underneath. Extending one long leg over my knees, she gave me a good view of what she was offering before straddling me with unwelcome familiarity. Each time Filomena had come to me she’d been flirtatious but shy, as she’d been in life. Perhaps this woman was more of a demon than a muerta.
“Let’s see,” she said, boldly reaching down between my legs. The woman’s perfectly pink, unnaturally pillowy lips turned downward into a scowl when she felt that I was still soft in spite of her obvious assets, her rounded, girlish features in stark contrast to her vampiric energy. “Damn,” she muttered.
“Pretty Yoanna,” I said, “why did you come see me tonight?” Her face momentarily faded in and out of focus, certainly some kind of trickery on her part. I took her hand in mine and gently moved it to my thigh.
“Rafa, you’re even more handsome than they say,” she purred, slipping both hands around my neck. “I’d get on my knees right now if you told me to.”
“You came all the way here for that?” I asked, erupting in laughter when she did.
“Why don’t you find out?” The peliroja leaned in and kissed me, grinding her hips into mine. For a moment I allowed it, not wanting to offend her, especially if she’d come to pass along some important information. But I wasn’t sure how far to let this go. Even in a trance, there had to be limits. Delfina had told me some muertos could be aggressive and take uninvited liberties, just like people. I pulled away and lifted her hips off mine, pushing her down lower near my knees. She was surprisingly heavy, and I tried to remember if I’d been as keenly aware of Filomena’s body. This felt different, more real, and I should have known then that it was.
“If I weren’t a married man . . .” I whispered. I said it partially not to hurt her feelings, but the more I looked at her the more attractive she became, so feminine and bewitching that it was difficult to say no. I leaned my head back again and closed my eyes, but it only made the room spin.
“Don’t sleep yet,” she said. “Pick something in the room and keep your eyes on it. Let’s go lie down.” Taking my arm, she helped me out of the chair and over to the couch, her hand soft and warm.
“We can’t,” I said, struggling to get the words out. My mouth had become so dry I could barely speak, and I held on to the couch for dear life feeling as if I were going to slide off it at any second. She went out of focus again and this time stayed that way.
“Relax,” she said. “Just give me one more kiss and I’ll go,” she said. Leaning down, she took her top off and put her open mouth on mine. Reflexively I kissed her back, and the last thing I heard before falling asleep was the sound was the sound of a phone camera and the closing of my office door.
***
“Bobo,” said a voice. The red numbers on the digital clock next to me read 3:11 am, the only light in the room coming from Amada’s vanity, which she must have forgotten to switch off. It came again. “Eres un bobito, mijo.” Bobo, the affectionate Cuban word for “silly fool.”
Only one person had ever called me mijo, Spanish for “my son,” but the voice wasn’t quite the same. Before me stood a young woman, barely twenty years old, wearing an Emerald green fitted dress and a black hat straight out of the pages of a 1940s fashion magazine. The woman’s smile was genuine and contagious, her tight, chocolate skin dewy and fresh. I recognized her from the many photos I’d seen, but they didn’t do her justice. She was absolutely beautiful.
“Doña Delfina?” I gasped, rising from my chair. A deluge of tears came from somewhere deep inside, a virtual flood released by only a quarter-turn of a single tap.
“No, mijo, don’t cry,” she said, coming to me. “My boy,” she said, hugging me, “stop that now.”
My body convulsed at the emotion of seeing her again, especially in this incarnation, a young woman in her prime, so happy and healthy. The last time I’d seen her she’d been gasping for breath in my arms, the life in her fading away like an ebbing tide.
“What do you feel when you hug me?” she said, wiping away my tears with a gloved hand. I squeezed her arm but barely felt a thing, as if she were made of loosely packed snow absent of temperature. “This is what un muerto feels like, bobito,” she said. “Remember to check next time.”
“Doña Delfina, what happened to me tonight?”
“The girl put an evil powder in your coffee, a hallucinogen from Haiti. What bad luck that place is for you,” she said, shaking her head. Un polvo malo she’d called it.
“Did Demarais send her to try to kill me? Am I going to be sick again like last time?”
“Yes, he sent the woman,” she said. “But not to kill you, only to ruin you. This time.”
“She left me,” I said, our arms still intertwined. I had no idea if it was her presence in any form or something about her here on this plane, but I couldn’t stop crying, as if she were willing it out of me.
“She’s devastated. If she doesn’t come home soon, you must go and bring her back,” said Delfina. “You’re meant for one another, and your family together will be very important. You cannot allow her to marry someone else.”
“I understand. Delfina are you happy with everything—”
“It’s perfect, mijo, exactly as it should be. Now come with me,” she said, beckoning me to follow. “I don’t have much time and I have to show you something.”
I obediently followed her all the way down the dark hall, watching the hem of her skirt swish back and forth across the tops of her chunky black ankle strap shoes. It felt wonderful to be near her, not in quite the same way as when she was alive, but still very good, like getting a phone call from someone you’ve missed dearly. She stopped in front of the double doors beside the back stairs, a storage room Amada had shown me briefly and never mentioned again.
“Inside,” said Delfina, disappearing through the wall. I opened the door and found her beside a desk in the corner where a young man, aged twenty-five or so, sat engrossed in a book. He looked up when she patted his shoulder as if they knew one another. There was no mistaking who he was, as I instantly recognized his green eyes and the tiny beauty mark on his chin identical to the one Amada had in the same place. A full twenty years older than he should have been, he looked mostly like his mother but also strongly resembled Kieran, right down to the same conservative, preppy attire. In this darkness it was hard to see the color of his hair, but it looked like Kieran’s same sandy blonde hue.
“William?” I asked. Delfina nodded. “How do you talk to him?” I asked her.
“There’s no language here, mijo. Just speak.”
I approached him with caution, studying his face and the fine features that could only be described as a clone of his mother’s. She’d said they suspected he was autistic but had never been sure. I was beginning to understand that in the plane of muertos, each spirit took on the shape or appearance that was most meaningful to them, even if they had never reached that age in life. This is what William would have been twenty years from the time of his death.
“Hello,” he said. “I’ve seen you. Do you like it here?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “When your mother is happy.”
“You sleep in her bed,” he said, shutting his book and placing it on his lap. The title, only partially visible, began with the words A History of.
“I do,” I said, coming closer. “Is that alright?”
“Yes,” said William. “She hates being alone.”
“Is that why you’re here, to keep her company?”
“Of course. Why else would I stay in this boring place? I was living in my mother’s bedroom until she came through t
hat day and forced me out.” He gestured toward Delfina, who nodded in agreement, recalling the day we did the cleansing of Amada’s house. “She wanted me to leave altogether, but I just hid in here.” He playfully stuck his tongue out at her, but she only laughed.
“Were you autistic in life, William?” I had to know, if for no reason other than to put Amada’s mind at rest one way or another. I hoped the question didn’t upset him.
“I don’t mind the question,” he said, easily reading my thoughts. “It was Attention Deficit Disorder, but they didn’t know. That’s why I chased the squirrel into the street that day and died. If they’d just given me the right pill, I would have been fine.”
“Does your mother hate doctors because of you?” I asked, sitting gingerly on the arm of a wing chair draped in an old sheet. “What did they do to her?”
“Once the doctors found out she had so much money, they scared her to death. They never left us alone, always wanting to run some test or the other, making her feel guilty as if she did something wrong. They told her I might never be normal. In the end none of them ever helped at all. In fact, they made it worse. They didn’t even get the diagnosis right. Now my mother despises doctors and hospitals, and it’s my fault. She won’t even go if she’s really sick. What if she dies one day because of it? Because of me?”
“I’m working on that, William.” This certainly came as no surprise, as Amada had stopped just short of confessing it to me once herself.
“Yep,” he said, crossing his legs in a way that reminded me way too much of Kieran, his mouth turned into a wry smile. “You know, she’s way smarter than you. Do you know that by age six her IQ was 151? Mine was 160. What’s yours?”
“I don’t know,” I said, delighted by his colorful personality. “I bet it’s not that high.”
“I know what it is, and you’re right!” He burst out in laughter and slapped his leg, obviously thrilled to rub it in.
“William, what do you need from your mother or this house so that you can leave in peace?” asked Delfina. She locked eyes with me and somehow communicated that this was the most important question to ask of any muerto. Take note, she seemed to say. It’s not just about what you want to know. Ask what they want.
“I’ll leave when she’s not lonely anymore. She needs another baby.” He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable and plagued with guilt.
“I’m trying, William, but she misses you too much. She’s scared.”
“I’ll make sure she gets an easy one next time.” He nodded his head with self-assurance, as if there was no doubt he could make it happen. Delfina glanced at me again and sent another unspoken message: Tell him how he can visit her.
“William, when she gets home, would you like to talk to her through me? I think it would make her very happy.”
“Oh, yes!” He smiled from ear to ear. “I never did get to say goodbye. I miss her so much. I also miss macaroni and cheese.”
“Is that something your mother made you?” I asked, happy to be privy to such an intimate memory.
“Of course not, she’s a terrible cook!” We laughed together, the three of us, like a family. I realized then that to Delfina he was already like a grandson and she would stay connected to him even after he decided to go on his way. My love for her grew exponentially in that moment, and I wished she and William could be on Earth with us for another fifty years. There could be no greater gift, I thought, than to have your whole family around you every day for a long, long time.
“William, there will be macaroni and cheese for you,” said Delfina. “All you have to do is come to the party when you’re called.”
“OK,” he said with a childish shrug. Then turning back to his book, with a slight grin he said, “Rafa, tell her I said to ‘worry about herself.’ She’ll get it.” And with one final glance over his shoulder he added, “And that she was the best mom ever.”
Delfina walked me back to the bedroom, strolling down the long corridor as if it were a promenade. Instinctively I stopped in front of Amada’s bedroom door while Delfina kept walking. She blew me a kiss and waved as if she were going dancing instead of fading away into the darkness of the house and beyond. Maybe she was.
“You only have one more guide to meet,” she said, her voice increasingly distant and hollow as she moved further away. “After that, they’re just visitors of all sorts.”
“I love you, Delfina.” I rested my hand on the doorknob, feeling heavy again. “You’re my mother. Please visit me again soon.”
“Of course, mijo,” she said, almost gone. “Now go to work.”
***
I’d called Amada at least ten times the day of Madrina’s grand re-opening. Now, at quarter to ten as the festivities were getting into high gear, I tried one more time before I went out to greet the who’s who of Miami. I went into my office and dialed once more, this time from Sal’s phone. She answered.
“Hello?”
“Amada, don’t hang up!” I held my breath, waiting for her to disconnect the call, but she didn’t.
“Stop it. I don’t want to talk. Go find your new girlfriend.”
“Mi corazón, jamás estaría con otra mujer!” My love, I would never touch another woman. “Let me explain!”
“Rafa, I told you, I’ll do what I want, just like you.” She was cold as ice, the way I’d seen her with strangers. I’d been prepared for her to scream or cry as she had in the car with Mauricio, but not this. Her haughty dismissal of me was far worse.
“You have to come home, mamita,” I begged. “You can’t wander around upset like this, by yourself. It’s not safe.”
“Oh, that again?” she laughed. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m in the south of France. I’m quite confable.” She slurred her words and tried again. “Comftable.”
I ran my fingers along the stubble on my neck as I suppressed the urge to ask her how much she’d had to drink today. Goddamn it, this woman was a handful and a half.
“Amada, why in the hell are you in a foreign county, drunk, without me? There’s no need for all this. I didn’t touch her. I don’t want anyone but my wife by my side. What the hell are you doing? Are you really going to make me get on a fucking plane to Europe?”
“I don’t feel like coming back right now. Maybe I’ll stay here forever.” Finally, a hint of her regular tone, a crack in the armor. I ignored the knock at my door, a staffer letting me know people had started to ask for me. The rhythmic thump of the first performance of the evening blasted through the walls like a sonic boom, the crowd wild for the first performer, Puerto Rican reggaeton rapper Bombax.
“Sorry, sweetheart, but you have exactly six more days to mess around in Europe by yourself. After that, I’m coming to get you, and you will listen. I do not play these games.”
“You can’t find me.” She laughed casually, but I knew a sliver of doubt had crept in.
“Try me, Amada.” I’d be damned if she was going to dump me from across an ocean. No way.
“You have some balls giving me long distance orders when you had that filthy slut all over you!” Something in the background crashed, probably her tumbler of vodka. “Do you have any idea how disgusted I am? You carry on about diseases and safe sex and barriers and all that bullshit, yet secretly you’re happy to put your dick in a walking STD? I need a thousand showers every time I think about it!”
“I don’t even know her! Mi reina, ho ha pasado nada!” My queen, nothing happened! I had a finger in my ear, forced to yell over the heavy bass and the rapper’s machine gun lyrics. Bombax had hit number two on the Billboard 100 today, and as a client of Delfina’s, he’d chosen to celebrate here tonight at the reopening. Every Latin rapper in Miami and their entourages had come to show their support, and now Sandro had his hands full managing both the celebration and an impromptu concert that attracted press, diehard fans and very eager groupies.
“Check your texts,” said Amada, ending the call. Seconds later my phone pinged with a text m
essage from Amada, a photo of me and a topless Yoanna with her mouth on mine. My stomach churned with bile. Not only had she seen us with her own eyes, but now Yoanna and Achille had sent her a picture implying much more. He’d paid me back quite nicely for withholding access to Alex. Game on, motherfucker.
Before we went out to the party, now in full swing, I showed Sandro the photo. “That looks bad, boss,” he said. It did. If I saw a photo of Amada with a half-naked man I wouldn’t be responsible for my actions. She had every right to be out of her mind with grief.
Sandro had dressed for the occasion like the rest of us, sporting a high-end dark suit and an elegant red tie with white and blue accents. Dressed similarly, I had no choice but to add mirrored aviator sunglasses to my ensemble, to hide the dark circles and protect my eyes from the bright lights of the party. Still fighting the fading nausea, every time a camera went off, I felt another destabilizing wave of vertigo.
Sandro accompanied me as I worked the crowd, greeting friends and newcomers alike. I’d reserved a VIP section for the thirty members of El Santuario and their spouses, and when I passed the roped off enclave, Lidia and Raquel darted down the steps in what I knew would be an inquiry about Amada.
“Rafa, everything is gorgeous, but where’s our girl?” shouted Lidia, looking around. The music was still so loud it was impossible to say much, so I pretended I couldn’t hear, gave them both a kiss and a hug and made a gesture to suggest I’d be back later. I had no intention of discussing Amada or her absence with anyone except Sal or Sandro, but Raquel grabbed me by the shoulder and leaned in for one final word. “Oye,” she yelled, “the security you sent with us yesterday eran unos pesados!” Pesao is what she actually said, meaning they’d been jerks, her thick Cuban inflection omitting the d and s-sounds in what my Amada had taught me were two of the many distinguishing characteristics of our unique accent. Jesus Christ I was pussy-whipped, actually thinking about her egghead linguistics shit at a rap concert. I’m going to die, I thought in a complete panic, I really am going to die without Amada, and I’d take Mauricio right along with me if I saw him tonight, that pesao.
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