I shut the garage door behind me, took my shoes off at the foot of the stairs, and slowly, quietly walked up, a practice I’d perfected in my teen years, when Julián and I would routinely violate our curfew. Our frequent inquisitor was my father, an insomniac with a voracious appetite for chocolate ice cream and books, who would raid the refrigerator past midnight. Years of lack of sleep at the hospital had made him comfortable with being awake at night.
I should have known my father would be there tonight as well, but my long absence from Cali made me complacent.
He was on the sofa, reading a book under the light of a single lamp, a lit cigarette poised on the ashtray, the TV on but muted in front of him.
“Why, Papi, what are you doing up?” I automatically asked, feeling as guilty as I had when I was fifteen, caught going barefoot up the stairs at an unconscionable five in the morning.
My father peered at me intently over his reading glasses. “Muñequita,” he said with slight emphasis, calling me by my childhood nickname—little doll—and from that tiny edge I could tell how terribly upset he was, this man who never got upset.
“It’s late,” he finally said calmly, but half questioning, when it’s obvious I have nothing to say.
“I’m sorry, I lost track of time,” I finally offered, even though I thought that I was way too old to have to give explanations for any behavior I engaged in. “Good night, Papi,” I said quickly, resolutely, from across the sitting room, starting to move toward my room.
“Helenita,” my father said quietly, stopping my progress. “You shouldn’t be out this late. I was worried. And your husband called.”
Gabriella. My first thought was Gabriella.
“Did something happen to Gabriella?”
“No,” my father answered in that same measured tone. “Marcus just wanted to speak with you. You really shouldn’t be out at these hours,” he repeated.
I was about to talk back, give him a piece of my mind, but the look in his eyes stopped me. It wasn’t anger. It was disappointment, I saw with a pang of regret.
I had disappointed my father.
Damn it, and why couldn’t I? A lifetime of doing what appeared to be right, of pleasing everyone, of being the accomplished, brilliant daughter who married the accomplished, brilliant filmmaker.
I was five thousand miles away from Los Angeles. Who was I hurting? Who would know?
Because, if Marcus knew, I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t begin to imagine the look on his face. But now, looking at my father’s face, I no longer knew if it was him or Marcus that I was worried about.
My friend Elisa and I spoke often about infidelity. The what-ifs.
“What if your husband finds out you’re cheating on him?” Elisa queried.
“You deny it,” I said flatly, unequivocally.
“What if he finds you in bed with someone else?” asked Elisa triumphantly.
“You deny it,” I said again, shrugging. “He’s wrong. He’s mistaken. It’s not what it seems. You always deny it, Elisa,” I insisted earnestly. “If they love you, they’ll believe you.”
I now wanted to ask my father, ask him if he was ever in this place, of wanting but not wanting. But speaking was too daunting. I forced my mind to go blank. I looked sullenly at the rug, a Middle Eastern black and burgundy pattern that curled from one corner into the other and the other and the other, and then started again in an endless repetition. If I looked at it long enough, I could pretend I wasn’t here.
“You’re an intelligent woman, Helena,” my father finally added, when he didn’t get a reaction beyond my silence. “Act intelligently.”
He paused one more time, looked at me intently, waiting for an answer, an explanation, then pushed his glasses back up on his nose and deliberately resumed his reading.
“Good night, mi amor,” he said with finality, not looking up.
“Hasta mañana, Papi,” I answered, chastised. I could feel his unspoken censure, and for the first time since I could ever remember, I didn’t kiss him good night.
In my room, I slowly took off my clothes, dropping them on the floor, like a child, then went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I got it to the right temperature, which is almost scalding hot, the way I’ve always liked it, and I stepped in and let the water and the soap and the shampoo clean off the makeup from my face, the cigarette smell from my hair, his scent that had impregnated every inch of my skin. I stood there for a long time, the water beating down my neck, and when I finished, my back and buttocks were a bright, angry red.
I looked intently at the reflection in the floor-length mirror on the bathroom door as I dried myself, then hung up the towel and removed my wedding band. For the first time since my marriage five years ago, I was completely naked.
I was twenty-nine years old, almost thirty. I had a husband. I had a daughter. Now, I had a lover.
Was I still beautiful? I looked anxiously at myself, closer into the mirror, ran my hands over my breasts, my stomach, my thighs, which startled at my touch. I’ve long known I have something men crave. It’s in the delicacy of my bones, the misleading fragility of my limbs. My breasts were still high and rounded. I knew they were beautiful. I’d been told that. I was told that just tonight. My stomach was still flat, despite the baby. The muscles still defined. I wondered how long it could stay that way. How many more children could it bear before it sagged into middle-aged oblivion. How many more children could I bear before I sagged into middle-aged oblivion? Before this body stopped being desirable? Before men stopped asking me to dance?
I looked at my face, still unlined, the skin still taut.
I told myself that this wasn’t important. What was important was my husband. My family. My daughter. I had a daughter.
I tried to conjure the feeling of my daughter’s breath against my cheek, but all I could feel was his mouth against my breast. Not hers. Not my baby’s. His.
Through the open window, I heard the dull beat of salsa music wafting up from one of the homes in the barrio below. This was the soundtrack of my life, this relentless music that never stopped on the weekends.
For the past five years, I’ve lived in a tree-shaded home in Beverly Hills with a vast front yard and a row of trees that shield me from the world outside. A strict noise ordinance banned any music or loud noise after 11 p.m., and I realized I’d forgotten about the music and the sweat and the anxious imperfections of life here.
Now I could barely remember the quiet of that street anymore. The line between my two lives was stretched so taut, a flicker of my finger could break it and send one end recoiling into itself.
On an impulse, I picked up the phone and dialed Los Angeles, even though it was already 1 a.m. there. But the machine picked up, and I heard my own voice, delivering a friendly California message: “Hi, this is Marcus, Helena, and Gabriella.”
“Hi,” piped in Gabriella in a baby voice we’d found irresistibly cute when we originally recorded an announcement.
“We can’t pick up, but we want to hear from you. Leave a message!”
“Leave a message,” Gabriella echoed, then giggled.
“Marcus?” I said urgently. “Marcus, pick up!”
But he didn’t, and I remembered that Marcus and Gabriella were spending the weekend with friends up the coast.
I slowly hung up and turned off the lights, leaving the curtains open so I could continue to hear the dull thud of the music and look at a sky heavy with clouds.
In the darkness, I ran my hands over my breasts and brought back his touch, fresh from an hour ago. In the darkness, the only scent I smelled was his as it closed over me.