Tell Me What You Want—Or Leave Me

by Maxwell, Megan

  I nod.

  “Yes . . . yes . . . It’s that you just left me speechless.”

  “I know. That’s how I was yesterday when I opened the door and there was my Mexican paramour, so tall, so handsome, so gallant, with a nice bouquet of white roses in his hands and—”

  “Wow, white roses . . . your favorite.”

  “Yeah, but wait, wait, I still haven’t told you the best part. It turns out that when I opened the door, he tells me with all that Mexican heartthrob smoothness, ‘Sweetie, if a star were to go out every time I think of you, soon there wouldn’t be a single light in the sky.’ Ohhhh . . . my God. My God. The only thing missing were the mariachis, but I almost peed my pants, I was so happy.”

  “Impressive!” I say, laughing like I haven’t in days.

  Those two!

  “It’s the most romantic thing that’s happened to me, Cuchu. That man is . . . he’s . . . different . . . very different, and when he’s with me, he makes me feel like a fairy princess. He looks at me intensely, he kisses me with fervor, he touches me with delight, and . . .”

  “Whoa, stop. TMI!”

  I suddenly feel like I’m watching Emerald Madness with my sister and Juan Alberto as protagonists.

  “And best of all,” she continues in her soft, melodious voice, “when he came over, he went straight to Papá and said, ‘Mr. Flores, I have come to formally ask you for your pretty daughter’s hand.’”

  “Wow, Raquel!”

  “Yes!” My sister screams, and I have to pull the phone from my ear.

  I have to laugh.

  “Are you telling me you’re engaged?”

  “No.”

  “But you just told me he asked Papá for your hand.”

  “He asked Papá, but I took it upon myself to tell him no way.”

  “What?”

  “Ah, Cuchu . . . you should’ve seen his face when I told him I don’t give my hand to anyone, that I already gave it to someone once and now my hand is mine, only mine and no one else’s.”

  I’m stunned. My sister’s so weird.

  “So, you’re not engaged to him?”

  “Well, no. I’m a modern woman, and I go out to dinner with who I want and when I want. Moreover, tonight I’m meeting up with Juanín, the guy from the appliance store next to the potato shop, and Juan Alberto is very offended.”

  “Of course, Raquel, if the poor man comes all the way from Mexico and tells you something romantic about the stars, accompanied by a bouquet of your favorite flowers, and then asks Papá for your hand, what do you expect?”

  “Well, too bad if he thinks that just because he comes spouting his sweet words, I have to stop my life and go after him.”

  “But, Raquel—”

  “No way.”

  “But didn’t you say he’s special and makes you feel . . .”

  “Yes, but I don’t ever want to suffer over a man again.”

  My sister is so right. Suffering over love is the worst.

  “Juan Alberto is not Jesús. I’m convinced he wants something serious with you and—”

  “I’m scared, OK? I’m scared!”

  I understand.

  She’s gone through a lot, and now she doesn’t want to suffer again. But even though I barely know Juan Alberto, I can already tell he’s different from my ex-brother-in-law. Juan Alberto has also suffered because of love, and I’m convinced Raquel is what he needs and vice versa.

  Still, it’s my sister who has to decide.

  “It’s normal that you’re afraid, but not all men are alike. If you’re afraid, be careful. But if you don’t want to lose Juan Alberto, also be careful what you do or you’ll regret it later. Think about what you want and what’s going to make you happiest.”

  “Oh, Cuchu . . . you just told me the same thing Papá told me,” she says, then pauses. “Speaking of Papá, he wants to talk to you. Let’s talk later. I’m going to the beauty shop to get pretty so I can go to dinner with Juanín.”

  “Goodbye, crazy girl, and behave yourself,” I reply, amused.

  Moments later, I hear my father’s voice, and I get excited. The tears fall as I cover my mouth so he can’t hear me crying. If he knew I was pregnant, he’d be so happy. But if he knew the situation I’m in with Eric, a great sadness would overwhelm him.

  “How’s my dark-haired girl?”

  Fucked . . . very fucked, but I take a breath.

  “Good—how are you, Papá?”

  He lowers his voice.

  “Oh, girl . . . your sister is driving me crazy. And now the Mexican is here too.”

  “I know, she just told me.”

  “What do you think?”

  I dry my tears.

  “Uff, Papá, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s Raquel who has to decide.”

  My father laughs.

  “I know, but until she does, I’m trapped in crazy town. Although, to be honest, she’s been so happy since that man showed up, I think she’s already made up her mind.”

  “And you like her decision?”

  “More than eating with my hands, girl,” he says with a laugh. “But I’m not going to say squat so she can make up her own mind.”

  “Yes, Papá, that’s best. That way, whether it’s good or bad, it’s just her decision, hers and hers alone.”

  We talk for a while longer.

  “And Eric?” he asks.

  “In London. He’ll be back in a few days.”

  “Sweetheart, your voice is kind of sad. Are you all right?”

  How smart is my father?

  He could have been a fortune-teller but chose to be a mechanic.

  Determined not to alarm him, I answer as calmly as possible.

  “All right, Papá. I’m just here waiting for my favorite German’s return.”

  “That’s what I want to hear. I love it when my girls are happy.” He laughs delightedly.

  I laugh too, although my eyes are filled with tears.

  “Tell Eric to call me so we can decide when he’s going to send the plane to come get us. He told me not to buy tickets, that he’ll send his jet so we can spend Christmas together.”

  “It’ll be the first thing I do when I see him, Papá.”

  Suddenly, I hear a baby cry. It’s my niece, Lucía, and my hair stands on end.

  Good God, I’m pregnant, and soon I’ll have a baby who cries like that too!

  I know something nobody knows. For the first time in my life, I’m keeping a secret I only want to tell to the person I love with all my soul.

  Once I say goodbye to my father and hang up the phone, I lie down on the bed again.

  Suddenly, the bedroom door opens and Simona blurts out, “Emerald Madness is starting.”

  On the screen we see how Luis Alfredo Quiñones, Esmeralda’s great love, kisses Lupita Santúñez, the hospital nurse, and Esmeralda watches, desperate, behind a column. Unable to avoid it, I cry. Poor little Esmeralda. So in love and always so many problems. Just like me! Simona gives me a Kleenex. I soak it within seconds, when Esmeralda Mendoza, devastated by the loss of her love, tells her little son, “Papá loves you!” I cry and cry and can’t stop.

  When Emerald Madness ends and I’m alone in the room again, my cell phone rings. I don’t recognize the number.

  “Yes?”

  “Hello, Judith. This is Amanda.”

  My jaw drops. Her!

  Why is this woman calling me?

  “Don’t hang up, please. I have something to tell you.”

  “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

  Just as I’m about to hang up, she says, “Eric’s in the hospital.”

  My breathing stops.

  My world is shattered, but I manage to ask in the thinnest voice, “What . . . what happened?”

  “A few nights ago, he drank too much and got into a fight. God . . . God . . . I knew something was going to happen. I had never heard him so angry.”

  “But . . . but is he OK?” I babble.


  “Yes, more or less. He has a broken leg and bruises all over his body. But . . .”

  “What, Amanda?”

  “He received a pretty severe blow to the head and has hemorrhages in both eyes.”

  My world is spinning.

  His eyes . . .

  When I recover from the shock, I breathe with difficulty.

  “I appreciate your call, Amanda. Thank you very much. Now please, tell me what hospital is he in?”

  “At St. Thomas’ Hospital on Westminster Bridge Road, room 507.”

  I jot it down on a piece of paper. My hand trembles, and I think I’m going to throw up.

  Two minutes after hanging up, tears, my great companions in the last days, quickly overcome me. Desperate, I sit on the bed and cry for my love.

  Why didn’t he call me? Why is he alone in a hospital? I want to see him.

  I need to hug him and feel he’s OK.

  My stomach warns me, and I run to the bathroom.

  I pick up my cell and speed dial. I hear two rings.

  “Björn, I need you,” I mutter when he picks up.

  23

  When Björn and I arrive at St. Thomas’ Hospital, I’m a mess. I threw up several times on the plane, and the poor man doesn’t know what to do to make me feel better. He attributes it to nerves and restlessness, and I don’t go out of my way to correct him.

  “Are you any better?” Björn asks once we’re in the hospital lobby, holding me by the waist to reassure me.

  I nod. It’s a lie, but I don’t want to say no.

  “It’s OK. Everything’ll be fine; everything will be cleared up,” he says with a sad smile.

  I say yes in my head and thank heaven for a friend like him. When I called him, he was at the house in less than twenty minutes, ready to help me with whatever I needed. Even after I told him what had happened, he put aside his fury toward Laila and his friend’s accusations and focused on comforting me and telling me everything was going to be all right.

  I don’t call either Eric’s mother or sister. I want to see what I find first. But one thing I know for sure is that no one is going to touch his eyes without Marta knowing first.

  I’m terrified when I think about his eyes. His beautiful eyes. How can something so precious always have so many problems?

  When the elevator opens on the fifth floor, my heart beats faster.

  Björn asks a nurse for Eric Zimmerman’s room.

  We walk in silence, and, without realizing it, I reach for Björn’s hand again. He squeezes mine, giving me strength.

  When we arrive at room 507, we look at each other for a more than significant silence.

  “I want to go in alone,” I say.

  Björn nods.

  “I’ll give you three minutes. Then I’ll come in.”

  With my pulse racing, I open the door and go in. It’s silent. My heart suddenly jumps when I see Eric, his eyes closed. Is he asleep? I approach stealthily and just observe him. His face is bruised, his lip is split, and his leg is in a cast. He looks terrible. But I love him, and I don’t care what he looks like.

  I need to touch him . . .

  I want to kiss him . . .

  But I don’t dare. I’m afraid he’ll open his eyes and kick me out.

  “What are you doing here?”

  His husky voice makes me jump. Oh God . . . his eyes.

  His beautiful eyes are filled with blood, and he looks atrocious. I can’t help him, and my breathing accelerates.

  “Who told you? What the hell are you doing here?”

  I don’t answer. I just look at him, and he screams.

  “Out! I said get out of here!”

  I’m panting, and, without a word, I turn around, leave the room, and run down the hall. Björn runs after me and stops me. When he sees the state I’m in, he tries to calm me down.

  I want to throw up. I tell him, and he quickly hands me a garbage can.

  “Don’t go anywhere, understood?” says my friend with an unusual seriousness.

  I nod. He heads to Eric’s room.

  He opens the door forcefully. I hear their voices. They argue. Several nurses come in to see what’s going on, and, moments later, Björn leaves, looking annoyed and taking my arm.

  “Let’s go. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

  I’m cold and scared, and I let him lead.

  I don’t want to leave, but I know there’s nothing for me to do out in the hall.

  We sleep at a London hotel that night. I can barely catch a wink. All I can think about is my love and his loneliness in that hospital room.

  The next morning, Björn comes to get me. He’s worried about my condition. I’m pale. When we get back to the hospital, my stomach churns. Eric will surely ask me to leave. This time I won’t pay any attention to him. This time he’ll have to listen to what I have to say.

  When I arrive at room 507 again, I ask Björn once more for some privacy.

  He shakes his head, not convinced by what I have to say, but, eventually, he gives in. With a trembling hand and tension as high as the clouds, I open the door. This time, Eric is awake, and, seeing me, his already sullen face cracks.

  “Get out of here, for God’s sake.”

  I go in anyway, and, having shed yesterday’s impotence, I go right up to the edge of the bed.

  “At least tell me you’re OK.”

  He won’t look at me.

  “I was fine until you arrived.”

  His words hurt me—they kill me—but when he sees I’m not saying anything, he goes on the attack again.

  “Get out of here. I haven’t called you because I don’t want to see you.”

  “But I want to see you. I care about you and—”

  “You care about me?” he shouts, bloody eyes boring into me. “Come now, please . . . Go with your lover and get out of my life.”

  The room door flies open, and Björn comes in in a fury. Eric’s face hardens even more.

  “You two are too much. Get out of my room, both of you, right now.”

  No one moves.

  “I want you to leave! Out!”

  His voice, his hard voice, makes me react, and, forgetting how bad he looks, I stare at those eyes I barely recognize and let loose.

  “I’ve come to tell you live and in person: you’re a dickhead!”

  My statement puzzles him.

  “How can you be such an asshole?” Björn adds. “How can you think something like that about Jude and me?”

  “You and I will talk when I feel better,” Eric growls. “Now go away. I don’t want to talk.”

  “Oh, we’re going to talk,” Björn replies. “Stop being an idiot and behave like the man I’ve always believed you to be.”

  “Björn . . . ,” hisses Eric.

  Björn looks at him and, with no change in his angry expression, declares, “I don’t care about your condition, your leg, your bruised face, or your eyes. I’m not moving from here until I see that proof you say so gratuitously you have against us. Douchebag!”

  To hear that from Björn’s mouth in this moment of maximum tension makes me laugh, although there’s nothing funny about any of this. There’s a terrible tension.

  Eric curses. He says hundreds of profanities in German, but we don’t move. He doesn’t scare us. We won’t leave without clearing things up once and for all.

  I’m exhausted all over again.

  I look around for the bathroom. When I locate it, I quickly vomit. I don’t feel well at all. I sit on the toilet until Björn comes in.

  “If you’re sick, we can leave.”

  I shake my head.

  “I’m fine, don’t worry about it. I just need Eric to believe us.”

  “He will, precious. I promise he will.”

  Minutes later, we’re back with Eric. He glares at us. I sit in one of the chairs and watch silently as he and Björn get into an argument. They say everything, and I stand on the sidelines. I don’t have the strength to speak.

  Eric
doesn’t look at me. He keeps avoiding me.

  A nurse comes in to see what’s going on. Eric asks her to throw us out, but Björn, using all his charm, gets her out of the room by flirting and cajoling.

  Eric and I are finally alone. I find my courage.

  “I’m not going anywhere unless it’s with you,” I declare. “And right now, I’m going to call your mother and sister so they know what’s happened to you.”

  “Damn it, Judith. Don’t do that.”

  “I’m doing it because you’re my husband, and I love you, got that?”

  The Iceman is at his most sinister and devastating.

  “Jude . . .”

  Well . . . at least he called me Jude.

  “When I was in the hospital, you stayed with me. You didn’t leave me for a single minute and now . . .”

  “Now you’re going to leave,” he says.

  “That’s not going to happen,” I respond to the challenge in his eyes. I sit down again in the armchair next to his bed. I take my cell out of my bag. “If you want to, get up and throw me out. In the meantime, I’ll just stay right here.”

  He just stares at me.

  I stare right back.

  He knows he can’t do a thing and that I’m not going to leave. The door opens, and Björn comes in again.

  “C’mon, buddy. I’m dying to see that proof. Show it to me,” he says.

  Eric’s uncomfortable, but he points to his laptop. Björn hands it to him. He opens it, types, and turns it so we can see the screen.

  “I want you out of my sight as soon as you see this.”

  Björn starts a video, and I immediately recognize the Guantanamera. Björn and I are at the bar, and you can hear us talking.

  “So, if it’s not too much, can you tell me what kind of women you like?”

  “Like you. Smart, beautiful, sexy, tempting, easygoing, a little crazy, and disconcerting. Plus, I love to be surprised.”

  “Am I all that?”

  “Yes, beautiful, you are!”

  Stunned, Björn and I exchange glances. Seen isolated like that, it really looks bad.

  In the next video, we’re both dancing and having fun. After that, we see a series of photographs of the two of us walking down the street arm in arm or sitting in a restaurant, toasting with wine.

  Incredulous, we turn to Eric, who’s beyond irritated.

  “Now what? Who’s lying here?” he asks.