Part V

She turned around and looked at the house—the house she loved, the house that had nourished her when her heart had been torn and bleeding. She opened the gate, got in, and closed it without hesitation. Then she looked up at him, his mouth half-open as if he were about to say something else. She held his gaze for a few seconds then started locking the gate. When the lock clicked, she looked up again and there he was, in disbelief. But there was nothing else to say. She slowly turned around and started toward the house. Her first instinct was to look at the living room window to see if anyone had been watching, but there was no one there. This seemed to be the longest walk of her life. Who would have thought? She was walking away from all that she had ever wanted at one point in her life—from the boyish smile, the brown curls, the veiny hands. She opened the door, stepped inside, and looked back. He was still there, with defeated shoulders and glistening eyes. Life seemed to be going in slow-motion, with so many possibilities opening up like endless scrolls in front of her.

It felt like it was just yesterday. They were dancing under the dimmed lights of the elegantly decorated party room in the Marriott. She had on a beautiful shimmering dress and dangling crystal earrings. She felt like a million bucks. His hands were around her waist and he kept bringing her closer and closer to him. Her knees were rattling violently and her breath was quick and shallow. He brought his mouth close to her ear and started whispering the things she never thought she would hear. Her imagination was quick—she could see her future, their future. There would be baking sessions, visits to the Museum of Fine Arts, dense conversations about Kafka and Byron and Edward Said until they would fall asleep sometime after 2 AM.  She had let the wind of his whispers tickle her ear and her heart had thundered in her rib cage.

Suddenly, one word had changed it all. Suddenly, she had woken up from the beautiful, momentary dream. Suddenly, she had realized he would never be for her. So she had walked away, leaving him there on the dancefloor, with a puzzled look and defeated shoulders. She had been blind, but now she could see, even if tears were flooding her eyes. She kept walking, not knowing exactly where to go, but feeling the urge to get out of that stifling place. She had always thought that had been the longest walk of her life…until now.

She closed the door and walked through the small foyer in a few seconds. She was walking past the living room and caught something from the corner of her eye which made her stop. It was her husband. He was sitting with her back to her, watching the Christmas tree. She stared at his broad shoulders, his strong neck, and his perfectly groomed black hair.

That night, she had walked out into the hotel gardens and felt her burning cheeks being cooled by the surprisingly fresh May night. Her head was pounding, her blood boiling, her heart yelling. Her voice had choked inside of her, as the walls of her throat seemed to have closed up. There was agony blazing inside her, but not a sound would come out. She had walked across the garden, feeling her heart was about to burst. Suddenly, there was a cry, a sob, faint and deep. But it wasn’t hers. It wasn’t her voice that had finally escaped its trap of misery. She listened. Yes, a low cry—so, so low and desperate. She had followed the sound and, turning a corner, had found its source: a man, with his waiter uniform, huddled in a corner, trembling in sobs, covering his face with his hands. She stood there in front of him, watching him, feeling her own pain subsiding at the sight of such a man weeping with such anguish. After a few moments, he had felt a presence, which propelled him to quickly look up with reddened eyes.

“Cathy!” he had cried, jumping to his feet and wiping the tears off his face. It was a moonless night and she was still very shaken, so it had taken her a moment to recognize him.

“Cathy, are you okay?” he had asked, gently placing his hand on her shoulder.

“Santi—no… Alex, right?”

“Whatever is left of him, yes,” he had replied, forcing a smile.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… to intrude—”

“No… it’s fine. I should be working…” he sniffled and again wiped his dry face with the back of his hand. “Cathy, can I help you with anything?”

“I’m fine.” She had said it so resolutely that he had just stared at her and nodded. 

“Okay…” he blurted awkwardly and started walking away. She didn’t like him, but he had seemed so distressed that she had considered trying to help him. Before she knew it, she was speaking again.

“Alex…”

“Yeah?”

“I know we’re not exactly friends—”

“As far as I can see, we only have each other right now.”

Alex must have felt her presence behind him, for he looked back and saw her lingering on the living room threshold. She saw him place her angelic nephew, who was fast asleep, on the sofa and stare at her inquiringly. On the worst day of her life, she had found this man she once thought she hated crying inconsolably in a corner of a hotel garden, wearing a waiter uniform. On the worst day of her life, she had found another aching, bleeding heart howling with grief. On the worst day of her life, she had decided not walk away but to place her arm around the broad shoulders of a man weakened by the sorrow of his dying mother. That night, he had looked at her face with those lovely green eyes and told her that Santiago was an idiot and that she the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, even if eyeliner was running down her cheeks in little droplets. With the music blaring in the distance, he had asked her to dance one song with him and had even managed to crack a couple jokes to make her smile. All while his mother was lying in a hospital bed with a shaven head and a mutilated body.  He, who had been nothing to her and who had no duty toward her, had done this. He who was standing in front of her right now. He was looking at her with a mix of worry and fear. But what had he to fear? Didn't he know? It was true that she hadn't always loved him, and he certainly had done a lot of pleading before she had even considered giving him a chance, but after all they had gone through--then it dawned of her: he had seen her from the window. He had probably seen Santiago leaning in and raising her hand up to his chest. Yet there was no reproach, no accusation. He was waiting on her to speak.

She remembered the first time she had met his mother. Alex, his dad, and his two brothers were throwing her what would be her last birthday party. Only close friends of the family had been invited, so she had been very nervous--after all, Alex was just her friend back then. But Angela had received her as if she had always been part of the family: she had embraced her with her feeble arms and kissed her cheek. She had the same glistening green eyes as her son, though made larger by the thinness of her face and the shades of gray surrounding them. But her most vivid memory of Angela was her voice. It was soothing and powerful and kind all at once, like oak leaves rustling with a gentle wind in a warm April morning. Cathy had taken a liking to her immediately. 

"I'm glad to meet the famous Cathy at last!"

"Me? Famous?"

"Yes--at least around here. I hear my son was quite the stereotype of a spoiled teenage football player around you in high school," she nudged and winked at her." But God made sure to straighten him up and force him to become a man." She had said this with a mix of pride and nostalgia. "He's got a good heart, I promise."

"I know he does."

"Do you?" she asked with a playful smile. Cathy had just blushed profusely.

"I wish I'd be here to see it," she sighed. "I don't have much time left, I'm afraid. So I'll be watching from up there," she looked up. "But if there's anything I can say to help my son a bit is this: he's got a really good heart. You see those big beautiful eyes? They're nowhere as big or as beautiful as his heart. You keep that in  mind, okay?" She had.


She continued looking at him until she could no longer contain a dimpled smile. On the worst day of her life, she had found him. He was hers—her sleek black hair, her plump lips, her broad shoulders, her massive hands, her freckled back, her pretty eyes. Her husband—hers. She jumped into his arms.

“‘I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears of all my life!’”, she recited, marking each pause with a kiss.

“‘And, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death’”, he responded, smiling.

“That night I thought I was helping you, but in reality you rescued me—no, it’s true, stop shaking your head!” she stroked his face. “I felt invisible and then you came along and even though you were going through hell you looked at me like you’re doing right now and you saw me—you saw me when I thought no one did.”

“Well, that was not hard to do!”

“The thing is… I don’t need anyone else to see me as long as you do.” He held her tighter and looked at her with misty and smiley eyes. She kissed him.

“Anyway, I was going to wait until midnight to give you your gift—but I don’t think I can wait any longer!” She rushed to get the tiny box with the gold wrapping paper and oversized red bow that was under the Christmas three. She placed it in his hands and waited restlessly as he carefully opened it and unfolded the rest of their lives in front of her. There would be movie nights every Friday, sleepless nights, arguments about which was the best football league in Europe, runs to the pediatrician,canoeing trips, sand castles, vanilla ice cream, Disneyland, summer barbecues, late night talks about angels, demons, and the Virgin Mary. There would be laughter and whispers and two pairs of eyes glowing in the dark. She watched him as he stared down at the tiny pair of mint-colored, knitted socks.

“Merry Christmas and happy birthday, Daddy.”

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Should have a title for this thing by now.... but here's PART IV

He parked the car a couple blocks away, thinking he could use a walk in the sobering December chill. Each step brought with it a different flashback, which was as thrilling as it was confusing. Many things in his memory seemed to have fused together, making it hard for him to distinguish the whos, wheres, and whens. But when one pleasant memory fluttered in the back of his head, he made sure to bring it forth, contemplate it, and savor it slowly. Suddenly he was transported to that glorious night: the lights dimmed across the dance floor, the bass slow and smooth, his hands around her waist and his head hanging low to meet hers. They moved to the rhythm of the ballad and basked in each other’s presence in delicious silence. What was the occasion? That was irrelevant. The important thing was that they had been there together and everything seemed possible when her hands were around his neck. He had danced with his eyes closed and had listened solemnly to her when she broke the silence to tell him all the things he had longed to hear from her. His heart was pounding and his lip quivering, so it took him a while to compose himself enough to be able to tell her how much he had missed her and how he still loved her. Then something had happened—he wasn’t sure what. All he knew was that she had walked away from him and had vanished behind the other couples dancing before he could do anything about it. That was the last time he ever saw her.

What was he doing, then? He was walking to Cathy’s house for God knows what while thinking about her. Why was he going to see Cathy? What was he going to say to her? He hadn’t seen her in a good three years—he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen her. What if she had moved away? No, surely she wouldn’t have left without saying good-bye. But how could she have said good-bye? He had made sure to burn his bridges and no one who had meant anything to him once knew how to contact him.

He kept walking, trying not to despair at the thought of potentially not finding Cathy. He was sure that he needed to see her—that’s all he knew for now. There was something about Cathy that he loved: she had clarity of thought. He could lay before her the most complicated existential crisis and she could untangle it in front of him and give him a solution—if only he’d listen. Sometimes he thought her overly practical, but it seemed that ultimately everything that she said was prophetic and everything she suggested would have been the best course of action, if only he would have followed the advice. All these things were flying through his mind until he suddenly looked up and saw a figure crossing the street hurriedly. When he recognized her, he stopped abruptly for a brief moment as if to gather courage. He saw the woman cross the street again and struggle with the gate. He approached her and ended up lurking behind her.

He had startled her, so he took a step back and greeted her softly. He could see the shadow of confusion on her face and then the lightbulb going off when she finally realized who he was. He looked at her and smiled as her knitted brow relaxed.

“Santi! Oh my God!”

Next thing he knew she was throwing her arms around him. It was a bit of a shock, being hugged like this, hearing his own name again. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged him like this. She was so warm and soft and smelled like lavender, just as he remembered her. He closed his eyes for a second and let that scent transport him back to the many times he had spent right here, just outside her house, telling her about his woes, drinking the delicious hot chocolate that only she knew how to make, feeling the sleeve of her cozy red sweater around his shoulders as she consoled him and encouraged him to move on. She had always been there for him. She could have helped him forget—he knew that now.

“Look at you… you look…”

“Like death?”

“I was going to say skinny and cold, but I guess that will do,” she chuckled as she rubbed his arm lovingly.

“You look so beautiful,” he blurted out without thinking. His remark made her blush profusely and look away with embarrassment. He was quite in awe of her glowing face, with its freckles and dimples and sparkly eyes and perfect smile. He started wondering if he had ever noticed how radiant she was or if she had just changed too much. But he knew it had been him—he hadn’t noticed, he hadn’t even tried.

 “What are you doing here?”

“I—I was in the neighborhood and I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas.”

“Yeah? That’s… weird. I mean, I haven’t seen you in God knows how long. How are you?”

“Well… I don’t know… fine,” he tried to force a smile. She noticed and looked at him with her bright hazel eyes filled with worry.

“Are you… hungry? Would you like to join—”

“That’s not why I’m here,” he snapped, annoyed at the suggestion that he had come to beg for food. No matter how much he had been through or all the things he had done, he was too proud to beg anyone for anything. “I just wanted to see you. I miss you.”

“Oh, Santi…”

“I don’t really have anyone to talk to anymore.”

“What happened with your girlfriend?”

“Who?”

“Oh… Mikaela?”

“She… she’s not my girlfriend… well, I can’t talk to her. She’s not doing too well…”

“Neither are you, by the looks of it.”

“I’m fine, really.”

“Why are you here?”

He fixed his eyes, which were glistening with tears, on hers. There were no words, no explanations, no excuses to be made. He didn’t dare to ask. He could only plead with his eyes. She knew him so well, and he knew that would be enough for her to understand that he needed help. She was looking back at him and he could see her eyes welling up. She still loved him—he could see it. If only she would give him a chance! He came closer to her and leaned in, slowing bringing his forehead to almost touch hers. She was utterly still.

“You’re a mess.”

“But if only I could be around you… I know I would get better. I would try harder. I would get my act together—you would help me.” She remained still and he whispered to her, “you’re good for me. I know I don’t deserve it, but I know I can do better if you’re with me. I could finally forget…”

“Forget? You are still planning on doing that?” her voice rose with indignation and she drew back. She calmed herself by taking a deep breath.

“I’m sorry—yes, I’m still trying to let go. It’s not easy.”

“Well, we’ve all done it, moving on. She is married. She has a kid. What are you waiting on?”

“It’s not so easy!” he cried with frustration, “after all we went through, after all the things that were said and promised. Even a couple years ago—at that party, when I thought it was all lost—I  saw her at that party. She told me she cared for me… that she loved me. Then she just went and married that guy, when in reality she still loved me? How am I supposed to get over that so easily? I’ve tried. Mickey—Mikaela—tried to help me, but it didn’t work. But Mickey—she’s too weak, she ended up worse than me. I need someone strong, who can help me, who can push me to be the best version of myself… Cathy…”

“I can’t fix you, Santiago. Only you can do that—”

“But I’m not asking you to fix me… Just—when I’m with you, I’m better. I know I didn’t treat you right, I took you for granted, I was awful… but if you give me a chance—”

“I will not.” She said it decisively, but with tranquility and gentleness. She was frank and serious, looking at him without embarrassment, yet she was not cruel, bitter, or resentful. He was rendered speechless.

“For years, I waited for you to realize… but you have a habit of refusing to see the truth that’s right before you—whether it’s the fact that Danielle moved on or that I was crazy about you.” His heart jumped inside him and he felt hopeful for a brief moment. She stopped and looked down momentarily as if to gain courage.

“Yeah, I was—and you knew it. Danielle told you she did not love you. It couldn’t have been clearer. But you decided to spend your time getting stoned out of your mind and ruining your life and using unrequited love as an excuse for all that.”

Being accused in such a manner was, truthfully, a small pleasure. If she was bothering to give him a lecture, then she probably still cared. It was good to be held accountable—he knew he needed someone to do that for him. He was glad he had come here, even if her words did hurt and if he was desperate to make things up to her.

“That party you’re talking about? For God’s sake—that was my graduation party, when I finished my degree.  You showed up there, drunk or high or something, thinking she would be there because her brother was graduating in my class. But she wasn’t there, she had already moved to Paris.”

His heart stopped. His eyes widened. His mind suddenly seemed to explode, unfolding before him a vivid recollection: it was Cathy he had slow-danced with; it was Cathy who had put her hands around his neck and had whispered to him that this was like a dream come true and that she had waited for this moment for such a long time; it was Cathy who had heard him pour his heart out; and it was Cathy who had walked away and vanished in the crowd.

“I did think you seemed a bit tipsy, but didn’t realize how bad it was until you called me Danielle,” he could scarcely bear to look at her. “You called me Danielle.”

“I…”

 “I left you in the middle of the dance floor by yourself. That was the last time we saw each other. And here you are, asking me to give you a chance? I did. It was one chance. You missed it.”

“I am so sorry, Cathy.”

“I know you are.”

“Please, forgive me… please…” he took her hand and raised it to his chest. He inhaled that lavender scent and closed his eyes, pleading with her. She withdrew her hand.

“I have forgiven you, but that’s all I can do for you.” He could see pity in her eyes. “I used to think that you were the worst thing that had happened to me. But I made up my mind to not let you break me like Danielle had broken you. I resolved to be happy no matter what.  But in order for me to do that, I had to forgive you--for my own sake. Ironically, it is because of you that I can say that I’m as happy as I never thought I could be”, she smiled at him. After some moments of silence, she added, “what you are looking for is not here, Santi.”

“What do you think I’m looking for?”

“Love. In the truest sense of the word.”

“Well, I thought I would find that here.”

“It’s Christmas. Go home, Santi.”

“Home?"

“Yes, home.”  

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