Love Walked In (15 page)

“Not everyone. But a lot of people do. And scientists are learning more all the time about how to make even the sickest people better.” In Teo’s calm, even voice, the answer wasn’t a howling wilderness. I watched Clare pass through it and emerge on the other end, whole. Then she set the quarter down and took hold of the table’s edge with both hands.

“My mother is sick like that. She started changing in the beginning of October. It was just the two of us in our house, and I watched her get worse and worse. She would buy all kinds of strange things, and she took me out of school for a day for no reason and, one time, she gave me wine to drink.” I listened to Clare, astonished. She had the most expressive face I’d ever seen, and what was in those dark eyes, in the set of her jaw, and across her smooth forehead was unmistakable: trust. I’d seen a flicker of it earlier, when Clare told me about Barcelona. This was no flicker, but a steadfast, shining lantern of trust, shining right at Teo. Under other circumstances, I might have felt slighted—why Teo, why not me?—but this was far too important. Good choice, Clare, I thought, good girl.

“That must have been hard,” said Teo, and Clare nodded, her eyes glazing with tears. No storm came, though, no breakdown. The tears didn’t even fall.

“She stopped taking care of me. She’d always taken great, great care of me, and she stopped. But she didn’t mean to. That’s why I had to keep everyone from finding out she was sick.”

“Because you were afraid people wouldn’t understand? That she might get in trouble?”

Clare nodded.

“She picked me up at school on the last day before vacation, and she was different again. Different from the way she’d been different before. She cried so much, and told me she was sorry. And then she dropped me off by the side of the road. That’s why I’m here.”

“Is Cornelia your mother’s friend?” Teo asked.

“No, her father is my…,” I began. I paused, rifling through the standard labels, rifling through and discarding. Suddenly, all those words felt broad and clumsy, seemed to either carry too much weight or too little. I thought, briefly, of my personal favorite of the
Piers Plowman
allegorical character names: Tom-True-Tongue-Tell-Me-No-Tales-Nor-Lies-For-To-Laugh-At-For-I-Loved-Them-Never. Exactly the kind of precise nomenclature I needed, but before I came close to piecing anything together, Clare jumped in.

“Boyfriend. Cornelia’s my father’s girlfriend,” said Clare.

“I see,” said Teo but, of course, he didn’t see, not the whole complicated picture, and I fought the urge to explain. Why did I want to explain to Teo what didn’t even make sense to me, yet? I’m not sure, but I’d sat at this table and witnessed two people being as brave and honest as people ever are. Maybe I wanted to be brave and honest too. For now, though, I kept my unpeaceable peace.

“You know what I think?” said Clare, her face brightening. “I think you should spend Christmas with us, Teo. Cornelia and I can sleep in her bed, and you can sleep on the couch.” She remembered something, and turned to me. “If it’s OK with you, Cornelia.”

I laughed. “It’s OK with me.” Clare turned back to Teo.

“It’s a really big couch,” she said.

Then the smile she gave Teo turned Clare into a girl only the hardest-hearted among us could refuse, so my old friend Teo, good man, didn’t stand a chance.

In
Cornelia’s kitchen, Teo was teaching Clare how to chop.

While Cornelia was still working, they had walked around Chinatown together, buying a big bag of fragrant rice, small yellow mangoes, and the ingredients for a Filipino noodle dish called
pancit
. They’d also had fun choosing desserts Clare had never seen before, made with unexpected ingredients such as rice, coconut milk, and, most unexpectedly of all, root vegetables like cassava, sweet potato, and a purple yam called
ube
.

The gruff, elderly woman at the bakery had allowed Clare to sample some of the desserts before choosing, even though she said she didn’t usually do that and made a big show of being reluctant. Clare knew the woman wanted to do it because Teo had asked her. He’d told her his father was from Manila, and he let her shake her finger at him and tease him about his green eyes and his inability to speak Tagalog. Teo taught Clare how to say one of the few phrases he knew,
“Maligayang Pasko”
—Merry Christmas—and just before they left, he had taken the elderly woman’s hand and pressed it lightly to his forehead.
“Salamat,”
he said. Thank you. The gesture was called blessing, he told Clare later, and was something children did to adults to show respect. Clare loved it. When no one was looking, she tried it out by lifting one of her own gloved hands in the other.

After shopping, Clare had pushed Cornelia’s little cart back toward the apartment, and Teo had carried the bag of rice over his shoulder like Santa, except that he looked nothing like Santa, of course. He didn’t look like anyone else in the world, as far as Clare could tell, but she didn’t find herself marveling every single second at how handsome he was as she’d thought she would after first spotting him in the café.

As they walked through the city’s Christmastime streets, what Clare did marvel at was how easy it was. The muscles in her body, especially in her neck and between her shoulder blades, relaxed for the first time in a long time. Her body felt like something she was, not something heavy she had to carry around from place to place. The big tree at the courthouse; all the red, green, and gold; the garland and lights wound around everything on Broad Street and down Walnut didn’t hurt her as she’d feared they would. The sky stretched above it all, a single clean blue like a laundered sheet. Out in the snow-scented air, under the sky, she could even think about her mother and of all the Christmases they’d spent walking around those streets together, without slipping into panic.

Clare was not such a little girl that she could spend one morning in a café talking with adults and feel that everything was going to be fine. But after her conversations with Cornelia and Teo, Clare stepped out into a world in which fine was a possibility, in which fine didn’t feel like a distant, dimly shimmering universe she would never enter again. Watching Teo ahead of her carrying the bag and turning around to smile, she understood suddenly what the difference was, such a simple change: She’d been alone for a long time; she wasn’t alone anymore.

She caught up with Teo. She didn’t want to talk—not really. She liked the bubble of easy quiet they walked in, but she wanted to ask one question.

“It’s OK to feel happy, right?” She hoped he’d know what she meant.

“Right. Very OK,” he answered, not looking at her and not slowing down or stopping but smiling into the distance a private smile—more eyes than mouth—more to himself than to her. Then he said, “How are you at chopping?”

Not
bad, as it turned out. After Teo showed her how, she rocked the big knife like a seesaw over the scallions, staying at a slight angle, and left a trail of small, fairly precise pieces.

“It’s kind of like the quarter trick, right? You turn off your mind and trust your hands?” asked Clare.

“Kind of. But don’t trust your hands too much. Not yet.” Teo grinned.

Teo was wonderful at it, amazing to behold, so fast and controlled at the same time.
Zip, zip, zip,
and the carrot became a line of discs, overlapping one another like fallen dominoes, and all just the same width.

“Showoff!” called Cornelia from the couch.

“Are you a surgeon?” asked Clare, a little out of breath from just watching him.

Teo laughed. “If surgeons cut like this, they wouldn’t stay surgeons for long. No, I specialize in therapeutic radiology.”

“What does that mean? X-rays?”

“He’s an oncologist,” said Cornelia, walking up and popping a carrot piece in her mouth. “He treats cancer patients. He just doesn’t like to say it.”

“But treating cancer patients is good,” said Clare.

“Sure it’s good, but saying the word ‘cancer’ can put quite a damper on a dinner party. I’ve seen it happen. ‘Pull up another chair, dear, death just showed up!”’ said Cornelia.

“It’s like a magic spell. You say it, and instantly everyone around you gets depressed,” said Teo, chopping up a Chinese sausage effortlessly, like someone signing his name or shuffling a deck of cards.

“You should become a coffee-bar manager. When I say I’m a coffee-bar manager, instantly everyone around me just thinks I’m an underachiever,” said Cornelia.

Just as Clare was worrying that Cornelia might be talking about what she’d asked that morning, Cornelia put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “And don’t you think I’m talking about you, honey. Besides, there are worse things someone could think about me. At least the term ‘underachiever’ hints that I’m capable of ever so much more. Ever, ever, ever so.”

“On the other hand, maybe you’re flattering yourself. Maybe they’re just thinking you’re a loser,” said Teo innocently, and Clare was rather shocked at this, but Cornelia laughed and threw a piece of sausage. It hit Teo right between the eyes.

“Remember a few hours ago, when I said you were a nice guy? Backspace. Delete.”

“Here’s Cornelia’s story,” began Teo to Clare.

“Oh, a lovely way to begin what I’m sure will be a lovely character assassination,” said Cornelia. Clare wasn’t worried anymore about their being mean to each other. She imagined that someday she’d be part of a friendship in which she and the friend thought so highly of each other and were so sure of this that they could say anything.

“Cornelia’s story is that she’s unquestionably smart,” said Teo.

“Unquestionably. Without question,” agreed Cornelia.

“Growing up, every kid in our neighborhood heard, ‘Why can’t you get grades like that little Cornelia Brown?”’

“‘Little’ being the operative word,” said Cornelia. “When you’re thirteen and look like you’re nine, you develop that which is developable.”

“And she’s talented, too. But her personal favorites among her talents, the ones she’s decided to make the most of, are not necessarily the kinds of talents that lend themselves to a career,” said Teo.

“Readily,” corrected Cornelia. “That lend themselves
readily
to a career.”

Teo lifted just his eyes from the cutting board and flashed Cornelia an evil grin. Clare almost gasped, but stopped the sound in the back of her throat and held it there, like a kid caught with a cigarette and a mouthful of smoke. She’d been telling herself she’d gotten used to Teo’s face, but she’d been wrong. By the time she realized she was holding her breath, she had no choice but to pant a little to get enough air. When she noticed Cornelia noticing this, Clare turned the panting into a cough.

“While the rest of us were in med school and law school and grad school and business school or whatever,” Teo continued, “Cornelia was studying hard too, but subjects like funny conversation. Sarcasm. Cleverness. What am I leaving out?”

“Wit. At least, give me wit. And making light of serious matters. And flattery—backhanded, of course,” Cornelia said, pretending to count on her fingers.

“And personal style. According to my sources, Cornelia doesn’t have a ton of money to throw around, but she’s always had great personal style,” said Teo, gesturing around at the apartment.

“You do.” Clare nodded enthusiastically. “You have great personal style. Great plates and pajamas.”

Cornelia laughed. “I was born in the wrong century. I could have been an ace courtesan.” Then she looked at Teo with a serious, wondering face. “But here’s the thing, Teo. You’re right. You’re exactly right. What you just said, that
is
my story.”

“Of course it is,” said Teo.

“I just never thought anyone else knew that. If I can apologize in advance for sounding like some idiot high school girl, I’d just like to say that I feel so—
gotten
.” Cornelia pressed her hands to her heart and made her voice high and gushy when she said this last part, but she wasn’t really joking.

Teo shrugged, said, “Apology accepted,” and looked down at the chopped meat and vegetables, his face pleased but shy, as it had been that morning when he’d stood in the doorway of the café. Teo, Cornelia, and Clare stood there in the kitchen for a moment, hushed—Teo looking at the vegetables, Cornelia looking at Teo, and Clare looking at them both. For a few seconds Clare felt so warm and peaceful and normal, like she was suddenly standing in a pool of sunlight in a familiar place. Home. For a few seconds, this spot felt like home.

Then there was knock at the door, and Cornelia answered it, and it was Clare’s father. Before he noticed anyone else was there, he hugged Cornelia and leaned down to rest his forehead on her shoulder briefly, then he kissed the top of her head. When he pulled away, his arms fell to his sides, and Clare saw that his face had a somber expression on it, maybe even a sad expression. He looked worried, too—his eyes looked worried. Clare thought about how her father had said he’d been learning how to read Cornelia’s face. Clare didn’t think she knew much about her father’s face, but whatever the expression was, it was real, she could tell.

Then Clare’s father noticed her standing there, and then noticed Teo. “Hello, everyone,” he said, and all the sadness was gone. His smile was assured, expectant, and perfectly symmetrical.

“Hi,” said Clare. And then, because she had seen him standing there, unhappy, in his coat with his arms hanging inside its sleeves, and had felt sorry for him, and because feeling sorry for her father was a new feeling, she added, “Dad.”

“Martin, this is Teo Sandoval, my sister Ollie’s husband. He appeared at the café this morning hungry and with petrified bones, so we took him in,” said Cornelia, brightly. “Teo, this is Martin Grace.”

“Nice to meet you, Teo, petrified bones and all.” Clare’s father put out his hand. “Or are they better?”

Teo rubbed his hands together, then shook Clare’s father’s hand. “The bones are better, but the hands are pretty garlicky. Sorry about that.”

“What’s cooking, Sparrow?” Clare’s father unbuttoned his coat, and Cornelia slid it from his shoulders. She tossed it over the back of the couch first, but then picked it up.

“You’ll stay for dinner, Martin?” she said, “I mean, naturally, you’ll stay for dinner.” She ran her hand over her hair, then took Clare’s father’s coat and hung it in the coat closet.

Clare found herself talking to her father about the shopping trip with Teo and about how they’d brought the groceries back in the cart, with the sack of rice over Teo’s shoulder, and about the dish she and Teo were making. It was easy to talk to her father now, and she remembered that much of the time, in the past, talking to him had been pretty easy. For most of Clare’s life, there’d been so much distance between her father and herself, an empty space across which she could send stories or information because telling him mattered so little. She only ran into difficulties when she wanted him to like her, which she’d fallen into now and then over the years, or when she’d needed something from him, which she’d never done until recently, or when she was furious at him, as she’d been just yesterday. At least for now, that fury had fallen away. He was just the near-stranger he’d always been.

She told him about Teo blessing the woman in the bakery.

“Why don’t you show him?” suggested Teo. So Clare did what she’d wanted to do since they’d left the bakery: She walked over to Teo, carefully put her palm under his, lifted his hand, and touched it to her forehead. Teo smiled at her, but then looked quickly over at Clare’s father. Clare saw concern in Teo’s face. Puzzled, Clare looked at her father too. He was leaning casually against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, and had started in about some other country he’d been to in which the children performed some similarly charming gesture. Her father was fine.

Even so, she was glad her cooking project kept her too busy to talk to him much. Teo showed her how to peel and de-vein the shrimp and then cut them lengthwise. As she worked on this, he chopped cooked pork and chicken and cabbage. The sharp blade through the cabbage made a lovely sound. Then he cut the ends off each crisp snow pea.

While they were cooking, Cornelia made two small platters of snacks: wedges of cheese, pieces of French loaf, clementines, and grapes so purple they were nearly black. She put one platter in the kitchen for Teo and Clare and set the other on the coffee table; then she joined Clare’s father on the sofa.

Cornelia had left a couple of feet between them, and Clare’s father reached across and rested his hand on the back of Cornelia’s neck, as though to draw her to him. Cornelia didn’t move closer, but she reached up and pressed his hand with hers, briefly. Then she reached for a clementine and began to peel it with her swift, delicate hands. Clare thought how disappointed her father must be. If none of this had happened, if Clare weren’t here, he would have had Cornelia to himself. He’d probably made all kinds of fancy Christmas plans for the two of them—romantic plans. Clare imagined air travel and boxes within boxes. Even though she didn’t want to be with him, either, and of course didn’t want her mother to have gotten sick and left her, Clare felt a short, mean rush of satisfaction. Even her father couldn’t have everything the way he wanted it all the time.

Cornelia gave half the peeled clementine to Clare’s father. He didn’t eat it, but rocked it distractedly back and forth in his cupped hand.