I lift her chin with my index finger and kiss her tears. “Please, don’t ever say that.”
She squeezes her cheek gently against mine. “I’m so sorry. I’m so very, very sorry, Scrunchy.”
I gently glide my hands against her dark velvety face. “We’ll work it out, Mar. Our love is powerful; it’s for eternity.” I kiss her cherry mouth, then her closed eyelids. “Don’t ever say we’ll never see each other again.”
She kisses my entire face. “You’re right. We’ll find a way. I’ll miss you so much.”
I squeeze her in my arms. “You’ll be all right. I went through it. We’ll be together forever, no matter what.” I wait for a response.
Instead, she checks her watch. “Hurry! It’s time!”
We rush toward the screening area.
We sink into a sad silence, hugging hard, holding onto each other.
She lets go of me and walks stoically through the metal detectors. Tears streaming down her face, she turns to wave to me one last time and calls, “Take good care of yourself.”
It sounds as if we’re never going to see each other again.
I mouth, “You too.”
10—Pink Petunias
Since Marlena left, whenever I have free time, I work on learning art design, photography, sculpting and film/documentary. A girl on Facebook who attends Yale sends me her homework, and all her old books, in exchange for a Renaissance style portrait I did of her. On my own, I’m learning the history of art and see slideshows of all the masters’ work. I’m also learning architecture, with information I get from one of Soli’s clients who goes to the University of Miami’s School of Architecture—I exchanged a portrait of his dog for the info. I’m fascinated with Gaudi’s wild-style Spanish architecture and Cuba’s mix of Colonial, Art Deco and Modernism. I also love Miami Beach’s Art Deco and spend as much time as possible sitting across Ocean Drive under palm trees for shade, painting the buildings from across the way.
No matter how busy I keep myself, not a day goes by that I don’t think of Marlena.
It’s midnight, March 26th and Marlena’s seventeenth birthday. Soli and Viva are asleep. I steal into the dark back porch with Neruda at my heels. I sit on Viva’s rocking chair and rock back and forth, back and forth, squeezing Neruda to me. I hear clapping thunder, and watch thin veils of rain covering the trees.
Days have been longer without my Marlena. She left seven months and four days ago. At first, she wrote me long snail mail love letters dripping in beautiful words every day with pictures of her attached. She wrote about playing tennis, swimming at the ocean with a bunch of new straight friends.
As time went on, her letters stayed passionate and sounded like this:
“My old friends found out. I can’t believe how fast word spreads. I’ve made new friends. I don’t think they know or I’m sure they’d shun me too. I wish you could live here. It’s even more fun than Miami. The only setback is not being with you.
“I dissolve into tears sometimes, from being unable to communicate with you the way we did. At nights, I close my eyes and visualize you next to me. I allow myself the illusion that our bodies are touching . . .
“I found my old ballet shoes in a box. I’m sending them to you with a pair of shorts and the tight jeans you loved me to wear. You said they smelled like me, and you loved how they looked on me, remember?
“The other day, my mom almost caught me at the post office, getting my mail from you at the PO box address you bought me. Thanks for sending me money to pay for it. It’s weird to write with a pen. I’m so used to e-mailing or texting. This is hell. I have a new laptop but I can only use it for school work. This punishment is really cruel. I can’t wait for our bodies to meet again, skin-to-skin, and to kiss your sweet mouth till forever . . .”
She managed to sneak collect calls three times a week. As things got smoother, she made her family believe I was history and a grave mistake. Her cell phone, Skype and online services were restored. Her e-mails, IMs, texts and pictures poured in. These are some of her texts (I’ve never deleted them):
still hard 2 live w/out u in my life. missing u. a soft kiss on the lips. help! dying to c u!!! love u!!! miss ur kisses!!! my promise still holds: day i turn 18, going back 2 u. how many days till then? applied 4 scholarship at U of M. woot woot! te quiero mucho! get your own apartment right b4 i arrive. i’ll live in a dorm so my family can visit. will come c u every day 2 study at ur place. i’ll spend sultry nights w u w/out anyone knowing. sweet kisses . . . i’ll always love u. fantasized bout u today, yesterday, tomorrow and every day! miss ur touch . . . miss u more than ever. going crazy w/out u. don’t like Rick’s kisses. nubs. wait 4 me. don’t date anybody else. all this will b over soon and we’ll b in each other’s arms.
i know it’s hard to wait, but ur the only 1 4 me. I’m the only 1 4 u.
***
Eventually, she started calling me late every night via Skype, and when no one was home. We’d be together and have the time of our lives. Virtual lovemaking is nowhere near skin-to-skin contact, but we figured out a way to enhance our experience: we sent each other clothes. We’d each put on the other’s garb (including underwear). I’d get to at least smell her distinct, sweet scent surrounding me.
All was back to normal.
I was expecting Marlena to move to Miami next year. She seemed to have gathered enough courage to tell her parents she’d applied to U of M and if not accepted, she’d be attending FIU. There was hope for us. Even though we’d never live together, we were staying a couple.
Then last month, the calls, e-mails, photos, Skype visits, texts and IMs abruptly stopped. I’ve tried every possible way to contact her, to no avail. I know she’s still alive and well, because Marco mentions her often. I’ve been working hard, and chilling with friends I met on Facebook or with Viva and Neruda on weekday nights and holidays. Early weekend mornings, around five a.m., I pack a picnic and ride my bike to Key Biscayne beach. I sometimes like being alone. There, I walk, swim, sketch, read e-books and write poetry till after sunset.
Soli and I kick it on weekend nights. I got her, whatever guy she’s dating, and Facebook friends who want to tag along, into seeing foreign films and hanging at Bohemian Café on poetry nights. Unfortunately, going out in a group makes me yearn for Marlena even more.
I miss her face, her gestures, her voice, and everything about her.
Now mild breezes bring the smell of the damp, green night into the porch, but my stomach is twisting as if I’d eaten a jar of habanero peppers.
I rock back and forth, back and forth, thinking, like I’ve done every day since Marlena left. Sometimes, life doesn’t make sense. Just when you believe everything is a bed of pink petunias, a cat comes and poops on it.
***
I didn’t get to sleep till late last night. I’m riding my bike home from work through woodsy Coconut Grove, with a cool salty breeze filling my lungs.
I can’t stop remembering what happened today:
Beep-Beep! “You guys stay working. Shai is coming with me!” Marco commands in his usual Spanish. I throw down my shovel and climb into his sneaker-smelling blue Dodge Ram pickup truck. “We’re going to the nursery warehouse to pick up more trees.”
He speeds off.
“I’ve got some great news. My brother called from Puerto Rico to tell me Marlena got engaged to Rick yesterday!” His eyes sparkle. “I just spoke with my niece. She sounds happy as a fiesta!” He scratches his barrel belly and sings, “Here comes the bride, here comes the bride . . .”
I gulp hard, turn to look at him, and put on a smiley face. “Incredible.”
What the hell? Engaged at seventeen? Did Marlena get pregnant? I bet that’s the reason she stopped contacting me. I’m sure she thinks I’ll push her away. I won’t. She should know better than that.
I pedal as fast as I can. A sudden pain fills my chest. Disillusionment engulfs me. My body feels heavy and weak. But I must keep going.
Marlena do
esn’t like guys that way. Did she feel she had to have sex with Rick? My beautiful Marlena is being dragged into something she doesn’t want to do. A vision of her face when we used to be together appears before me. Her eyes flutter. Her moans rise up and down and swim into me, gently . . .
I’m snapped out of my thoughts by a red Beemer honking at me. “Get off the focking road with that focking bike! ¡Comemierda!”
“I love you too!” I scream, and swerve over to the sidewalk before he runs me over.
I can’t keep going at this speed. I slow down, out of breath, and pedal effortlessly. Riding my bike is part of me, just as painting is something I was born to do. The word Ride flashes before me. Marlena, unlike most girls I know, wasn’t born with an innate desire to ride a guy as soon as her hormones kicked in.
Once, Soli got her a sex toy just for laughs and told her, “So you and Shai can experiment.” That night, when we were alone, Marlena became insulted. She told me in a stern voice, “I’m never going to let you use this on me. It’s unnatural.” When I asked if she’d use it on me, to see what it felt like, she threw that silicone, flexible thing across her room so hard it dented a wall. She later shoved it in a bag, and returned it to Soli in case I had any ideas about using it on myself.
So much for experimentation.
Girls are what Marlena’s into and absolutely nothing that even remotely resembles a guy. She doesn’t even like hot dogs! I’ve asked her if a man had ever done her wrong but she said, “No. I was just born loving girls, loving only you, that is.”
I get back to thinking at least her family never told Marco on us, but that’s not the way I wanted to hear about my girlfriend again, thank you very much. I hope she’s not really marrying Rick the Dick.
If she’s not pregnant, I anticipate she’s getting engaged so her family gets off her back. That she hasn’t been able to contact me tells me she might be going through difficult times. If she finally calls me, I can’t get pissed or judge her. That will only make her distant. I’m going to need to stay calm, allow her to talk, and be as understanding as possible.
I zip onto US 1 and pass a truck burping black fumes. “Thanks for spreading lung cancer!” I yell to the driver while holding my nose and pointing at the guck polluting the air. When are people going to get they’re destroying the planet that sustains us and in turn, making humans sick? Vehicles should be made electric and of recycled rubber so if you crash, you won’t get killed.
I zip onto Little Havana, gulping down my disappointment about Marlena and Rick, wiping tears with my shoulders. I let the smells of cut grass and coconut milk soothe me before I get home. I don’t want to bring Neruda or Viva down and must act joyful.
I park my bike and fling the door open. My furry chicken-pot-pie leaps onto me. “How’s my little miniscloopi, the cutest macarooni in the world, eh?” I scoop her up and fill her with smoocheroonies. She licks my eyelids and nose.
Viva stops brushing the ceiling with a sopping wet broom full of the nontoxic cleaners I bought her. She kisses my cheek. “Hola, mijita.” She produces a pink tissue from inside her bra and dusts the drooping crystals on her plastic chandelier. “How is la mariposita today?”
“I is so fine I shine,” I goof, trying hard to hide my feelings. “Don’t forget that spot.” I point to another corner of the ceiling. “Who knows what bacteria is growing there.” Viva is a psycho cleaner.
“Ay, Shylita.” She laughs sweet as guava cream.
I check my iPhone for the hundredth time to see if I missed Marlena’s text or call. No such luck. I check my e-mails to see if Marlena wrote. Nope.
I plop on the sofa to call Pedri as Viva leaves to buy Neruda Milk-Bones at the corner mercado. On her way home, she’ll stop at her best friend Adela’s apartment for a cafecito and long talks about her guru, Sai Mu, astrology, and “spiritual” things.
I call Pedri like I do every day after work. I don’t give three flying fricasés if my mom keeps answering and hanging up on me. All this makes me feel so sad and lonely, really. It’s unclear why a mother won’t take her child back, especially when they always got along so well and there was so much love between them. The pain about her behavior is so hard that most of the time I’m working on forcing myself to not think about it.
People don’t understand that you can’t just abandon a child and go on with your life without harsh consequences. We’re growing farther and farther apart. One day, maybe I won’t want to love my mom anymore because it’ll hurt too much. Maybe she’ll want me back when I’m older but it’ll be too late. Her new husband is more part of her life than I am. How can that be? How can I be worthless to my mom?
It’s difficult to stay in denial 24/7 when you’re not allowed to speak to the little love of your life.
Pedri answers. “Little Punk!”
“Shyly!” I imagine him throwing his arms around my waist and squishing his tiny head against my stomach.
He sniffles into the receiver. “Pedri, what’s wrong?”
“I miss you.” It’s getting harder and harder to live without my little brother. I want so much to hold Pedri in my arms and comfort him; it’s unbearably painful to not be able to do so.
I wipe tears from my eyes. “Me too. I miss you so much I could die.”
“Why don’t you sneak into the house at night to come see me?”
“Mami changed the locks a loooooong time ago. I don’t have the new set of keys, or I’d be there every day. But no matter what, I’ll always love you.” I shut my eyes. “Hey, close your eyes and think that I’m hugging you.” I envision myself squeezing him to me. “I love you more than anything or anyone in this world. Can you feel that?”
“Yeah!” I can feel his smile radiating around me.
I sit on the couch and imagine him on my lap, the way he always put his head on the curve of my neck and sucked his thumb. I miss his coconut cookie smell that reminds me of home.
“Did you get the letter and pictures I sent you this week?” He told me Mami has been in the habit of throwing out my mail.
“Yesterday, Mami ripped up and threw away the cartoon book you made me. I cried the whooole day. I didn’t eat or nothing last night. She promised she’ll give me everything you send me from now on. I’m saving your old letters and pictures inside last year’s lunchbox.” I always send him tons of funny pics of Neruda, Soli, Viva and me, since he doesn’t have a cell and Mami won’t allow him online yet.
“Don’t worry, Little Punk. I’ll make you a new book; it’ll be even funnier! And I’m sending you my favorite painting of Neruda with bananas flying around her.”
He gives out a sweet belly laugh. “That’s funny, Shyly. I can’t wait. I’ll put it up in my room. She’s so cute. I miss her, too.”
“I know.” It’s so unfair what our mother is doing to us.
“I can’t see Neruda anymore neither. That’s not fair. I didn’t do nothing wrong.” And neither did I, I think.
I hear Mami and Jaime talking. I speak fast into the receiver. “Call me later, when she’s taking a bath. I love you more than the clouds and the tallest trees, and all the flowers on earth.”
“I love you too, Shyly. More than all the puppies and kitties and ponies in the world.”
Click! We hang up fast so Mami doesn’t catch him on the phone with me.
Mami will have to cut off my fingers to stop me from calling Pedri. She’d have to chop my legs off to keep me from visiting him at school during some of my lunch breaks from work. It should be against the law for my mom to be doing this to us. It’s hard to know I don’t have rights, but my mother does. She makes choices for me that are wrong.
Just as I’m headed to go online, my cell rings.
“¿Oigo?”
“This is a collect call from Puerto Rico. Will you accept?”
“Yes!”
“Hello?” Marlena’s voice sounds distant, far away.
“Mar!” I get up and walk around, then plunk back on the sofa and exhale a gr
eat sigh of relief. “It’s so good to hear your voice.” Words pour out fast in different directions. “Are you okay? It’s been so long. Marco told me about your engagement. Why did you stop calling me? What happened?” I’m jittery and out of breath. “How are you? You’re not really marrying Rick, are you?”
“Hi, Shai. I’m fine.” She doesn’t call me Scrunchy. Her voice sounds odd, not the tone of someone excited to talk to me. “I became really busy and haven’t been able to sneak another call till now.”
“How are things at home? What’s happened since we last spoke?” I can’t stop from asking questions. “Marco talks about you all the time. Are you being forced to marry Rick? It must be so difficult.” I don’t mention the pregnancy.
“No. I’m not being obligated to do anything. Everything’s great at home because I’ve changed.”
“Changed?” I drop my head and look down at my feet. She doesn’t sound like my old Marlena; she’s someone I don’t recognize. “You mean you’ve changed because you’re acting like you’re in love with Rick, but you’re not going through with the marriage, right?” I want to hear with all my heart she still loves me, she’s coming back to live in Miami as we’d planned, she’s not marrying Rick, no matter what, and she’s not with child.
“No. I mean I’m really different now, Shai. I’m not the same person. What we were doing was wrong.” She speaks in a dead tone, as if she were talking about dust on her counter, as if our two years and eight months together—not counting last month—didn’t mean a thing. “I don’t want to be that way anymore.”
“That way? What have they done to you?”
A flashback of Marlena standing by the window of her room the first time she told me she thought she was warped because she loved a girl, hits me hard. We’d been together over a year and it was the day after Thanksgiving. She and I had just finished a meal of leftovers with her parents. They were alarmed about news of a gay serial killer, bullying and stabbing effeminate boys to death in broad daylight. The criminal was on the loose. I will never forget what Marlena’s mom said:
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