The Story of You and Me

by DuMond, Pamela

  I leaned in and examined a few. A photo of an orphanage in Mexico. A small weathered woman wearing a nun’s habit gazed directly into the camera, a patient look on her worn face. Around her, kids made faces, barely holding their energy inside for the second it took for the photographer to snap the picture. The signature at the bottom of the photo read: Alida Hernandez Levine. She was the photographer who wasn’t scared to show someone’s beauty or another’s pain.

  “These are all yours?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “They’re amazing. When did you start taking pictures?”

  “When I was a kid in Mexico City. My mother was Spanish and a teacher. My father was American and a salesman. I had one older sister and one younger. My parents separated when I was seven years old. We girls stayed with my mother and visited my father once a year in the States. The first trip I begged my dad for a camera so I could remember all our moments. Every piece of our stories.”

  “That must have been tough,” I said.

  She shrugged. “It was the only reality we knew. When I was fifteen, my mother remarried. Señor Perez was a nice enough man. A diplomat, of sorts. My mother offered her daughters a choice: Travel the world, which meant changing schools once a year. Or go live with our father.”

  “What did you do?” I hadn’t seen or even head from my dad in thirteen years. I couldn’t even imagine making a crazy decision like that at such a young age.

  “Have you ever been to Nebraska in the winter?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “They have minus forty wind-chill and very large steaks.”

  “I’m used to minus forty. But I’d really like those steaks.”

  She cracked a smile. “My sisters stayed with my mama and explored the world. I chose my dad and traveled America. I learned not only about Nebraskan steaks, but Iowa corn, river rafting in Utah and picking blueberries in Michigan. When I was eighteen my dad got a job in L.A. There were beaches and mountains. Fall colors, skiing and deserts. And then I ran into the best part of Los Angeles.”

  Alida peered out the window at Alejandro’s dad flipping burgers, brats, and turning shish kebobs on the BBQ while he talked enthusiastically with his friends and clients. She smiled. “I met Jacob Levine at Universal City when we were young, stupid and impressionable. He was gorgeous, so smart and a charmer. Our religions were different, our backgrounds too, but we fell in love. We said yes to each other in Vegas. Our families were horrified but we decided to try and make it work. Twenty-five years later, I have no regrets in the marriage department.”

  “That’s inspirational.” I looked back up at the wall of photos. Dead center in front of the desk was a 10 X 12 glossy framed photo of a battered and crumpled SUV on the back of a flatbed tow truck. Fractured, tiny pieces of its front window clung to the rim that would have held its intact windshield. The metal parts twisted into the guts of the car. There were faint smudges of dark red-brown splotches on the windshield fragments as well as other parts.

  I couldn’t help but take a step backward. Why did she have such a creepy photo on her wall?

  “That photo’s frightening, yes? But I keep it up there to remind myself every day that life isn’t perfect. And yet we continue in spite of our fears. What’s your story, Sophie? Do you like Alejandro? Because I know he likes you.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Yes, I do.” When my stupid hand started shaking.

  And Alida spotted it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Could there be a worse time for my hand to tremble? I covered it quickly with my other hand and held it next to my waist. How to distract Alejandro’s mom? “I heard this used to be Gary Cooper’s house. Did you buy it from his estate? What did you do to renovate it? I’d love to know more.”

  “So would I.” She sighed. Took a seat in a chair adjacent to the large desk. Motioned for me to sit on the loveseat situated next to her. I did. “You haven’t told Alejandro why you really hired him to drive you. Have you?” She reached out, took my good hand and placed it on my lap.

  “No,” I said.

  She took my shaking hand and held it, gently, but firmly, between her hands. And gazed at me. “Why not?”

  I met her gaze. Peered down at my quivering hand that she squeezed between her two sturdy ones. And I just couldn’t help it. I missed my mom and my Nana. I missed my home. A few tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. “I don’t tell a lot of people. It scares me to tell people,” I said. “That probably makes me a terrible person, but no, I haven’t told him. Yet.”

  She sighed. “But he hasn’t told you either.”

  What, I wondered. What hasn’t he told me?

  Alida took a long moment, then leaned in toward me. “Why are you really here, Sophie? Because as much as I believe you love your family? I don’t believe you’re here to write a book proposal with your Nana.”

  Busted. It was time for the truth. I just didn’t expect to be sharing that with Alejandro’s mom. Especially not the first time I met her.

  I took a deep breath. “I’m petrified my grandmother’s dying,” I said. “She’s had MS for thirty years. She’s been in a wheelchair for five years. She’s going downhill. I saw it. I knew it was happening. And I couldn’t just sit still, do nothing and lose her without a fight.”

  Alida nodded.

  “I traveled to L.A. to find a miracle. For my grandmother.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “I’m not looking for sympathy or a donation to my favorite therapy or charity. I’m willing to be a guinea pig to find something, to find anything that can extend her life. Maybe that will be six months. Maybe I can find something that will buy her a year or two or five. Maybe I’ll just stumble across a therapy that makes her more comfortable. Less pain. She’s a really great person. She’s kind and she’s funny. And she wants people to follow their dreams. She just moved to Assisted Living but signed up for Berlitz to learn a foreign language. I think you’d like her.”

  “So basically you’re in L.A. to save your grandmother? Is that the only reason?”

  I shook my head. “I have early onset MS. I haven’t told Alejandro for a lot of reasons. I didn’t want him to feel sorry for me. I just wanted him to drive me. I hope he told you that I’m paying him. Right? I would never take advantage of him. I adore him.”

  “He adores you right back.” She squeezed my hand. “I know a curandero in Rosarito, Mexico.”

  “A Latino healer?”

  She nodded. “He’s a trip, but he’s powerful. He’s also booked solid.”

  “I don’t think I have a lot of time.”

  “I can get you an appointment with him. Soon. I’m not going to tell Alejandro about our talk. But you both have stories. When or if you decide to share them with each other is between the two of you.”

  * * *

  Alejandro lived in the converted pool house. His surfboards leaned against one wall. Pool nets hung on another wall next to a printout with contact information for a pool service company. He had a beat up leather couch, a desk with his laptop and printer. Some of his mom’s photos hung on the walls. There were a few family photos, as well as candid shots of him and the other Drivers, as well as Jackson.

  “Wow. Cool place. Rescue anyone with those nets?” I asked.

  “I tried, once. My mom’s dog, Miss Guadalajara, fell into the deep end and forgot the dog stroke. I tried to scoop her out, but the net scared her and she started drowning in the opposite direction. So I jumped in and saved her.” He pointed to a photo on one of the walls. It was of a fully clothed, but drenched twelve-year-old Alejandro hugging an incredibly confused looking puppy.

  “Which started your long string of saving bedraggled mutts. Like me, my first night in L.A.”

  “Bonita, you’re a far cry from a bedraggled mutt.” He took my hand and tugged me toward him.

  I dropped his hand and backed away. “We’re at your parents’ home,” I said.

  He laughed. “We’re also at my home. They’r
e not going to break in and interrupt me. Besides they always knock first.”

  “Why’d you leave last night?”

  He shrugged. “Someone had my Driver card and called me. The guy was a friend of a friend. I promised I’d take the calls. I had to go grab his keys as well as him before he got in the car. He was in West Hollywood. I had to make tracks.”

  “Do you have to do that every time?”

  “No. We usually take turns. But Nick got a call right before mine. And I don’t like to let people down. You just never know.”

  He glanced up to a framed photo on his wall. I followed his gaze and saw the same photo that was in his mom’s office. The crumpled SUV that was on the back of the tow truck. “That photo was on your mom’s wall. Why’s it on your wall?”

  He shook his head. “Today’s a fun day. I don’t want to get into it right now, okay? I promise I’ll tell you when the time is right. Come on, let’s grab some BBQ before Cole finishes off what’s left of the burgers.”

  He took my hand and we walked out of the pool house onto the lawn toward the picnic tables and the smiling, happy people.

  I thought about it. I understood that dark matters were sometimes best kept hidden. A time and a place would arise that would necessitate sharing them. Like what just happened to me with his mom. I wasn’t ready to tell Alejandro I had MS. So I didn’t push him about the picture.

  I wasn’t the only one who had secrets.

  * * *

  The next day I was back at Walden hall where I turned in a term paper to the rumpled, but still sexy Dr. Schillinger. So far between quizzes, exams, papers and attendance I was pulling a 3.85 out of 4 in his class. Not bad considering all the other stuff I had going on.

  “Hey, Sophie. I need to talk with you after class for a second,” Dr. Schillinger said.

  “Sure. No problem. I’ve got an appointment close by in a half hour or so. Maybe I can push it back?”

  “We’ll make it quick,” he said.

  * * *

  I stood in front of his desk and tried not to fidget.

  “You know how we did that genetic test with Spectrum labs?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the test where we learn part of our ancestry or what family genes we might carry for certain traits. Like who’s likely to have blue eyes. Or brown eyes. Or oily skin. Or…”

  This wasn’t about my grades.

  Schillinger looked down at a paper on his desk. That paper had my name on top. I guessed what he was examining.

  “Or someone who might be pre-disposed to an autoimmune disease like Lupus, or MS, or Rheumatoid,” I said.

  “That’s right.” Dr. Schillinger gazed up at me and blinked. “You already know, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. I do. But thanks. You are awfully kind and incredibly sweet to try and break the news to me.” I pushed away a tear, hoisted my backpack onto my shoulder and turned to walk out the door.

  “Sophie.”

  “What?”

  “You’re young. It’s not a death sentence. You can experiment. Try stem cell studies. Alternative therapies—”

  “Thanks, Dr. Schillinger. Already on it.” I turned and strode out the door.

  * * *

  I signed in at the receptionist’s desk in the very bland USCLA Hospital stem cell central. “Hey Phil,” I said. “Just here for a blood draw today. Think you can track down the tech that actually knows how to hit deep rolling veins? I’m missing the first half of the Packers-Viking game and I’m not all that happy about it.”

  “Let me see what I can do.” Phil clicked on his computer keyboard and I walked toward the waiting area. “It’s preseason football, Cheesehead. It doesn’t really count.”

  I turned and stared at him. “Et tu, Phil with the Cheesehead reference? Of course I’m watching. Viking scum.”

  “Do not cast aspersions on my home people, Wisconsinite,” he said.

  I grinned. Never in a million years would I have guessed homogenous Phil with no-accent was from Minnesota. “Who do you think you’re talking to, Fargo?”

  But Phil was leaning into his computer screen, frowning, and didn’t take my bait. “Sorry to say today is more than a blood draw. They’ve got you scheduled for an MRI.”

  “But, I just had an MRI.”

  “Apparently the powers that be have requested another one. Room 104. Nurse Michaels will check you in.”

  “If I miss the game I will be filing a complaint with the USCLA stem cell study program.” I stomped down the hall.

  “I don’t blame you,” Phil said.

  * * *

  Nurse Michaels asked me a slew of medical questions. If I had increased headaches, or dizziness or nauseousness. Then took my blood—yes, three tries, again. “Why do I have to have another MRI so soon?” I asked.

  He looked at my chart and no emotion what so ever slipped onto his deadpan face. How this was even possible was beyond me. “You need to talk to the doctors about that.”

  “But I’m in the room with you.”

  “I can’t say, Sophie. I’m sorry.”

  “Can you hint?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “Blink once if it’s good. Don’t blink at all if it’s bad. Or not good.”

  Nurse Michaels took my blood pressure and—Did. Not. Blink.

  “Well this sucks, doesn’t it?” I asked.

  * * *

  I was in the freaking MRI tube again. This time I opted for double earplugs and tried to remember what each moment of Pachabel’s Canon sounded like in my head. I even hummed it until the med tech behind the glass wall instructed me that humming would create movement that could interfere with my scan.

  So I stopped humming for real, and just hummed in my head incredibly, amazingly, loudly. And thought about my mom and all her sacrifices. My Nana and how awesome she was. The joy when I watched Napoleon toddle around my apartment. How my breath vanished from my body when Alejandro kissed me. How it returned in a gasp when his tongue slipped inside my mouth and he kissed me stronger, harder and more intensely.

  This is how I got through my most recent MRI, most recent assault and my most recent stress. I made it through this stupid, incredibly loud, headache producing medical procedure by imagining love. In all shapes and forms.

  Two hours later I pulled my clothes back on in the small exam room. Twisted my hair into a bun on the top of my head with a ponytail holder. Couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Dodge.

  I walked down the USCLA hall, the corridor, hit the elevator button and exited the building’s doors. Made it to the park benches in front, sat my butt down and rested for a moment. I needed a little moral support. I needed to talk with a friend. I called Triple M back home.

  She picked up, “Yo, what up, girlfriend?”

  I heard football sounds in the background coming from her state of the art 42-inch flat screen TV mounted on her living room wall next to her glassed-in Barbie collection. “When did you become a rapster chick?” I asked.

  “I’m not a rapster chick, homie, I am still your BFF. Wait… hold on… flag on the play? What do you mean freaking flag on the play? He was not offsides! The ref is blind! Viking bullshit!” She screamed.

  I held the phone away from my ear but couldn’t help smiling. “What’s the score?”

  “You’re not watching the freaking game? What has L.A. done to you? Do I need to de-program you when you return home to Wisconsin?”

  “No. I had something kind of weird happen today. I went to the clinic and—”

  “A ten yard penalty? Kill me now! The score’s 24—21, Vikings lead the Pack, two minute warning, end of the fourth quarter. And now, stupid asshat ref, we’re out of field goal range. God dammit!”

  This was not a good time to chat. “I love you Triple M. Let’s talk later.”

  “Love you back, Sophie.” And we both hung up.

  I walked home and reminded myself that loneliness was part of moving away. I snagged a lemon from t
he tree close to my apartment. My phone rang and I picked up.

  “What are you doing tonight, Cheesehead?” Blue asked.

  “Well I missed the game. I guess working on the final paper for Schillinger’s class. My life is so exciting. Not.”

  “It’s about to get a little more fun,” she said. “Text me you address. We’re picking you up at nine thirty p.m.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve got an appointment thing tomorrow and I’m going to Rosarito.” I unlocked my door and reached my hand down to block any escape attempts by Napoleon. He attempted marching outside, but I plucked him up, shut the door, and plopped him back on the floor.

  “Mexico?” Blue asked.

  “Yeah. With my Driver.”

  “The good kisser?” She asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I’m assuming this means you made a good impression on his parents?”

  I thought about the embarrassment I felt when Alex’s mom spotted my trembling hand. “I definitely left an impression on his parents.”

  “Hah! Work on your Genetics paper this afternoon and screw the appointment unless it’s super important. I swear, this outing is like kismet, or good karma for something you did in a past life. Or possibly even yesterday, because I don’t believe karma is only past-life related.”

  “What are we going to do that starts at nine thirty at night, Blue? I’m not into clubbing or bar hopping. I’m totally not in the party mood. So thanks, I appreciate your offer, but whatever it is? It’s just not my thing.”

  “Oh shut up. You’re supposed to be the cheery one with the good attitude. You’re not in a wheelchair. You’re kissing a hot guy. And if you think I’d waste my time taking you to club in L.A? Well then, you’re a moron. Because if you’ve seen one club in any city, you’ve pretty much seen them all.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So what do you have planned?”