Malentendido (Misunderstood)

by Mara White

  “You’re Mamá all over again,” I say. “Bless your heart.” She just shakes her head. The two of us lug the cart up the stairs. I don’t know how she could have done it by herself. With so many grandchildren I’d hope maybe one of them would be old enough to help her. “¿Qué piso?” I ask her.

  “Cuarto,” she says. Same as Yari. Or at least it used to be.

  “¿Usted conoce a Yaritza?”

  “Sí, sí,” she says. Her wrinkled hand pushes down hard on the perfectly folded, vacuum-packed, clear bag full of clean laundry. My heart jumps a little at the prospect of seeing my old friend. God knows she put me through hell, but in a strange way, that’s one of the reasons I love her. Nobody was ever as bad a bitch as Yari. She could drink the boys under the table and had more sexual experience and stamina than all of us put together. I can’t help but smile when I remember how ballsy she was. Even at five or six on the playground, hands on her hips, yelling “hijo de tu puta madre” at anyone who offended her. The girl was tough, resilient, nobody dared mess with her. I wonder what happened to her sister and brother. If her parents still live here or if they returned to the island.

  I pound on her door and holler, “¡Yari, ábrame!” just like the old days.

  “¡Hijo de su puta madre!” she says when she opens the door. Hand still on her hip, shiny black hair in a high ponytail. My face breaks into a huge smile; I can’t help myself.

  “Look what the fuckin’ cat dragged in,” she says, shaking her head. She pulls back the door and the years since we’ve been in contact evaporate quietly. “Goddamn, bitch. You look good. Finally grew an ass and some tetas,” she says, spinning me around.

  “Ma, where’s the Doritos?” A small boy, maybe three or so, pokes his head around the corner. He’s shirtless and wearing jean shorts that hang low on his hips. His dark hair is long and tangled; he looks like the kid from Jungle Book.

  “You left ’em in my room last night, remember? I had to sleep in the crumbs. Go watch TV with your sister. Beylenny and I need to catch up.”

  My eyes start to water and I can’t even figure out why. I follow Yari into the small kitchen where she reaches into the cupboard and pulls down a bottle of Jack Daniels and two little shot glasses. She pours them both, liquor sloshing on the counter.

  “Looks like you could use one of these,” she says as she crashes her glass into mine, more liquor spilling onto her pointy acrylic nails. “Bottoms up, Lenny!” She tips her head back as she swallows and wipes her lips with the back of her hand. Without a hint of makeup on her face, Yari is still a knockout; in all these years, she hasn’t aged a day.

  I cough on my shot and it burns, a brush-fire spreading out through the branches in my chest. Some dribbles down my chin and burns my tongue when I lick my lips. My eyes water more and Yari pours another one.

  “So who refused to eat your pussy and then wouldn’t pay your rent?”

  “What?” I ask, still coughing and struggling to keep the shot in my stomach instead of decorating Yari’s linoleum.

  “Who fucked you over? Isn’t that why you’re here?” Yari looks more matronly but not in a bad way. Her hips and breasts are larger too, but her stomach still looks flat, especially flat for two children. I hug her spontaneously. She’s rigid under my grip, but softens the longer I stay there.

  “I missed you,” I say. “I missed your honesty,” I snivel, no recourse but to wipe my running nose with the back of my hand.

  “I didn’t go nowhere,” she answers. Yari gives me a bit of side-eye. It’s true, I’ve made no effort to see her because Adam made it clear that he doesn’t like her or appreciate her lifestyle. She rummages around in a drawer by the sink, yanks out a crumpled paper bag and effortlessly lifts her butt up onto the counter. “Hungry?”

  “Not really. Are you?”

  I can’t stop staring at her perfectly manicured nails with their intricate miniature flowers, her long, glossy straightened hair, and her absolutely perfect eyebrows. She pats the place beside her and I climb up. She’s wearing Adidas house slippers, the black and white ones, toes exposed. Her toenails are perfect, too, with little geometric shapes painted on each one. She still feels like my best friend; Yari from the playground, from birthday parties, Yari from high school. Tonight I think I feel more comfortable sitting next to her than I do my own husband. It’s funny how the years zoom by and the past fades, yet the bonds we make when we’re young hold us in an eternal embrace. Yari smells good and looks good and I lay my head on her shoulder. Everything about her comforts me tonight. I should have never lost touch with her.

  “You want to smoke?” she asks me. Yari makes it sound so easy.

  “Sure, why not?”

  This is a girl who owns who she is and what she does. I wish I could be more like that. Take charge and never look back. Be my own woman.

  She handles the weed with adeptness. I’m impressed. Drawn to her. Wondering why the hell I ever stopped seeing her when I realize I miss her so much. The longer I watch, the more I become aware of the strange feelings that swim through me.

  Yari turns me on. She always has. And it’s one of the most confusing aspects of my sexuality. I’ve been bewildered by it ever since the first time it happened. Was it because she was in a sexual relationship with Lucky? Was it because I always associated sex and sexual activity with both her and him? Because Yari was so overtly sexual herself? Or is it because I’m a pervert like Yari always accused me of being, a closeted freak, I believe, was her term of endearment. There’s a heat growing in my chest; it spreads out through my limbs and soon I’m wet between my legs.

  “Why you looking at me like that?” Yari asks. She’s meticulously pulled seeds from the buds of a small bag of weed. She fishes them out with her long, pink nail and flicks them onto the floor haphazardly.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Doesn’t bother me,” Yari says and winks at me as she swipes her tongue along the edge of the delicate white rolling paper. “I’m used to it.” Yari can roll a joint like a pro, and from the looks of what’s transpiring she hasn’t stopped practicing. She pulls a lighter from the front pocket of her painted-on jean shorts. She inhales a long toke and lets the smoke curl from her full lips up toward her nose.

  “Want some?” she asks. Another hit held deep in her chest. Yari holds the burning roach like a cigarette and not like a joint. She turns her hand at the wrist and holds it up to my lips. It’s sexy. No wonder Lucky couldn’t keep his hands off of her. I want to somehow reach Lucky by touching her. I very consciously put my hand on her thigh. Her skin is silky smooth, hot to the touch.

  “They retain the right to do random drug testing at the hospital,” I say. I take the joint and inhale. Just like the shot, it stages a rebellion in my lungs. I cough hard and my eyes water again. I pound my fist on my chest while Yari slaps my back. I’m not good at this kind of stuff anymore. Maybe I never was.

  “Ooooh, look at Lenny, living on the edge!” she mocks me and cackles. Then I’m laughing, we’re both laughing. We hug and laugh some more and soon I’m crying in her lap. She strokes the hair away from my face as she smokes the rest of her joint.

  “I miss him too, you know,” she says. My pain isn’t only my own. I nod my head in recognition. Lucky and Yari were always so close, lovers or enemies or just really good friends, Lucky looked out for the both of us. It’s not fair that I try to hog all of the loss for myself. Yari loved Lucky too, in more ways than one.

  “Do you remember when he beat the shit out of that guy Juan Carlos for trying to get in my pants while I was passed out?” I nod my head. That incident made Lucky a local legend. He stood up for who he loved and even though he was a bad boy, he wouldn’t stand for assholes disrespecting women. Other assholes, that is; Lucky was a notorious player.

  We move to her couch and Yari tosses baby toys and blankets onto the floor and coffee table, clearing a space for us. It’s the same floral couch her parents had, still wears the now-yellowed plastic covering. Her
lids are heavily hooded; she looks both sleepy and high. In true Yari fashion, she also looks irresistibly sexy. Full lips, flawless skin, the delicate slope of her nose. I remember how she kissed me with so much tongue, how she sucked on my nipples with enthusiasm all just to put on a show for the boys. I end up with my head in her lap again, not sure how I got here, not sure if I ever want to leave again. It’s strange that I can be more myself here with Yaritza than I can with friends and co-workers, maybe even more than I am with my mom. She knows me. She doesn’t know the other person I’m always trying to be.

  Yari’s hand has wandered up my shirt and she caresses my belly with her long nails. They feel like claws. They feel exciting. More exciting than my sex life with Adam. Adam doesn’t have claws; he lacks passion in most things.

  “My husband Adam thinks our son isn’t his. He’s convinced himself Luke is Lucky’s child. He went as far as to take a paternity test!” I blurt out. Yari’s hand stops in its tracks and she pulls it out of my shirt, fumbles a bit while she lights up another cigarette.

  “You were fucking him?” she asks. It pulls at my heart to see how her hands start shaking. It still affects her too.

  “No, not at all! Never in high school.” I shake my head adamantly, trying to get the point across. “Just before he went away, only that one time.” She sucks on her cigarette hard; I can see the paper flare and burn. She exhales hard too, blowing the smoke out in a cool stream up toward the ceiling. Then I watch her turn her emotion off, with the efficiency of a switch.

  “Luke is Adam’s child. He’s not Lucky’s, I know it for a fact.”

  “He always loved you. Wanted you more than he wanted me. All that bullshit made me fucking miserable, Bey.”

  “I know,” I whisper. I’m not sure how to comfort her, nor did I come here to upset her. Lucky is gone and we’re both dealing with the fallout. A loss so damaging it can never be fixed. I pray to God to help me let go and then I secretly, greedily cling to all of my memories of him. “He was one-of-a-kind. I don’t know how to forget him.” What by now should be a dull pain is stabbing at the both of us. I don’t want her to be mad at me.

  “What’s Adam’s problem then?” Her hands find their way back to comforting me. She strokes the hair away from my temple and I close my eyes in her lap, resting my head on her thigh again.

  “I think it’s his way of pulling away from me. Denying our connection and that kind of stuff. Removing himself from the family—symbolically at least.”

  “Why he’d want to do that?”

  “He loves his pain more than us.”

  “So he thinks your son is Lucky’s kid? Christ, Belenny, you confirmed that stupid stereotype that Latinos get it on with their cousins.”

  “It only happened once!”

  “Once is all it takes!”

  Yari snorts. I start giggling. I’m drunk. Yari is high. I like the way she’s looking at me, like I’ve got something she wants.

  She crushes her cigarette in the ashtray and suddenly she’s kissing me. This time it’s not for show. She still tongues me hard; her fingers slide easily inside my bra. I moan into her mouth. Excited. Confused. Still mourning my husband, my cousin, the way our lives used to be. Yari tastes like sex and childhood, a strange combination. Even in the depths of her kiss, it feels like something’s missing, the catalyst, the reason. Her lips and tongue are so warm, so slippery that I lose all inhibitions and can only focus on navigating the kiss, keeping up with her lips. The ends of her long hair glide over my collarbone and tickle me delicately. Her hands are strong and assured on my back as they unclip my bra.

  Yari and I silently battled over Luciano for a lifetime; a sometimes crushing, sometimes exhilarating tension constantly hovered between the three of us. I kiss her back hard, slipping my tongue between her lips; a silent prayer passes through us both, the wish that he’ll spontaneously materialize, give us something to fight about.

  “I wish he were here with us,” I whisper into the kiss. I have to adjust my jeans, pull them away from my panties, which are thoroughly wet.

  “We need a dick,” Yari says. And we’re both giggling again. She leans forward and pours us two more shots from the bottle. Her nipples are hard and the dark hair on her arms is standing on end among a spray of gooseflesh that covers her flesh.

  “Oh, God, that’s it for me, I’ll be sick tomorrow!”

  “I could call one,” she says.

  The third shot goes down pretty smoothly.

  “A penis?”

  “I know some.” Yari pours another shot and I can’t help but worry about her. Does she always get this fucked up around her kids or sleep around like she used to? Another habit from high school popping up again. Yari the bad girl and me the frigid, goody-goody best friend. We still play those roles and I don’t know who we really are. Who’s good or bad, right and wrong aren’t so clear-cut anymore.

  “I have one at home, but his heart might be broken. And I don’t even know if I was the one who broke it—I think it might have been his twin brother. He probably hates my guts right now.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t.”

  “I think he’s even more fucked up than I am.”

  “So stay here with me and the kids. Is Luke at your mom’s? I’m serious about the dicks. If you want, I’ll call some guys to come over.” Yari stretches out her legs and rests her crossed ankles on my knees. Zero qualms about casual sex. “A good fuck might do you a world of good. It’s the reset button, Bey. I swear to God.”

  “What about my husband?”

  “Fuck him tomorrow,” she says, then yawns. Yari lights up another joint and we’re laughing again. Easy flows between us. I’ve missed my terrible, wonderful friend. Even without Lucky here, Yari and I are still connected to one another. Bonds change shape drastically but it doesn’t mean they’re broken.

  I thought maybe I’d come home to a very drunk husband. Possibly a passed-out husband with a bad hangover in the morning, demanding-fried-eggs-and-toast-with-butter-to-soak-up-the-yolk husband. I didn’t expect to find Adam unconscious on the floor. Vomit all around him, some of it with blood in it. He wasn’t breathing; his skin had already turned an unnatural bluish-gray color.

  “Jesus, Adam. Adam!” I scream as I start CPR with my tears falling onto his face.

  I remember how Jan felt when I found her that Christmas in the truck; her skin was cold like marble, an ice sculpture in the snow. To the touch it was almost hard, the blood tacky on her skin. There was no beating heart, no puff of breath on her lips in the cab of that truck. I thought it was up to me to save her in order not to ruin my sponsor Bryan’s life. But Jan’s spirit had left and I was all alone that night. Her blood had rolled to a stop in her veins, her eyes vacant and glazed. I know what death feels like under my fingers, so loud in its silence.

  I wonder what kind of life I’ll have left if I lose the only other man I’ve ever opened my heart to. I press my hands into his chest.

  “Adam, please!” I scream and my voice bounces off the bathroom walls and frightens me. His eyelids flicker. He hears me. I wrestle my phone out of my pocket, my hands slippery with his vomit. What have you done?

  “Adam, hang on. Don’t leave me!” I cry for our son, I cry for Adam, for his pain that is bigger than him, bigger than me.

  Paramedics arrive within minutes. They give him a Narcan shot. I know about those from my days with Lucky. I think of all the people who weren’t found, who slipped away before anyone got to them. I’m so glad I came home when I did, but guilty I left him alone in the first place.

  “Opiates?” I ask the handsome young EMT pumping my husband’s chest. They’ve exiled me from the small room into the hallway. The other man tosses up an orange prescription bottle with Adam’s name on it. Surprisingly, I catch it. Oxycodone. In his name. The bottle was the very first thing they gravitated to in our small bathroom. I thought they were sedatives he’d taken, legal prescriptions for depression and anxiety.

  Adam jerks
and the men usher me out farther into the living room. They restrain him as soon as he comes to. Adam’s eyes fly around the space and he looks terrified.

  “It’s okay, Adam. I’m here. Nothing bad is going to happen to you,” I say from the hallway. He retches again and the men lift him onto a portable stretcher. “I’m with you, Adam. We’re taking you to the hospital,” I tell him. He grabs my hand as they hurry by me. I don’t know if he tried to overdose, if he wishes I didn’t find him because he didn’t want to wake up or if he’s hurting enough to attempt suicide. My heart breaks for my husband. He’s such a good man and he’s been so present and so strong for Luke, for the both of us.

  I fall asleep in the waiting room. Two large, disgusting cups of mop-water cafeteria coffee won’t even keep me awake—they can’t compete with the alcohol I imbibed like a jerk. I used paper towels and hand soap to get as much of the vomit as I could off of my clothes, called my mother, called the voicemail at work to let them know I wouldn’t be in tomorrow. The doctor let me in once to see him and he was sleeping hard. They’d pumped his stomach, given him a sedative and cleaned him up. I touched his face and kissed his forehead, held his hand for an hour. He looked waxy and bloated but had at least regained some color; his skin felt soft and warm. Tiptoeing back into the hallway with the doctor, I tried to wrap my head around what happened.

  “Would you say the overdose was intentional, like he was trying to end his life?” Ending life sounds more humane than suicide, which I can’t bear to say.

  “We won’t know until he’s fully conscious and can talk about the experience. We don’t know what his mindset was, if he knew the effects or the potency of the drugs he was taking.” I nod my head and listen, hoping the doctor will give me more.

  “He’s a research biologist. Here at the facility. He knows his doses and effects of drugs.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions. But I will tell you that as soon as he’s stabilized, they’ll move him to psychiatric. Just standard procedure for an overdose until they can at least gauge what his intent was with the painkillers.”