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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