Tell Me Something True (30 page)

“I never knew Gabriella had such a beautiful grandmother,” he says sincerely, and despite herself, she feels flattered.

It surprises her that he’s not awkward or gauche or tacky. But it surprises her more, when she looks up into his green eyes
to thank him for her roses, how tenuous his comfort is, how anxious he is to make things right. She wants to ask him who taught
him how to dress, how to act, how to say the right things and bring the right gift and look at her with just the right blend
of gallantry and respect.

“Won’t you stay for a drink?” she asks impulsively, startling herself, startling Gabriella more, startling him completely.

He thinks of the reservation, of the table on hold, just for him.

“We’re running late, Nini,” Gabriella says swiftly, stepping in. “But maybe another night?” she adds hopefully, a little incredulously.

“We must do that,” says Nini briskly. “Perhaps tomorrow? After the bullfights?”

Gabriella looks at Angel inquisitively, a look of unequivocal trust that Nini takes in calmly. This is how she used to look
at her husband, she realizes with sudden wonderment, and she wonders just how far this relationship between her granddaughter
and Angel has already gone.

“That would be a pleasure,” says Angel calmly, smiling his beautiful lopsided smile, somehow managing to look grateful and
happy and composed.

“Well then,” says Nini, even as she wonders if she’s making a big mistake, “I’ll be expecting you.”

I
slept the entire five hours to Miami, the deep sleep that last night eluded me in my own bed. When I woke up, I felt a new
sense of purpose, of my trip, of my return, of my life, really. I could make things right.

I was so absorbed in the thought, I almost walked right past the duty-free shop, a silent reminder that I’ve shunned not only
Marcus, but also my parents, with their quiet, unspoken disapproval sitting heavily between us, even now, months since I’ve
last seen them. I hadn’t bought a single Christmas present this season, and the thought has filled me with guilt. I had always
delighted in buying for others, carefully selecting the gifts so they’re just perfect for each person. It’s never about the
price, I always say, but about the perfect match; something so unique, they’ll know it could only come from me. But in the
Miami airport, there was little to choose from. I looked dismally at the generic watches and scarves, and finally settled
for something that I knew my parents would, at the very least, use. A liter of Johnnie Walker Black Label for him, a bottle
of Shalimar for her.

I walked aimlessly through the store, dabbing on samples of perfume, one brand on my wrist, another on my inner elbow, another
on my hands. I’ve used the same perfume since I was fifteen, after reading about some fabulous star who was always followed
by the same scent. I felt like a change now, but I couldn’t find anything that defined me now, today. And anyway, I suppose
the right time to change my signature scent would be when I’m coming back, not when I’m leaving.

In the end, I boarded my plane with my duty-free gifts and my single carry-on, traveling so very light and so down in the
dumps alongside those overstocked, overjolly holiday travelers. I wondered, a bit guiltily, how many people could have better
used this seat that I’ve occupied almost on a whim; people longing to return home for Christmas on this single daily direct
flight to Cali, left behind because of my selfish mission.

I tried, ineffectually, to tune out the din around me. The guy behind me was loud and drunk, spewing venom with a Spanish
accent, railing about the flight, the stewardess, American Airlines, which sucks, and all Americans, who also suck, and he
declared, practically shouting, were naturally stupid and ill informed. Irritated, I put my pen down for a moment, and instead,
started turning back the pages.

For the first time in months, I didn’t write. I read. And I cringed at my own words, at how explicit, how unerringly honest
they were.

Distance definitely makes you bold, I mused, turning the pages slowly, looking at myself as if from a great distance, as my
hand involuntarily went up to the back of my neck, rubbed it, up and down. I suddenly wished I had a jacket to cover myself
with.

What if Marcus had read this? I wondered suddenly. With new anxiety, I made my way back into the pages, to where it all began,
and grabbed everything between my fingers and pulled. But the clump of pages I wanted to purge was too thick and refused to
tear under my insistence.

I looked down at the partially bent page between my fingers, and I saw him again in my mind, surrounded by tendrils of smoke
from his cigarette as he drove me through the valley.

I smiled, just a little bit, despite myself, tracing the words on the page slowly. It seemed so long ago now. If I ripped
the pages out now, I wouldn’t have anything left.

Tomorrow. “Tomorrow,” I wrote. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

T
hey are both tall and beautiful, and when they walk into the room, people turn to look. Gabriella’s vanity is undeniably stoked,
because she feels herself blushing, with something akin to fear trembling in the pit of her stomach, with excitement, with
delight at her shared fortune. The irony of the moment doesn’t escape her. Things should be the other way around—the public
courting first; the intimacy, sexual and emotional, later. She doesn’t care, because right here, right now, all the little
pieces she’s been carrying with her these weeks have fallen into their exact place.

He holds her hand as the hostess leads them to their table, in a corner of the room, a white, bright room, even under the
dimmed lights, with sleek, polished, wooden floors and tables with white tablecloths adorned with lilac-colored orchids. The
art on the walls is bright and shocking, slates of purples and reds and oranges, against the white walls, everything for sale.
She sits against a backdrop of color: a triptych of apples—red over green, green over pale yellow, and pale yellow over red—three
separate canvases, bound by a chain link that threads them together at the top and bottom, a celebration of colors whose effect
on her is dampened by the appearance of Julio at her side. Julio pulls back his chair to take the seat next to Angel before
Angel stops him with just a shake of the head, because this time, this one time, he will sit with only her and her alone,
because this is her night.

“At the bar, Julio,” Angel tells him quietly, so quietly that only Julio can hear him, but still, he resents the order, resents
her. Gabriella knows this in her gut, and for a second, she feels a tinge of remorse, then quickly tells herself that the
bar makes so much more sense because it’s at the very entrance to the restaurant, because the other bodyguards are there,
and because Julio, after all, is a bodyguard, not an uncle, not a father.

“Are you sure?” she asks nevertheless, and Angel only nods yes and sits down next to her, moving his chair closer so his knees
graze her thighs underneath the table.

I
woke up to the sound of the pilot’s voice, the rustle of passengers. Around me women were reapplying their makeup and cups
were being collected.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking,” I heard over the loudspeaker. “We have begun our descent for landing
at Cali. It’s a lovely evening as we had expected. We’ll pass a shower or two on the way in, but at the field right now, it’s
good visibility, the temperature is two-three, that’s twenty-three degrees Celsius, and if you prefer Fahrenheit, that’s seventy-two
degrees on the Fahrenheit scale. The winds are ten miles an hour from the northwest. It’s a very, very pretty evening. I’d
like to thank everyone for coming with us.”

I fastened my seat belt, straightened my seat back; automatically I checked to make sure everything was in my purse: wallet,
passport. I look at the diary, heavy between my hands.

The captain’s voice droned on, but the only thing that comes to my mind is the little girl in the bed. My little girl. My
Gabriella. Her voice, but it sounds very far away. “How long will you be gone?” she had asked me the night before.

“Just two days, mi amor,” I had told her, smoothing her hair back against the pillow.

“Is that a long time?” she asked.

“No. No. It’s very short. Day after tomorrow, I’ll be back. Today is Tuesday. Tomorrow is Wednesday, and you’ll be with Grandma.
And on Thursday, I’ll be here before you go to sleep. That’s not long at all.”

“You promise?” she asked me, and I laughed because that’s how I used to be, too, when my mother traveled.

“I promise.”

“You promise you’ll wake me up tomorrow before you leave?”

“I promise that, too,” I assured her, knowing full well that if she’s asleep, there is no way I’m going to wake her up.

In the darkness of the mountains, I sought out the lights of my Cali, little twinkling dots spaced far apart, then appearing
in a wave of brightness as the valley unfolded beneath just ahead, over the mountains. Even now, after all these years, my
heart can’t help but beat faster in anticipation, as if I were getting close to Disneyland instead of here.

“Again, I apologize for being late tonight,” the voice over the loudspeaker continued. “Like to wish everyone a very, very
happy holiday and a healthy and prosperous New Year.”

I closed my eyes and leaned back, suddenly exhausted. I automatically lifted my right hand to bless myself—in the name of
the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit—and reached, as always, for my locket, the one with your picture in it, but it’s
not there, of course, because I gave it to you.

“Oh, well,” I shrug, and instead bring my hand up to my lips and then lower it, to the hollow of my throat, where the locket
should have been.

O
n their table, a yellow candle flickers next to the orchid, illuminating the red wine that has been poured into tall goblets,
the little dumplings that sit untouched, and what she will remember most about this evening, how he took her hands and examined
them slowly by the candlelight.