Say Yes (Something More) (14 page)

“Tia, she doesn’t want a family,” I say, trying to sound reassuring, but the words fall flat, even to my own ears. “We can either break up now or later.”

Tia looks at me with beseeching eyes. “You love her. I know you do.” She bites down on her fist while averting her gaze. “You make it sound so easy to just walk away.”

I have no words. I don’t know how I can explain to her that walking away from Christina was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. What little appetite I had left is now gone, so I push back from the counter and put my plate in the sink. Then I turn to her and mumble something about having to get to work. Just before I head up the stairs, I cringe at the faint sound of Tia sobbing.  

I feel like the world’s biggest jackass for upsetting Tia, but there’s nothing else I can do. I wonder if Christina is sitting at home crying, too. Or is she seeking comfort somewhere else? Like maybe Jackson’s arms?

* * *

Christina

I learned something interesting about my other three hundred psychology classmates. It doesn’t matter if there are no more available seats. They will sit on the stairs, just so they can avoid the senior sobbing in the back row. Our lecture hall is set up like a movie theater, the back row at the top of the room, and the professor’s pulpit at the bottom.

I thought I’d be less obvious if I sat in the back, but it doesn’t matter where I sit. Students have a great view of me making an ass of myself by turning in their seats and gawking at me from below. 

I have been trying to keep it together. Really I have. For the most part, I don’t cry as long as I focus on some simple task, like breathing or picking grime from under my fingernails. But then a guy will walk by who’s wearing a cologne that reminds me of Andrés, and here come the waterworks.

I was hoping my classmates would think it was allergies. I’ve even been throwing in a few forced sneezes for good measure. Either the freshmen are getting smarter, or I’m a really bad actress. To make matters worse, Mrs. Robert, or Doctor Robair, or whoever the fuck she is, has started off her lecture by bragging about all her various degrees and accolades, and going on about her mention in some psychology journal. She could have sucked Sigmund Freud’s dick for all I care.  

And then, oh joy, she has to lecture on Hitler and the other crazies again. I swear the woman has an obsession with mass murderers and serial killers. Maybe that’s what she is—an aspiring murderer and she’s trying to kill all three hundred of her students via boredom.

My bullshit flag is raised when she starts talking about how Hitler’s and Manson’s history of childhood abuse and neglect helped shape who they became. She tells us Manson had a single mother who neglected him and beat him up for money, and Hitler’s father frequently abused him.

So what the hell is she trying to say? That victims of abuse grow up to be serial killers? I’m so pissed, shards of white hot rage blur my vision.

Without giving my actions a second thought, I jump up from my seat and raise my hand. “This is bullshit!” I scream.

Doctor Robair looks to be about as old as my mother, but she’s obviously never had plastic surgery. The woman’s entire face falls, her flaccid pink cheeks jiggling with the movement, like saggy, fleshy dominoes.

“Pardon me?” she says, her tone more indignant than angry.  

I square my shoulders and look down at my professor, very much aware that all eyes in the auditorium are on me. “Just because you’ve been abused and neglected doesn’t mean you’re going to grow up to be a serial killer.”

The woman snickers and shakes her head. “I didn’t say that.”

Wow. What a bitch. I can feel her condescension all the way from the top of the classroom. “That’s exactly what you’re saying, and it’s bullshit. If that was the case, then every kid who’s ever been abused would be singing “Helter Skelter” and murdering people. They became killers because they’re psychopaths.” I wave my hand through the air in a silencing gesture. “End of story.”

“Ms. Duval.” My teacher leers at me from beneath heavily painted lashes. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave my classroom.”

I don’t know if I should be flattered or annoyed she remembers my name as I shove my notebook and iPad into my backpack. I’ve never been kicked out of a classroom before. Somehow it’s not as horrifying as I’d expected. Sure, I need this grade to get my degree. I’ll probably have to come back here in a few days and apologize to my teacher, but I’m so damned irked by her right now, I don’t want to think about it. It’s as if I’m the only other person in the building. None of my classmates make a sound, as I get up and leave the room.

Chapter Thirteen

Christina

I call in sick to work because I’m a chicken shit and I don’t feel like facing anyone else today. Besides, Andrés always makes the rounds on Fridays, and I know I can’t see him right now, even though my heart is screaming for me to run to Andrés and beg him to come back.

If only it was that simple.

Because if I expect him to come back, I’m going to have to promise him a future, one with marriage and kids, and I don’t know if I can keep my promise. I love Andrés too much to tie him to a future without a family. I know that’s what he wants, and I don’t want him resenting me ten years from now when I still refuse to have children.  Grace and Violet stopped by a few minutes ago to invite me to the ranch for Thanksgiving dinner, which unfortunately is next Thursday. I told them I’d think about it, but I’m not so sure I have much to be thankful for.

Thanksgivings were never a big deal in my house when I was growing up. Usually, the holiday involved my mom popping a few too many anti-depressants and burning the turkey, my dad getting drunk and refusing to get off the sofa. Then they’d start screaming and throwing things at each other. This was about the time I’d escape to Karri’s house, and Mrs. Peterson would feed me a plate of leftovers.

So, yeah, Thanksgiving isn’t a big holiday to me. Andrés and I were going to spend the day with his family, and I was going to gorge myself on his aunt’s homemade tamales and roast turkey, and then maybe go swimming with Andrés and his cousins in his uncle’s heated pool.

I really don’t want to spend the day at Violet’s ranch, especially because Grace has already invited several of our sorority sisters.  I haven’t been active with my sorority this semester. First off, our new president is a bitch. Seriously. I showed up to Rush rehearsal five minutes late, and she just about took my head off.

I’ve got a few sorority sisters like Grace, who I’ve bonded with, but the rest of them can kiss my ass. I can’t count how many of them told me I’d made a mistake when I dumped Jackson and started dating a mechanic. Like I’m expected to stay engaged to a small dick prick with major control issues, just because he came from a wealthy family.Another reason I’m no longer active in my sorority, I bailed when we had to do homecoming with Jackson’s fraternity. Uh, no thanks. I could think of a thousand other things I’d rather be doing than drinking cheap beer and building a float at Jackson’s frat house, like having my wisdom teeth pulled, or getting a pap smear done by that crazy old doctor who asks me in her high-pitched, condescending voice if I’ve been having sex with multiple partners.

So, yeah, it’s either Thanksgiving dinner at Grace’s place with a group of sisters I don’t like, or spend the day alone. My options pretty much suck.

I politely thanked Grace for her offer and then declined. Then I told her I wasn’t in the mood for company. Grace is a wonderful person and friend, and I feel terrible for pushing her away. She and Violet are always so happy together. I don’t need to ruin their day, too, with my post-breakup depression. Grace only stayed for a few more minutes and then left with the threat she’d be randomly checking on me all weekend.

I’m not hungry, but I force myself to eat leftover chicken and rice. It’s hard to eat Andrés’s food without crying, but I do my best and then go plop onto our sofa and hug a big, plush pillow. Andrés bought it for me at a flea market in San Antonio a few months ago. I pull back the pillow and trace my finger across the words “Mi Amor” scrawled across the crushed pink velvet in bold purple lettering.

When he bought me it he said he’d love me forever.

He lied.

If he still loved me, I wouldn’t be sitting alone on the couch crying. He’d be holding me, kissing my temple, and telling me everything will be okay. I check my phone for maybe the hundredth time today. I’ve got my notification’s ringer turned on high, and I should have heard if he’d sent me a text, but I check it anyway.

I click on my Facebook page. A jolt of excitement rushes through me when I see I’ve got a message. I take a steadying breath and open it, disappointed to see it’s from the Dragon Lady. I should have known it wouldn’t be Andrés. He rarely uses Facebook.

The Dragon Lady is a freelance client of mine. Actually, she’s my only freelance client. After one of my professors made me design a website last year, this woman found me, and every few months she commissions me to paint something for her. The first thing she wanted was a dragon—a big one, looking regal and wise. She said she was going to hang it in her son’s bedroom, so I painted a golden dragon and she paid me well. Very well. I was able to buy a whole new wardrobe last fall.

After that, her requests began to get a little strange. Last spring she asked me to paint a baby, but not just any baby. She wanted me to paint myself as a baby.

“Why me?” I’d asked.

Because she wanted a baby with my exact eyes and smile for her nursery. I suggested she use images of her kids, but she was insistent I use my baby picture. Honestly, I’m starting to worry she’s obsessed with me. This summer, she had asked me to paint a picture of what I’d looked like in kindergarten.

I click on the message and read the first few lines.   

Hello, Christina. It’s Jenny again. I’ve been meaning to write to you for a while….

 Please not another strange request,
I think.
I’ve got too much on my mind, and I’m not in the mood to paint anything right now.

I should close out the message and read it tomorrow, or maybe next week or next year, but then I realize a big, stupid art project may be the distraction I need to keep my mind off Andrés. Maybe I could work on it Thanksgiving Day. I could tell Grace I’m working on a project, and she won’t feel obligated to force me to go to dinner.

So even though I’m not in the mood to read Dragon Lady’s letter, I scroll down and continue. 

…I’ve been afraid it wouldn’t be the right time. I saw your post that you’re not going to your mother’s on Thanksgiving. I also noticed she’s no longer on your friends’ list, and you’ve pulled down all your pictures with her in them.

I pull back and gape at my phone. Okay, it’s official. The Dragon Lady
is
a stalker. What business is it of hers who my friends are? I should have taken my professor’s advice and created a separate Facebook art page. I should never have accepted Dragon Lady’s friendship request last year. I should delete this message and block her, but my curiosity wins out, and I continue reading. I should probably find out exactly how much she knows about me and what her intentions are. Then, it’s blockity block block!

I’m sorry for being so nosey. I need to know you’re happy. I also wanted to invite you to my home in San Antonio for Thanksgiving if you are available. You’re probably thinking I’m some strange stalker right about now.

Actually, I’m way past thinking she’s a stalker. And thanks to my psychology teacher, images of Ted Bundy and Charles Manson come to mind. This woman probably knows where I live. Just great. Why the hell would I want to go eat dinner with her? A total stranger.

The truth is I gave birth to you over twenty-one years ago, and I gave up custody to your biological father and his wife. I can understand if you want to block me on Facebook, and if you never want to talk to me again.

Not a single day has gone by that I don’t regret having to give you up. I don’t know if it makes my actions more forgivable, but I was a homeless teenager at the time, and the Duvals had so much more to offer you. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, and if you do, please know that my home and my heart are always open to you.

Love, Jenny

Time stops as I stare down at my phone, mouth agape, eyes nearly crossing as I re-read Dragon Lady’s message at least a dozen times. My brain is so numb from shock right now, the only thought I can summon is
holy shit!

* * *

I spend the rest of the night looking through Jenny’s Facebook profile. She’s added tons of pictures this week. When I first accepted her request, her profile picture was a blurry image, and the shadow from her big hat hid most of her face. There were a few newborn baby pics of her sons, and my dragon art, but that was it.

Now, she’s got pictures of herself from when she was a child all the way until now. I am amazed by how much alike we look. When she was my age, she could have passed for my twin. She’s petite like me, with thick auburn hair and bright green eyes. I take several moments to stare at every nuance of her pictures. She smiled a lot when she was younger, but when she was older, she seldom looked happy.

It’s not until I see her in pictures with an attractive Hispanic gentleman, who looks to be about forty or fifty, that she’s smiling again. There are many pictures with her and this man, including a wedding photo where they are cutting the cake together. She’s wearing a pale pink dress, adorned in delicate stitched flowers. She’s got baby’s breath in her hair, and the most beautiful smile ever. He’s looking down at her like he’s the luckiest man in the world, the same way Andrés used to look at me.

In her more recent pictures, they are holding two small boys. Each child has their father’s dark skin and Jenny’s green eyes.

My eyes.