A Love for Rebecca

by Uceda, Mayte

  “I remember, but I don’t believe in that stuff. And I know you don’t either. I don’t understand why you’re bringing it up now.”

  “Maybe I don’t believe in it, but I agree with her, and I’m no fortune-teller.”

  “Enric, that kind of ‘true love’ only exists in movies and books. The ‘happily ever after’ is just a facade. Even if those stories were real, they wouldn’t last ‘ever after’—half of them would end in divorce.”

  “There’s still the other half.”

  “The other half puts up with it out of habit, for mutual benefit, but not for love.”

  “When did you become so cold?”

  “You mean practical.”

  “Yeah . . .” her brother muttered as he went to the window and pretended to look out. “Maybe it doesn’t exist. I’ve never experienced it, and maybe all this guilt I feel means I never will. But you . . .” He turned to look at her. “You’re free to choose, Rebecca. I’m bound by this damned morality that doesn’t allow me to be myself, but you can still—”

  “You’re just upset,” she interrupted as she got up from the bed and went to the door. “You’re not yourself. Besides, you never liked Mario.”

  Her brother put his hands on his hips and smiled sarcastically. “You’re right about that. I’ve always thought he was a first-class jerk.”

  As soon as he spoke the words, Enric looked contrite.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “If you’re happy, who am I to question it?”

  Rebecca looked down. “We should talk later.”

  “Wait.” Enric went to his desk and jotted down his address for her. “Please come by sometime and we’ll talk.”

  “Of course,” she murmured. “I’ll stop by.”

  THE TRIP

  Later that afternoon Rebecca met her friends at Barceloneta Beach. They frequently sought relief in its warm waters when the sun beat down. Now, as Lola and Berta cooled off in the water, Rebecca remained on the sand, protecting her eyes with sunglasses and her skin with a light, silky sarong.

  She was still going over her conversation with Enric. She hadn’t confided in her friends—not because she didn’t trust them, but because she didn’t think Enric would like it. She had always known Enric wasn’t like the other boys, who played rough games and annoyed the girls. He was always on the other team, siding with the girls. But he didn’t have effeminate characteristics that would give him away; he was just a little more sensitive. When he was little, he used to cry every time he watched Bambi. When his mother saw this, she tried to toughen him up with the questionable method of repeated exposure. Enric stopped crying the fourth time he saw Bambi left alone in the world. His mother saw it as a victory. When Enric was older, he no longer cried, but the vein on his forehead was visible every time he tried to contain his emotions.

  Berta and Lola flopped onto their towels, dripping and intentionally shaking water all over Rebecca, making her jump.

  “Why don’t you take off that ridiculous cover-up?” Lola criticized.

  “I’ve already got some color. I don’t want the sun torturing my skin anymore.”

  “I think you want to hide.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m serious, Rebecca. I never saw you use a wrap until you started going out with Mario. He’s giving you a complex.”

  Rebecca drew her brows together. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “You know I don’t like to butt in,” Berta interjected, “but Lola’s right. You have a gorgeous body. You don’t need to cover it up.”

  “What I’ve got is an enormous butt and gigantic breasts,” Rebecca said. “Every time I get up I can feel all the men staring at them.”

  Berta huffed. “That’s because they like them, dummy.”

  “Oh, come on!” Lola exclaimed. “Mario’s a jerk. You’ve got a body to die for: voluptuous hips, big boobs. You look amazing. Don’t let some guy who likes girls with stick figures give you a complex.”

  “I wish I were thinner,” Rebecca lamented. “I should go on a diet.”

  “You don’t need to go on a diet,” Berta said. “What you need is to believe your body is beautiful. Why else would all the men be looking at you?”

  Lola flicked her hands, shooing the topic away. “Come on; let’s change the subject to something more interesting. I told Berta we should do that trip we talked about years ago.”

  “What trip?”

  “Remember when we started our teaching program, we talked about taking a trip when we finished?”

  “Yeah, I remember.” Rebecca nodded, resting on her elbows to look at her friends. “But that was so long ago.”

  “Five years,” Berta pointed out.

  “And I think we deserve it,” Lola continued. “Because, come on, what have we done every other summer? I always go to Bordeaux, to my father’s house, and Berta goes to her hometown, and you”—she pointed to Rebecca—“have spent the last two summers in London working at that hotel reception desk. We need to take a trip with just the three of us, as our farewell to student days, before we plunge into adulthood for real.”

  “You’ll never be a real adult,” Rebecca teased.

  “And you were born an old soul,” Lola said, shaking water from her head onto Rebecca.

  “So, where would we go?” Berta asked. Rebecca shrugged. They both looked at their friend, who squirmed on her towel.

  “I’d go to Scotland.”

  “Scotland?” Rebecca scoffed, as if Lola had suggested Saturn. “What a lovely, soggy vacation. If you want rain, green fields, and bagpipes, go to Galicia. It’s cheaper.”

  “Do you two remember Rory?”

  Rebecca thought back. “The English guy?”

  “How could we forget?” asked Berta. “You had a thing with him while you were going out with Santi.”

  “That’s not true!” Lola pouted.

  “Of course it is,” Rebecca said. “Why get defensive? We all know you wouldn’t recognize fidelity if you slept with it.”

  “You make it sound so superficial.”

  “You are superficial.”

  Lola let it go and continued her explanation. “Rory isn’t English; he’s Scottish. I called him ‘the Brit’ because it made him mad. It’s how I messed with him. I was really bummed when he finished his master’s and went back to Edinburgh.”

  “You’re saying you want to go to Scotland to see him?” Rebecca asked.

  “Well, there’s lots of other things to see in Scotland too.”

  “Like what? Tell me three things you want to see in Scotland, and I’ll consider it a serious option. And what’s under a Scot’s kilt doesn’t count.”

  Lola glared at her and then thought a moment. “I don’t know . . . Loch Ness?”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes, and Berta spoke up. “I’ve always wanted to go to Japan.”

  “Too techie,” Lola said. “And can you name three interesting places in Japan?”

  “Mount Fuji?”

  “I’d like to visit Vatican City.”

  Lola turned to look at Rebecca. “Don’t even . . .”

  “Well, everyone in my family’s been except Inés and me.”

  “Then you can go with Mario. I’m sure you’d be like two kids at an amusement park.”

  “Mario’s already been too.”

  “So go by yourself. You’ll never catch me among all those cassocks.”

  “We could see Rome and Naples too.”

  “I’ve already been there,” Lola cut her off.

  “See?” Berta complained. “How are we going to organize a trip together if we can’t even decide on a destination?”

  “We could leave it up to chance. I mean, if we’re serious about doing this,” Rebecca said.

  Lola didn’t like the idea at all and refused to participat
e in drawing straws for it if Rebecca wouldn’t change her destination.

  “Fine,” Rebecca said. “I’ll change the Vatican for . . .”

  “If you say the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes, I’ll kill you.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that, smarty pants. What about a cruise on the Mediterranean?” At that, she saw Lola relax. “Although I don’t get why I can’t just choose what I want. I never wanted to go to Scotland, but I respect your choice.”

  Negotiations began again in earnest. Finally Berta, tired of listening to her friends debate the pros and cons of each place, took a pen and paper out of her beach bag. She ripped the paper into thirds, wrote the three possible destinations, and meticulously folded the scraps. Then she went over to a little girl playing in the sand nearby and asked her to pick one of the three pieces of paper in her hands.

  Lola and Rebecca stopped talking and watched. The little girl touched one paper but then changed her mind and grabbed the one next to it. Berta thanked her, and the little girl went back to playing in the sand. Holding the paper between her thumb and index finger, Berta raised her hand in the air as if holding a trophy.

  “Before opening it,” she said seriously, “we have to agree that we will accept the result without any complaining. And I don’t want to hear any whining about it later. If we take this trip, it will be to the place written on this paper. Agreed?”

  Lola and Rebecca looked at each other expectantly.

  “I agree,” said one.

  “Me too,” agreed the other.

  Berta unfolded the paper, pressing her lips together. She was deliberately slow and ceremonious and had a look of mystery on her face, as if the word she was about to read might change their destinies forever.

  “Scotland,” she read.

  Lola jumped for joy, and Rebecca watched her with the resignation of a loser.

  Berta didn’t care much that she lost; the trip meant something else to her. She was thinking about how it would be the last time they would be together before starting a new stage in life. After this summer, she’d probably move to another city if Albert got the job. Rebecca and Mario would get married soon, and Lola . . . Well, you never knew with Lola. She dreamed of being a foreign correspondent somewhere in the world.

  Yes, Berta thought, they would be parting ways at the end of the summer.

  THE PROPOSAL

  The family was again gathered around the table for dinner, but the silence was broken only by Inés’s questions about her brother’s absence. Rebecca sensed the tension in her parents through their movements and the looks they exchanged. Her mother was the worst at hiding it; Rebecca could even see her irregular pulse as she lifted her spoon to her mouth. Her father maintained his usual bearing; the only thing amiss was his lack of attention to his youngest daughter. Dinner at the Bassols home had always been lively, full of constant chatter from everyone, each family member recounting the most important events of the day in his or her own style.

  After supper, Elvira and her husband escaped to the study. Not good, thought Rebecca. They’re probably arguing about Enric. She wanted to go in, wanted to suggest that they could still do something to help him. But it was a subject that had never been broached in this house. It had always been there, but no one wanted to see it.

  But she also had to talk to them about the trip. Admittedly, the proposal had surprised her at first, but after she thought about it, she realized how much she really wanted to go.

  A little nervously, Rebecca knocked on the door and popped her head in. Her parents stopped their conversation, and both turned to her impatiently.

  “What is it, Rebecca?” asked her father.

  She fidgeted with her hands, not knowing how to approach the subject.

  “I spoke with Enric this afternoon, after lunch. He was . . . He was upset, and he told me about the apartment.”

  “So you know.” Her mother’s voice was dry.

  Rebecca entered the study and closed the door behind her. “But we have to do something. We can’t let him leave like this. It’s not right.”

  Her father crossed his arms. “And what can we do? He’s an adult.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe if . . .” She wanted to say “if Mother would stop trying to find him a girlfriend,” but she didn’t dare. She was uneasy under their intense stares. “It’s just that we shouldn’t pressure him. Maybe in time he’ll meet a girl on his own, and then all this will be history.”

  “You too?” her father said. “When will you two understand? Enric will never find a woman.”

  Both women flinched at this. “Well,” Rebecca began, “at school there was a professor everyone knew was a . . . well, he was . . . at least, it seemed he was.” She couldn’t say the word “homosexual” in front of them. “Still, he’s married and has children. Some people can adapt . . .”

  Her daughter’s words were just the support Elvira needed to reinforce what she’d been trying to explain to her husband. “Rebecca’s right,” she said with a sense of urgency. “We should make an effort. If not, he’ll be ruined. You know he will. For God’s sake, Víctor! We can’t give up. It’s our responsibility.”

  “That’s enough, Elvira. Over the last several months I’ve talked a lot with our son. We’re the ones who’ve been living in denial about something that cannot be changed. All we’ve accomplished is to let it divide us. Enric has decided he must live his life as God willed.”

  “Don’t say such things!” Elvira cried. “God cannot want this for our son.”

  “It’s who he is,” her husband said. “You know he’s been like this since he was a child. I used to think this behavior was learned, that something changed him to be this way. That, I don’t know, maybe it had to do with how we raised him or disciplined him or something. But it’s not. I know my son, Elvira. He was born this way, and it’s clear to me, just as it is to you, that he tried to fight it. But you can’t fight yourself and win. It’s ludicrous.”

  “I will not stand by and watch my son destroy his life and ours.”

  “That’s why he left! So you don’t have to watch!”

  Elvira Brañanova threw her husband a look of furious disdain, the first in twenty-six years of marriage. And even though in her head she asked forgiveness, deep in her heart she knew she wasn’t sorry. And that hurt even more. She turned away and, before either one could say anything they would regret, she left the room.

  Rebecca stayed with her father. It had always been easier to talk with him; her mother was not prone to listening to logic that conflicted with her principles.

  “Do you really think there’s nothing we can do?” she asked.

  Víctor sighed deeply. “Have you ever talked with Enric about this?

  “No. I never had the nerve to bring it up, and I think he’s embarrassed to talk about it.”

  “Well, you should, because I’m afraid your mother’s prejudices are pretty firmly rooted in you. And your brother needs to talk to someone he can trust. But be careful, Rebecca. Don’t judge him or you’ll lose him too.”

  She listened to her father’s advice and promised to talk to her brother soon. As she was leaving, she remembered the other reason she’d entered the study. “Daddy, the girls and I want to take a trip together this summer. To celebrate graduation and everything. They think this will be our last chance.”

  Her father raised his eyebrows. “Have you spoken with Mario? After all, his opinion counts more than mine.”

  “I wanted to know what you thought first.”

  “I don’t have any problem with it, sweetheart, but your mother . . . I don’t think it’s the time to bring it up. On the other hand, you’re almost twenty-three and you’ve always been wise. Your grades couldn’t have been better—even though you won’t be joining the lawyer ranks in the family,” he said with a grin. “But you deserve it, so don’t worry. You talk to
Mario, and if he doesn’t have any objections, I’ll speak with your mother.”

  Late in the afternoon the next day, Rebecca entered the office of Caralt & Bassols. She and Mario had planned to see a movie, and she also wanted to talk to him about the proposed trip.

  As always, his assistant, Angus, greeted her.

  When she was a little girl, Rebecca thought that Angus was from one of those countries where everyone had names like Agnes or Sigmund. But when she got older, she found out that, far from being from some distant, exotic place, the assistant was from Cuenca, and Angus was merely short for Angustias. But by then it was too hard for Rebecca to get out the full name; her tongue would stick after the first syllable, and she’d have to stop and think about it before she could say it out loud. She wondered if her father or Josep Caralt ever had the same problem.

  “Have you come to see Mario or your father?” Angus inquired amiably.

  “Mario—he’s expecting me.”

  “He’ll be finished soon,” Angus said as she sorted a pile of papers on her desk. “They’ve been with a client for a while now. It shouldn’t be too much longer. Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll just sit here and wait.”

  Twenty minutes later, four men emerged from the large conference room: Víctor Bassols; Josep Caralt; his son, Mario; and their client, a tall man with white hair and the distinctive air of an executive. After a brief exchange of formulaic good-byes, they shook hands and the man left.

  Víctor noticed his daughter, who was seated comfortably on a waiting-room sofa. She stood and went over to join her father, future father-in-law, and fiancé.

  “Where are you two lovebirds off to today?” asked Mr. Caralt, a man of short stature and little hair, whose growing belly strained against his shirt.

  “To a movie,” Mario replied.

  Rebecca noticed her brother’s absence. “Where’s Enric?”