Nine Years Gone

by Shelly Cruz

  “I looked for you for a year. Every day I hoped you would come back to me, but you never did.” Agony is in his voice as he recounts the pain I caused him.

  “I’m sorry. And I know those words may not mean much, do very little to ease the heartache I caused you, but I want you to know, I made the decision because I thought it was best for you.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever understand how you ghosting me was the best decision for me.” His head shakes in unison with his words.

  Massimo’s thumb rubs back and forth across my beauty mark as he speaks to me, his attempt at relaxing me. Back in the day, he would always use touch to soften me, to draw me into him, and tear down my walls. He knew how to manipulate me with his hands, my puppeteer.

  “Do you remember when you proposed to me?” I ask.

  “How can I forget? Easter hasn’t been the same since.”

  Ten Years Ago

  Easter dinner is at Massimo’s parents’ house, and we invited my parents to join us. It’ll be the first time both families will be together to celebrate a holiday. To say I’m nervous is an understatement. Massimo’s mom asked me to make my Mami’s flan. I had made it for her the first time I went to their house to meet them, and it was a hit.

  My parents arrived not too long after us. My mom made arroz con habichuelas to accompany the lamb that Massimo’s mother was making, as it was their tradition to eat lamb on Easter. We have traditional Puerto Rican food, pernil, arroz, yuca, and potato salad at my house during the holidays. This year would be different for them, which made me a little nervous because they’re kinda old school and stuck in their ways.

  We gather around the dinner table—my parents, his parents, and his siblings. His father asks Massimo to say a prayer before dinner.

  Massimo rises from the table, moving his chair back, and stands in the empty space before kneeling.

  “Lena.” He takes my hand. For a moment, I’m confused until I see he has a small box in his hand. My eyes widen, mouth agape, heart racing.

  “That first day I sat at your bar, I knew you were my girl. You’re the woman who has opened my heart in a way I never imagined was possible. You’re on my mind from the moment I wake up until the moment I fall asleep and in my dreams each night. When we were at Gina’s wedding, I knew I would marry you, that you would be mine. I want you to be Mrs. Massimo DeLorenzo and my life partner. I want you to be the mother of my children because we’ll create the most beautiful little humans together. Will you be my Mrs.?” He opens up the box, inside a beautiful Asscher-cut diamond on a thin white gold diamond-encrusted band.

  Tears stream down my face, and I have to remove my glasses. I swipe my fingers underneath each eye to wipe away the wetness and try to compose myself because I’m blubbering from emotions.

  I nod. “The answer is always yes!”

  He slides the ring on my finger and kisses me, deeply and passionately, there in front of our parents. I blush and pull away, nervous at everyone looking at us. When I look up at our family, joy fills the room. My mother is crying, a grin spread across her face and leaning into my father, who’s smiling at me—his eyes wet at the creases.

  Stella rises from her seat. “Get up. I want to hug my new sister,” she says. When I do, she embraces me tightly. “I’m finally getting the sister I always wanted. I’m happy! For you, for Massimo, for us. I knew I loved you the minute he brought you home.”

  “Love you too, Stella.” I pull back from her, and we’re both crying happy tears.

  “I cannot wait to help you plan this wedding! Ahh, I’m wicked excited!” Stella is ecstatic. She and Massimo are tight, and because of their close relationship, my relationship with her has grown into one of friendship.

  My parents both stand from their seats and come over to us. “Nena, que alegría. I’m so happy for you,” my mother says, hugging me.

  “Gracias, Mami.”

  “You know, Massimo nos pidió permiso before asking you. He wanted to make sure que we approved,” my father adds, looking between Massimo and me.

  “He did?” I ask, glimpsing at Massimo. My heart is exploding with happiness knowing that he sought out my parents’ blessing to marry him.

  That night when we return home, Massimo starts talking about wedding plans and babies. “I cannot wait until you’re pregnant with our child. Other than you being my wife, it’s what I want most in the world, to make babies with the woman who makes me feel alive.”

  “What does the day I proposed to you have to do with this?” he asks, pulling a piece of paper from his wallet and sliding it across the bar.

  I extend my hand and pick it up. It’s the handwritten note I left for him when I skipped town. It’s torn at the edges and creased from the years he’s kept it in his wallet.

  “You kept this?” I wasn’t expecting to see this slip of paper. I reread the note I wrote to him nine years ago and wince when I see my callous words.

  Massimo,

  Writing this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I love you, and because of my love for you, I’m walking away. You deserve so much more than I can give you. By the time you read this, I will have left Boston. Don’t bother looking for me. I left so you can live out your dream. Thank you for loving me.

  ~ Lena

  “I read it so much that I have it memorized.” His eyes are red. A tear trickles from his right eye.

  I reach out and wipe away the tear with my thumb. “Massimo, I know there are no words to console you for what I did, for the way I betrayed you. I’m sorry will never be enough.”

  “Lena, just tell me already. Why did you run and leave this note?” His eyes plead with me, searching for answers that only I can give him.

  I fidget with my glasses, straighten them out. “I’m barren.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t have kids.”

  “I know what the word means. I’m asking what, as in, what, that’s the reason you left?”

  “Yes, but I did it for you,” I murmur, my eyes dropping from his.

  “You ghosted me because you can’t have kids? Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice is louder than it was just a moment ago, causing the man next to him to look over at us.

  “Massimo, please lower your voice.”

  He leans into me, his face hovering over mine. “Unbelievable! Pretty selfish to make such a life-altering decision all on your own, don’t you think? Who the fuck are you to decide for me? And you couldn’t look me in the eye to tell me that? Get the fuck out of here!” He sticks his hand in his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and drops a hundred-dollar bill on the bar.

  “Massimo, please stop. Look at me, let me explain.” I reach out for him, but he yanks his arm back from my hand.

  He kicks his stool back, causing it to make a loud screeching sound before it crashes into the wall behind us. Massimo quickly turns to leave, grabbing his jacket from the stool. He forces his way through the crowded area. The faces of the patrons he’s shoving are angry at his aggressiveness. His behavior causes everyone around us to gawk at me, pity dripping from their stares, whispers about what just happened wafting through the air.

  I jump to my feet, scrambling for my jacket and bag, and attempt to push my way through the crowd, tears streaming down my face. When I reach the street, I see him jogging away from the bar, but he’s at the end of the block, near Liberty Square, disappearing into the crowd of people. I reach for the wall to my left to balance myself. Defeat is hitting me; pain is constricting my heart.

  Massimo reacted exactly as Stefano did by getting angry and storming out of the restaurant, humiliating me. It’s not what I expected and is truly disheartening. I knew he’d be upset, but to react with such anger without allowing me to explain, fuck!

  Once I regain my composure, I begin walking until I see an available cab and hail it. When it stops, I climb in. “Pinckney Street, Beacon Hill, please.”

  Although the ride is a short distance, the traffic is heavy, and we’re barely crawling
down Cambridge Street. Massimo had said he wanted an explanation, and the minute I gave it to him, he didn’t want to hear it. He embarrassed me just like Stefano did all those years ago. Maybe it’s his way of getting even with me, a cruel payback for me to feel the slightest bit of humiliation he’s felt all these years. But that doesn’t seem like something he would do, at least not something he would’ve done when I knew him. Maybe my leaving changed him.

  Is this it? Now that he knows why I left, I won’t ever see him or hear from him again? Although that’s the most likely scenario, I hope it isn’t so—especially after what happened between us the other day.

  I have to try to give him the full story. He deserves to hear it. This way, I can close this chapter once and for all. If he still wants nothing to do with me after that, I’ll be crushed but will have to accept it. If that’s what he decides, it’ll be the consequence of my decision, and I’ll have no right to demand otherwise.

  Thunder rumbles as the skies turn a dark and ominous gray, mirroring the storm brewing inside of me.

  I have the cab drop me at the Beacon Hill Market, a block over from my apartment. I need to pick up something to drown my emotions in. I wander the store and decide on a sleeve of Oreo cookies.

  Inside my apartment, I toss my pockabook on the bench next to the door, and untie and kick off my boots. I peruse my CD collection in search of my Chayanne “Cautivo” CD. Chayanne is one of my favorite Latino artists, whose songs often sing of love and heartbreak. I haven’t heard it in a while, but right now, sorrow suffocates me, and I need to drown my emotions in music and Oreos.

  CHAPTER 19

  Cover Story

  MARIALENA

  March 2003

  “HI, LENA. IT’S GOOD to see you. Tell me, why are you here today since you just had your annual pap smear four months ago?”

  “Hi, Dr. Ahmed, it’s good to see you too, even if I’d rather not be here.” She gives me a half-smile and leans into the counter behind her.

  “I’ve had my period for eight days, and I am still bleeding heavily. As you know, my cycle is extremely irregular, and when I do get it, it’s never more than two or three days. I have my usual back pain and leg pain, but this time around, the cramps in my belly area are way worse. The pain has been horrible. Bad enough that I’ve been taking six ibuprofen a couple of times a day, so I thought it was time I come see you.”

  Dr. Ahmed writes some notes down on the chart she’s holding in her hands. “You shouldn’t be taking that much ibuprofen. I’m glad you’re here. Can you explain what you’re feeling?”

  “A shooting pain here.” I use my hand to signal just below my belly button. “It’s like someone is gutting me with a knife and twisting it inside of me.” She writes down a few more notes.

  “That’s concerning. Have you been feeling anything else?”

  “Other than my usual leg and back pain, no.”

  She puts the chart down onto the counter behind her. “Lie back. I’d like to feel your abdomen if that’s okay.” I lie back onto the exam table and lift my T-shirt, unbuttoning my jeans and pulling the flaps back.

  Dr. Ahmed places her hands on the area below and around my belly button. Her fingers are cold. “I’m going to apply pressure. If you feel any pain, let me know.” She presses into my belly with mild pressure.

  I flinch. “Owww, yes. I feel that a lot!”

  “Is this the first time you’re feeling this pain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, you can sit up and close your jeans.” She steps away from the exam table and makes additional notes in my chart. “We’re going to need to run tests, see what’s causing this because this doesn’t sound like the typical PCOS symptoms women have. We’ll start by drawing blood to recheck your hormone levels and an MRI. Let’s get you in for one right away.” She pulls a small booklet from her pocket; it’s bound in black leather. She writes me a script and hands it to me. “This is the script for the MRI. One of the ladies at the front desk can schedule it for you before you leave. I’ll leave your blood work requisition form at the front for you.”

  “Thank you, doctor.”

  “You’re welcome. Have a good afternoon.” She exits the room.

  I meander to my car, worry pooling in my belly, and my gut feeling is that something is wrong. When Dr. Ahmed diagnosed me with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS) a few years ago, she told me that I could feel pain sometimes if any of the cysts in my ovaries ruptured. But today, she didn’t think the pain I was feeling was associated with that. She had a concerned look on her face and didn’t have many answers, which worries me. Luckily I was able to get an MRI appointment for this Friday morning. I’ll need to get my lunch shift covered and come up with a cover story for Massimo. I don’t want to tell him about any of this until I know what’s going on.

  Before my MRI appointment, I stop by the lab to have blood drawn. Eight tubes of blood later, I’m walking from the lab to the Imaging and Radiology department at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital. I’ve had several MRIs in the past. I’m not worried about the actual procedure. The only thing that concerns me right now is that I have to work tonight and need to be at the restaurant by 4:00 p.m. but first need to stop by the apartment to get dressed. As long as I don’t have to wait too long, I should be good.

  As expected, getting the MRI was a breeze, and I’m driving back to my apartment with plenty of time to get to work. The radiologist technician said my doctor would receive the results in approximately five days. Five days of anxiety-filled waiting until I get the call from Dr. Ahmed.

  I arrive at Trattoria a few minutes early and head down to see Massimo in his office. “Hi, babe,” I say upon entering the office.

  “Hi. How’s your mom? How’d her appointment go today?” He drops the paper he was reviewing onto the desk and looks up at me.

  “She’s good, and it went well. Results will be back next week.” I lie to him as I approach him sitting behind his desk. I feel terrible about using my mother as an excuse, but I know he won’t ask questions this way.

  “I’m glad. Now let me kiss you before the rest of the crew gets here.” I settle on his lap, and he kisses me with his soft, warm lips.

  I’m in the kitchen, putting groceries away, when my phone rings. I scurry to grab it out of my pockabook hanging on the coatrack by the front door. When I finally have it in my hands, I see Dr. Ahmed’s name flashing on the screen.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Marialena. This is Katie from Dr. Ahmed’s office. I was calling to let you know that the MRI results are back, and everything appears normal.”

  “Oh, well, that’s good news.”

  “Yes. However, Dr. Ahmed would like to schedule you for a laparoscopy. It’s an outpatient surgery, and she performs them here in the hospital.”

  “What kind of procedure is it?”

  “She’ll make a small incision in your abdomen and take a look inside with a tiny camera.”

  “When does she want me to do it?”

  “I have an opening next week, Monday. At 10:00 a.m., if that works for you?”

  “How long does it take, and can I go to work after?”

  “The procedure should only take 30–45 minutes. While it is an outpatient surgery, you need to relax after the procedure is complete and should take at least two or three days to recover from it. You’ll also need someone to drive you because you’ll be given general anesthesia.” I ask Katie a few more questions about the procedure, which she answers and finishes giving me instructions to prepare for the surgery.

  I hang up, sit at the kitchen counter, and think about the news I just received. The doctor is concerned enough that she wants to insert a camera inside of me to see what’s going on. Those nerves at the bottom of my belly twist and my gut reminds me that something is wrong. I exhale a long breath of both frustration and concern.

  I grab my phone again and dial my mother to ask her to take me to the surgery next week and if I can stay with my parents for a few
days. I tell her that since I live on the fourth floor and there is no elevator, I need to stay at her house. Fuck, I better start taking notes of all these stories I’m telling.

  It’s a rare night that both Massimo and I are home for dinner. He’s making his mother’s sauce, meatballs, and linguini, and I’m making a salad. I love when he cooks—he’s very good at it, and he enjoys doing it.

  We both love cooking, yet both prepare different dishes, him Italian and me Latino. Massimo is definitely the better cook between the two of us. The days we’re home together, we like to spend time in the kitchen experimenting with different foods. While one prepares the meal, the other helps, or prepares drinks.

  After tuning the radio to Magic 106.7, I remove a bottle of wine from the rack and begin cutting the capsule open. It’s a smooth, even-bodied wine and is one of our favorites, which Massimo sells at the restaurant. We brought home several bottles to add to our collection.

  “My mother got her MRI results back. They’re normal. But the doctor is having her go in next week for a laparoscopy to check things out.” I push the corkscrew into the cork and twist it, pull it out, and rest the bottle on the counter while I get two wine glasses from the cabinet to my left.

  “What’s that?” His back is to me, and he’s stirring the sauce, adding seasoning to it.

  I pour myself a taste of the wine, swirl it to lift the aromas to smell the bouquet better, sip to let the flavors absorb on my palette, and pour us each a glass.

  “The doctor will take a look inside with a tiny camera. Have a better idea of what’s going on. I’ll take her since my dad works and stay with her for a couple of days while she recoups.” I smell the wine again before sipping it. “I love this wine. I can’t get enough of it.” I hand Massimo his.