by Alisa Valdes
“Fine choice.” He looks at Lauren. “Miss?”
I interrupt. “I wasn’t finished.”
“I’m sorry. Go on.”
“I’d also like to try the lettuce soup.”
“Fine. Anything else?”
“Make sure you keep the bread coming.”
“Of course. Anything else?”
I put a finger to my lips, think for a moment, then say, “No, I think that’s all.”
“Miss?” He addressed Lauren.
Lauren scowls into her menu. “I’ll have the pasta sampler.”
“Anything to start with? Perhaps the vegetable aioli?”
“Is it heavy?”
“Not at all. Very light.”
“Fine.”
“Wonderful. Anything else?”
“That’s enough for me.” She stares at me.
“And you, miss?”
Rebecca smiles at the waiter. “I’ll have the saucisson.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“It’s a small serving, miss.” “It will be fine.”
“Oh, come on,” I say. “You’re going to starve yourself.”
Rebecca shakes her head and hands the waiter her menu. He’s written nothing down, but repeats our entire order without a mistake, then heads to the kitchen.
“So,” Rebecca says.
“Yes, so,” I echo.
“As you know, I thought we ought to put our heads together to come up with a strategy to help Sara recover in such a way that she’ll never have to go through this again.”
Lauren, whose elbows are on the table, rolls her eyes.
“It’s a great idea,” I say. “Let’s put our heads together.”
“She probably still loves him,” Rebecca says. “It’s hard for us to understand why. But she does. And I don’t think it would be productive to criticize her for that. But I think we need to confront her, in a productive way, and let her know that we think she’s worth more than this. We need to let Sara know that we’re here for her.”
Elizabeth sits forward and clears her throat. “I think it’s a good idea,” she says. “But I think there’s a certain way to communicate with Sara that works best.”
“What’s that?” Lauren asks.
“She’s got a good B.S. detector,” says Elizabeth. “The doctors say she’s not in a coma, just sleeping a lot and drugged because of the pain. Soon, though, she’ll be able to have a coherent conversation with us, and we have to make sure it doesn’t seem too contrived or like we feel sorry for her.”
“That’s good to know,” says Rebecca. “How do you think we should handle this?”
Just then my cell phone rings. I answer it. It’s Juan. He wants to know where I am. I tell him I’m at Umbra, just to remind him I am a lady of style and grace, and then I ask him not to call me anymore. He’s still trying to talk when I press END. By the time I hang up, I’ve missed a lot of what’s been said.
“Sorry,” I say. “Fill me in?”
Rebecca says, “Well, Liz was saying Sara doesn’t want to be treated like a victim, so we’re thinking the best way to handle this is for all of us to do an intervention with Sara, but to let Liz do most of the talking. They’re close friends, and Liz knows how to communicate with her best.”
“Great.”
“I think we should just pool together some money and have Roberto put out of his misery,” says Lauren.
Elizabeth laughs. “Not a bad idea, actually.”
“That’s very funny, Lauren,” Rebecca says. “But we need to be serious here. This is a serious issue.”
“Hey, she was just trying to lighten the mood,” Elizabeth says. “Why are you always coming down on Lauren?”
“Me?” Rebecca asks. “She doesn’t take anything seriously. Excuse me, but I feel like she’s always coming down on me.”
I gasp. I never thought I’d live to see Rebecca confront this situation directly.
“I don’t attack you,” Lauren says, eyes flashing.
“Yes, you do. You always roll your eyes at everything I say, and you’re always pouting and sighing. What did I ever do to you?”
I’ve never heard Rebecca’s voice so angry.
“Oh, boy,” I say. There’s no way out of this one. They seem to think they’re the only two people in the room.
“You’re so uptight, it makes me sick,” Lauren says. “Okay, there, I said it. You come in here with your pamphlets, like you know everything, and you try to control the whole conversation and ‘strategize.’ You can’t even compliment me without criticizing me for not wearing the right necklace. You act like you’re in a business meeting, I swear to God. You don’t even know how to relax enough to hang out with friends.”
“Uptight?”
“You heard me.”
“At least I’m not crazy and out of control. At least I don’t feel the need to tell the whole world about every single problem in my life.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hey, hey, hey, that’s enough,” Elizabeth says. “No se pelean.”
“No,” says Lauren. “This has been a long time coming, and I’m finally going to tell her what I think.”
Lauren lays in to Rebecca with a laundry list of faults.
“Stop it,” I say. “Lauren, just stop it.” For the first time, I realize Lauren is supremely jealous of Rebecca. How could I have not seen it before?
I look at Rebecca, and am shocked to see she is crying, in a dignified way—but still. She’s crying.
Crying, m’ija.
I get up and hug her. Lauren looks as surprised as I am.
“I’m sorry,” Rebecca says to Lauren. “I’m sorry I’m not perfect. You’re right. You’re right about a lot of it. I am scared. I am stiff. I am uptight. I don’t dance. I am married to a ‘freak.’ But why do you feel like you have to tell me all of this? You think I don’t already know it?”
Lauren is flabbergasted. “I—I,” she stutters.
“You went too far,” Elizabeth tells her. “Rebecca’s human, Lauren.”
“There’s something you don’t know, too,” Rebecca says.
I speak up. “Sweetie, Rebecca. You don’t have to say anything. We didn’t come here for you to get beat up.”
“No, I want to,” she says. “Okay, Lauren? Just so you know I’m as messed up as you. I’m in love with Andre, the man who helped me start my company. I want a divorce from Brad, but I don’t know how my family will take it. I’m lonely. My dad bosses my mom around, and she’s smarter than he is and I hate him for it. I haven’t had sex with anything but my own hand in ten months. I want to be with Andre so much I can’t focus on my job. There. I think that’s all.”
She’s crying hard now.
“Wow,” Lauren says. She looks ashamed.
“I hope you’re happy now,” I tell Lauren. “Really, m’ija, what’s wrong with you? I’ve tried to be patient with you, but it’s hard. You hurt your friends, you hurt yourself. I’m sick of watching it.”
“No, wait, there’s more,” Rebecca says. “I envy you, Lauren. I know that surprises you. But I do. You’re much freer than I am. You speak your mind. You live with passion. There, I’ve said it.”
Elizabeth has her head in her hands, and we’re all sort of staring at the table in silence when the waiter comes back with our appetizers.
“I’m sorry, Rebecca,” Lauren says, finally. “I had no idea.”
“Here, look at this,” Rebecca says. She pulls a pink and white striped Victoria’s Secret bag from under the table. “Look what I bought today.” She pulls out a racy red garter set, with hose and a bustier, dumps them in a heap on the table.
“No you didn’t,” I gasp.
“I did.”
“Who’s that for?” Elizabeth asks.
“No one. That’s what’s so sad. It will just sit in my drawer. Along with the rest of them.”
I laugh. “The secret life of Rebecca Baca, unveiled!”
>
“Very funny,” she says.
“You’ve got to have someone to wear that for,” Elizabeth says. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“Andre sounds like a great guy,” Lauren says. “Wear it for him. Who cares? Not for Brad, though.”
“He told me he loves me,” Rebecca says. Her smile reveals she’s not talking about Brad.
“Andre?” I ask. She nods. “So what’s the problem, chica?”
“Catholics don’t look fondly on divorce.”
Elizabeth says, “Look, I’ve been thinking a lot about God, too, lately. I think he’s okay with whatever is clean and pure in our hearts.”
“Yeah,” Rebecca says. “Maybe.”
Lauren hugs Rebecca. They both are crying. Apologies all around.
“Are you all PMS too?” I ask.
“Hell yeah,” Lauren says.
“Come to think of it, yes,” Rebecca says with a laugh.
“Ay, Dios mío,” Elizabeth murmurs.
Then the rest of our meal arrives.
After he serves us, the waiter leans in close to the table. “I didn’t want to interrupt before, but there’s a guy here who says he knows you ladies. He has a box and says he has something in it for one of you. I thought it might be one of those crazies, so I wanted to check. Do you want me to call the cops?”
We all turn at the same time to look at the front door. And there, with his hair wet and parted down the middle like Alfalfa, is Juan, wearing his best suit (which isn’t saying much) and holding a little gold box in his unsteady hands. He smiles and nods my way, awkward as always. My heart flutters in spite of itself.
“Ay, Dios mío,” I say.
“Juan!” Lauren cries. “Come on over, buddy.”
“No!” I scream. I don’t know what to do. I want to run away.
The sucias are smiling.
“You know,” Rebecca says. “There’s another intervention I was thinking of proposing today, involving you and that sweet man standing over there.”
“Don’t you love him, you guys?” Elizabeth asks. “He’s got such a clean spirit to him.”
“He’s a good man,” Lauren says. “And he adores you.”
I see that Juan has a bouquet of flowers behind his back, still wrapped in clear plastic. He’s sweating.
“Thank God you’re still here,” he says, out of breath, when he reaches our table. “Hello, everyone.” He tips an invisible cap to the ladies. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to take care of.”
He crashes to one knee on the floor in front of me, almost falling to the side, and holds the flowers up. He probably bought them in the subway station. “These are for you.” I take them. He clears his throat several times, appears to have lost his voice. He starts to speak, but just squeaks. That is so sad. I’m embarrassed to love this man so much.
“Come on, Juan,” Lauren coaches him. “You can do it.”
He gulps. Opens the box.
Inside, I swear to you, is the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen. It’s a platinum band, with a three-stone diamond setting. I pointed it out to him months ago, when we were walking through the Copley Mall. I’m amazed he remembered. The ring cost about $6,000—not a lot, really, but for Juan it’s a fortune.
“I finally figured out why you hated Rome,” he says. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I should have asked you what you wanted to do there, instead of just dragging you where I wanted to go. I thought you’d appreciate the planning, having nothing to think about, being able to just relax, but I was wrong. I should have taken you somewhere nicer to eat. I’m sorry for that, too.”
My heart feels like it’s going to explode.
“And I figured out why you said no the first time I asked you to marry me,” he says. “I thought it was because I wasn’t good enough, but that’s not it. It’s because you don’t think you’re good enough. You’re afraid I’ll leave you like everyone else did. Navi, I won’t. I’ll never leave you. I may be short, and I may be broke, but I love you with all my heart, and I have a big heart.”
Tears start to slide down my cheeks. Juan’s about to cry, too.
“So, I’m going to try again, before it’s too late,” he says.
I can’t breathe.
“Usnavys, mi amor, will you marry me?”
I look up at the sucias. They’re all smiling. I can’t talk. I don’t know what to do. Everyone in the restaurant is staring at us.
“Say yes, estúpida,” Lauren says, tactful as always. “What’s your problem?”
“Please, Navi, say something. My knee hurts,” Juan says. “I think I broke it.”
I reach my hand out for the box.
“It’s perfect,” I say. “But you were perfect without it. Of course I’ll marry you.”
The sucias break into applause, and the whole restaurant joins them. Juan drops his head into my lap, finds my hand with his, and plants kisses all over it.
“Thank you,” he says. “I promise you I’ll make you the happiest woman in the world.”
He slips the ring onto my finger, then he kisses me.
“Girls,” I say to my friends when we come up for air. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll be leaving a little early today.”
“Go,” says Rebecca.
“Get out of here,” says Lauren.
“Congratulations,” says Elizabeth.
I pick Juan up and swing him once around. Then, arm in arm, we rush out the door of Umbra out into the clear, beautiful evening.
Tax time everyone! Why does that make me cringe? I mean, I’ve never owed anything. I’ve never cheated or lied on my taxes. I’m a good girl, and always get something back. It’s poverty, I think. I’m not poor now, but I used to be. And once you’ve been poor, money stuff makes you uncomfortable for the rest of your life. It shouldn’t. I should leap for joy at tax time, just like I should be able to rationally choose upstanding, gentle men who are good for me, instead of accidentally stumbling into them when I mistakenly pick good guys thinking they’re bad. But in matters of the heart, and taxes, “should” is meaningless. Thank God for mistakes like my new man.
—from “My Life,” by Lauren Fernández
rebecca
BRAD MOVES OUT on a sunny, fresh spring Monday. Birds sing from trees, and flowers dance in the breeze along Commonwealth Avenue. I’m not home when he does it. I’m busy all day with meetings, getting the magazine to bed, attending to tax issues with my accountant, and visiting Sara in the hospital again. I’ve organized her family and friends so we keep a constant vigil at her side. I don’t want her alone. I’ve never prayed harder for anything in my life than her recovery.
After work, I meet my real estate agent Carol at a trendy yellow-walled café in the South End for a quick artichoke salad and then we’re off, looking at brownstones. I have been looking for months, and haven’t found anything I really like. I think Carol has just about given up on me. That’s why I send her a gift now and then, to let her know that I value her efforts, and that I am serious about finding a home. It must be incredibly difficult to work on commission when you spend months with someone and don’t earn a dime. I want her to know I appreciate her. She has assured me that she is taking me to see all of the available brownstones in the South End, but that the housing market is just plain tight right now. I understand. I am nothing if not patient. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this illusion of a marriage with Brad, it’s to wait for the right thing and to trust your instincts. Not to settle, never again.
As usual, the first is an unacceptable rental unit, dirty and abused. The second is a possibility. But the third, I adore. Finally! Months of looking, and here it is, my dream house. I believe this is a sign from God that my life is finally going to turn around.
The brownstone stands on a quiet, tree-lined side street with a grassy median and cobblestones. It is five stories high, with just a couple of elegant, spacious rooms on each floor, and with a large and well-appointed island kitchen on t
he garden level. As we inspect the cool, dark-toned library, I whisper to Carol that I want to prepare an offer; I do this even though the ancient blonde who is selling the house hints once or twice that it is out of my price range. As I examine the master bath, for instance, the owner points out the bidet, and explains to me in a loud, slow voice that this is what Europeans use to rinse themselves after using the toilet. As I admire the sconces in the foyer, she says, “Yes, they’re Minka, that’s a very expensive kind of lighting.” And the first words out of her mouth when we arrived were that she was not interested in “renting the place out.”
I let the comments go, and do not dignify them with a reaction. However, Carol’s lips curl in on themselves and she gives the seller covert dirty looks all through our tour of the beautiful house. As Carol and I walk down the steps to the cobblestone street with the happily bubbling fountain on the median, she lets out a huff of disgust and apologizes to me, as if it’s her fault. She is furious.
“These people,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”
I touch her shoulder and say, “Let the money speak for itself, Carol. That’s the best policy. Let’s offer an even one point two.” It’s slightly above the asking price.
I come home, and his things are gone. I should say, his clothes, his toiletries, his computer, and his books are gone. Those are the only things he ever contributed to this apartment, and they’re the only things he cared enough about to take.
Finally, there’s a note, scribbled in pencil on the back of a used envelope, left on the dining-room table. He’s found someone else, he tells me, a woman of integrity and passion and ideas. Her name is Juanita Gonzalez, and he met her on the bus to Harvard Square. He underlines Juanita Gonzalez twice, as if I will care. I guess he’s found his earth mother, his immigrant cause, the woman who will finally meet his parents’ low expectations for women with Spanish surnames.
Good for him.
The rest of the note informs me he will be filing for divorce. “Fine,” I say out loud. I don’t really care anymore. This wasn’t a real marriage anyway; it was an anthropological experiment.
