Malentendido (Misunderstood)

by Mara White

  “I’m Belén. It’s been five years since I lost my cousin and best friend. I don’t really have any milestones to report. I take anti-depressants but I’ve stopped with the meds for anxiety, you know, to be more present for my son. I still carry them, but no longer take them to cope.” I pull the pill canister out of my purse and shake it. Then I’m dumbstruck because it’s empty. It must have opened and the pills probably scattered all over the bottom of my purse.

  Ponzo is up next and she only gets some shrugs out of him. I look at him and he seems somehow familiar under all of the long hair, beard scruff and the dirt. I squint at him and wonder if I know him from somewhere.

  “His name’s Ponzo,” I suddenly offer. “Who’d you lose?” I ask my grief group partner.

  “My mom,” he says just loud enough for only me to hear.

  A little stab constricts my heart.

  “Ponzo lost his mother,” I offer to the group.

  “Then we lost everything.”

  “Then they lost everything,” I say. I didn’t even volunteer and yet I’m acting as a voice for him. Ponzo sets his hands in his lap and looks down at his interlaced fingers. I sit my butt down quick before I’m asked to say anything else. The skin on his hands is cracked and dry. Dirt has taken up residence there and looks as if it would take a wire brush to get rid of it.

  “Sorry to hear about your mother. That must be hard.”

  He nods his head without looking at me.

  “Do I know you?” I ask him in a whisper.

  “I know your cousin, Luciano Cabrera.”

  “Oh.” I nod my head. “From high school or the Marines?”

  “Just from living in the Heights. You know how it is; kinda get to know everybody up in the neighborhood.”

  I nod my head and silently deem “Ponzo” a drug dealer. I don’t really want to be in this room anymore. Don’t know what he knows about me or my cousin, but it’s safe to say he’s at least heard rumors about us. I won’t be able to speak openly or feel free from the eye of judgment with this man sitting next to me, who probably not only helped to cultivate Lucky’s addiction, but also enabled the only man I’ve ever truly loved. If he hadn’t died overseas, Luciano would have died from the drugs. I should have left the Heights, should have run far and fast while I still could.

  “You know he passed while on tour? Almost five years ago, now.”

  “That’s what I heard,” he says in a tone I don’t quite understand. Ponzo offers no condolences or even any pleasantries to help make the exchange less awkward.

  “Yeah, I saw Luciano in DR and I was shocked ’cause I heard he never made it out of the Middle East.”

  “What?” I whip my head so fast and hard it hurts. My eyes burn through his with accusatory darts. “Do not fucking say that. Do not fuck with my head. Who are you to come in here and tell me shit like that? I’m having a hard enough time as it is. What the hell are you even doing in a grief group if you can’t understand that people are here because they’re hurting?”

  I’m yelling. Everyone stopped talking and now they’re just staring.

  I’ve got a mind to dig the ancient pepper spray out of the bottom of my purse and spray this asshole’s face off before he can spout off any more bullshit.

  He puts his hands up in surrender and shakes his head at me. My rage toward this stranger garners us some angry shushers but I couldn’t care less what they think. I will fuck this man up and get dragged away by the police. Dealing with my mom and her spirit world convictions is torture enough. I don’t need a complete stranger to barge into my well-earned peace and mess my head up.

  “Suit yourself,” he says, “but I saw him with my own two eyes.” He points at his eyes with two fingers as if acknowledging them makes them credible. I glare. He goes back to studying his thumbs. It feels like he’s baiting me with a trap. “Either that or he’s got an identical twin living on the island.”

  “Don’t fucking talk to me!” I say and cross my arms over my chest. My eyes sting with tears and my respiration nears hyperventilation. My hands sink into my purse and then I remember my plastic pill bottle was empty. I yank my coat off the back of the metal folding chair. “Good luck with your grief,” I snap at Ponzo.

  Después

  Sameer and I start working out together at the gym. I like the guy enough and I want to pick his brain. Find out how the hell he got away with marrying his cousin. I know it’s custom and culture but there are other questions I got, like how they had kids who appear to be perfectly normal? And if he knows anyone else who had the same Uncle-Niece-Cousin-Cousin scenario.

  But, if I’m being honest, I really just want someone to talk to. My secret isn’t shameful around this guy. It’s nothing out of the ordinary to him; I can talk about how much I wanted to be with her, how much I still want her, without it sounding controversial, fucked up, like some dirty story you tell the guys at a party. Plus, Sameer is ripped and has a steady regimen, which is good for me because I still got issues from the accident. A plate in my head, a couple of screws in my shoulder, I was off my feet for so long that I literally had to start over—learning how to walk, even how to control my bladder. I was a fucking invalid and I’m so thankful that my ma or Bey or even Tía Betty never had to see me that way. I crawled out on my own, mind over matter, busted my ass every day and it was harder even than kicking my drug habit. But I’m here, I’m alive, I’m living proof that miracles happen and second chances are possible.

  “Five sets of five and then a half-hour of cardio?” Sameer asks. He’s wrapping his hands because he free lifts and the wraps ensure his grip won’t slip while he’s power lifting.

  “Yeah. Sounds about right.” I run my hands through my shortly cropped hair, wondering if he gets annoyed by my questions, always bringing up his wife and their story.

  “Spit it out, dude. Looks like you’re gonna give yourself a migraine if you don’t say something.”

  I laugh and punch him kind of hard in the arm.

  “You should just fucking go back, tell her how you feel and fuck everything else.” He’s always pro-Belén. One hundred and ten percent positive that she’ll take me back and everything will work out. Another reason why I like being around him.

  He puts powder in his wrapped palms and slaps them together a few times. We back out of his dust cloud and make our way to the weight benches.

  “You make it sound easy, but it’s different where I come from.”

  “So you move away together and you keep it a secret. Plenty of stories like those.”

  I spot him while he bench-presses and chide him when he starts to slow down at the end of the set.

  “Naw, she’s got a kid and a man. Not like I can just walk in and take her. I already fucked up her life once. She’s probably happy. Besides, I told you about her uncle being her dad and the rest of the fucked-up shit in our background.”

  “Yeah, but where I come from, both of those relationships are normal. It doesn’t have to be some big scandal unless you keep making it into one. I’m telling you, Lucky, you’re more invested in the scandal than all the things that are good about it.”

  “’Cause they never let us live it down, we never could catch a break.”

  The blue Gatorade goes down like nothing; I finish the bottle in one go. I’m up next on the bench. My shoulder protests every time I try to raise the weight.

  “I just feel like I ruin her life, like I been ruining it since we were kids and if I stay away then she’s at least got a fighting chance at happiness, all the normal stuff. I don’t think I can ever give that to her.”

  My arms shake as I lift the measly hundred and fifty pounds above my face. I’ve got to get back in the game, start lifting every other day.

  “That what she wants? Just normal stuff? Or does she want you?”

  “Dude, I haven’t even seen her in years.”

  “Did she love you like you love her?” Sameer asks. He holds a plastic gallon of water to his lips and practic
ally drains half of it in one chug. He wipes the sweat from his face with the raggedy towel that hangs around his neck.

  “Nobody ever loved like Belén loves. Mind, fucking body and soul. That girl’s a force of nature. One thing’s for sure,” I grunt as I struggle with the barbell. “I’ll compare every other woman to her for as long as I live.”

  Sameer grabs the barbell and slams it back into the stand.

  “Luciano, go easy, you’ll be swimming in lactic acid tomorrow if you push it too hard. Those muscles are still in rehab. Don’t take your problems out on your body.”

  I nod at Sameer and stare up at him. Wiping sweat from my face, I realize I’m jealous of him. He has what I want and it’s hard for me to admit it. Player for years doesn’t fade away so easily. Sameer is a good guy. I’m glad I met him.

  “Quit fucking moping, dude. Go home, tell the truth and go claim the girl you love.”

  Después

  A week after his birthday, when I noticed my cache of pills was empty, I had my suspicions, but I kept my mouth shut. Every day Adam has seemed out of it. I know that the birthdays hit him really hard. I know the medicine is prescribed, but I don’t think numbing himself will help him get through it. Not to mention how dangerous a game it is, the one that he’s playing.

  His work is highly sensitive; he’s in charge of a whole lab. If he’s not completely right in his head, he could mess up entire studies and blow funding for the department in its entirety. And on a personal level, I leave him alone with Luke from time to time. If he’s out of his mind on benzodiazepines it puts our child’s life in danger, as it could his own. I’ve got to confront him, but I’m more frightened of his grief than I am my own.

  Twice now I’ve suggested that we get in therapy together, to guide us down this bumpy road and help us heal one another. But Adam has become stubborn about his grief, like it’s the only way to hold onto his brother. He acts like it’s noble to let his loss ruin his life and that to expect more of him is asking the impossible.

  “Mama, does abuela have Netflix?”

  “No, baby. Grandma doesn’t have a computer,” I reply. I rub Luke’s head absentmindedly and toss his uneaten crusts of peanut butter and jelly in the garbage can.

  “Can I bring the iPad with me then? Cause otherwise Abuela is gonna make me watch novelas with her and I don’t really like them.”

  “Let’s make a deal. I’ll put your train puzzles and your go-fish deck in your overnight bag. I’ll tell Grandma she has to wait until after you’re asleep to start watching her boring shows.”

  Luke smiles at me and his little boy smile reminds me so much of Lucky that I feel its impact in my chest. It’s something like slamming into a brick wall after you swan-dived off of the Empire State building. I see Lucky in my son’s face and I suffer fifty silent heart attacks.

  “Will Daddy get here before Grandma picks me up?” Luke asks. His innocent long-lashed eyes blink up at me.

  “I hope so!” I say. I really hope not. Adam is probably stoned out of his mind if it’s true that he’s been taking my pills. So much for our date night; it’ll be more like an intervention. I get nervous when Adam goes hard on the meds because it reminds me of the days when my addiction was Lucky. Reminds me of all the time spent in codependency group therapy learning about why it’s so unhealthy to love users.

  The door buzzes and I jump.

  “Abuela!” Luke shrieks and I smile at his obvious joy at his prospective date with my mother. I love that he chooses to use Spanish over English. I adore that his accent is terrible and it cracks me up every single time that he says it.

  “Oh, don’t you look beautiful, mi hija!” Mami says as she kisses my cheek. “Y mira mi carajito precioso,” she says. She squeezes Luke so tight you’d think they hadn’t seen one another in years.

  “What do you two have planned for date night?” Mami asks innocently. But Mami is never innocent; she’s always onto me and has a sixth sense reserved especially for my bullshit.

  “A much-needed talk,” I say. I plunk the dishes into the cupboard from the drying rack, avoiding eye contact and her tendency to figure out what’s going on before she starts prying.

  “Sounds like fun! Go grab your backpack, Lukey!” she says. Luke jets for his room and Mami pats his backside on the way out of the kitchen. “What’s wrong with your husband? He’s a mess; you need to straighten him out!” Mami puts her hands on her hips like she’s about to give me a good scolding.

  “Mom, I know! All right? I’m going to try to talk to him!”

  Adam walks in the front door before I’m able to eat the tail end of my sentence. His hair looks greasy and his eyes have the glassy sheen of inebriation. Empty. Angry. Wasted. Just what I need.

  “Talk to me about what?” he snarls.

  Oh boy.

  Mami looks at me with enough alarm to set off the smoke detector.

  “Sit down, Adam. I’ll make us some coffee. Luke is still here. He shouldn’t see you like this.” I thought things couldn’t get any worse than they were on his birthday, but apparently I’m an idealist. That’s a euphemism for enabler.

  Adam slumps into a chair and rests his forehead on the spot where his arms cross on the table.

  “We’re leaving,” Mami says. She pushes Luke behind her legs. When she leans in to give me a kiss she whispers, “Mi hija, call the police if it comes to that.” Mami is dramatic, but this time her warning doesn’t seem so far-fetched.

  I can’t imagine the disappointment she must feel. No matter how hard I try, I always manage to be a fuck-up. I should have married for money, a surgeon or a broker. Or even just married one of the guys from the neighborhood. Then I might be dealing with infidelity as the worst-case scenario, but hopefully not crippling grief and mental illness.

  Adam breathes like he’s asleep but I make coffee anyway. It’s not the first time our date night has fallen short due to Adam indulging a little too much on the booze before we even got started. Mami’s still angry at him about the stupid birthday party. Etiquette is important to her, and so are family and tradition—basically all of the things that render Adam incapable, and really it’s not his fault.

  I sure don’t sit around and eat cake and ice cream smiling wide on Lucky’s birthday. I lock myself in my room. Sometimes I go as far as to imagine him touching me; I think about making love to my long-lost, sleepy-eyed, incredibly sexy cousin. Gooseflesh prickles up on my skin; the back of my neck feels so sensitive that I shrug my shoulders to will the desire away. Maybe Adam will wake up and want to go to bed with me. Maybe I can hold a screwdriver to his head while he kisses me fervently. Or lick drops of honey off his skin, lose myself in his gaze, surrender to him.

  None of that’s happening.

  The coffeemaker gurgles as it sucks up the last of the water. Adam likes condensed milk in his coffee, one of the few cultural traditions he accepts, or at least doesn’t protest.

  “He’s not mine,” Adam slurs.

  I jump again and shudder. “What, honey? Look, I made you some coffee.” I take a small flowered teacup that belonged to Titi, pour in a good tablespoon of condensed milk and stir until the dark liquid goes pale. My aunt left me all of her dishes when she left for DR.

  “Luke isn’t mine,” Adam says. His words are clearer the second time around. His head wavers like he’s trying to hold it on straight. I set the coffee down quickly, spilling it onto my wrist as well as the table.

  “You took a paternity test?” I accuse him. I’m aghast at his method. “Behind my back? You think that’s the right way to go about it?” My stance becomes defensive. I’m practically growling. “We’re married, Adam. Partners. Husband and wife!”

  “He’s not my kid. Belongs to somebody else you fucked,” Adam spits out. He says it bitterly at first and then collapses his face into his hands and starts sobbing.

  I have no idea what to do. I want to break the teacup over his head, yet at the same time the urge to hug him and comfort him surfaces. I p
our a coffee for myself and grab a bottle of brandy at the back of the cupboard. I slosh a little into mine and slide the alcohol-less version across the table to Adam.

  We sit in chairs opposite from one another. Sipping coffee, feeling loaded, not saying a damn word to one another.

  “I thought he looked less and less like me as he got older,” he finally manages to explain.

  I glare at my husband despite the tears that run down his face. “He’s your son, Adam. Nothing else is possible.”

  He sobs and it unravels something inside me. I relate to his pain. It can tear us apart so easily if we let it.

  “I feel alone and I don’t know where to turn. I guess I was always used to seeing my own face in my brother Luke. So it just ate away at me that our son doesn’t look like me.”

  I shake my head at him. I understand, I get it. But I feel like there’s no trust left; we’re quickly slipping to a level from which the possibility of resurfacing gets slimmer and slimmer.

  “What did you tell Luke you were doing when you swabbed his cheek behind my back?” This is what makes me angry. I don’t want my son to doubt who he is, or to doubt how much his parents love him.

  “I did it while he was asleep, B. I promise. I said nothing to him.”

  I drain the whole teacup and wince at how the brandy burns as much as it soothes.

  “And what’s your plan now? Tell your son he’s not biologically yours? That will fuck him up, Adam. Mark my words. The test will be a positive match. I’m sure.” I need to fight for this. I don’t want Luke to lose his dad. I know about missing fathers, how it aches, how it hurts. A missing parent makes you feel like you’re missing a crucial part of yourself. No matter how strong my mom was, the absence of my father was still damaging.

  “No. Never, B. He’ll always be my son. I just had to know because it was eating me up. I feel like when I lost Luke, you know, the replica of me disappeared from my life. It’s like I’m always searching for my image in another person’s face, especially in my son. I looked for it in our Luke and I kept coming up empty.”