The question, Do you have a girlfriend?—he’d hated it. He objected to having been asked if he was gay, but he was just as bothered by the girlfriend question. By the friend question. Yes, bothered by those questions—enraged by them. As if she were trying to undress him. As if it were a violation. The accusation of intimacy with anyone made him so uncomfortable that he’d wanted to lash out. But even worse was the accusation of loneliness. At that one, he had lashed out, loneliness is fucking listening to other people’s problems day after day.
He was angry and lost and scarred. That was obvious enough. And she had no doubt he was capable of inflicting physical or verbal pain on anyone who came along at the wrong time. She could almost touch his unpredictable, almost savage energy. But he was also articulate and controlled and had the intellect and sensibility of a poet. He saw things and people for what they were—himself included. It was strange and beautiful, the way he recounted his own history as if he were reading it in the pages of a novel. A novel where he became the elusive, romantic figure. Not quite a hero. Not quite an antihero. She’d never had a client who’d done that so artfully. She wondered if it wasn’t a trick. A kind of seduction. A way of taking control.
She wrote down a few notes on her pad. Not many. Just words that would jar her memory. She put down the pen, then smiled. An ironic smile. Small world. Small enough for everyone to bump into each other’s shoulders, yet big enough to get lost in if you wanted to be lost, and cruel enough to be taken from a place where you were safe, and kind enough to be loved by an older brother who thought himself a man. And kind enough to have a place to live, even if it was a humble place in a humble part of a humble city, and cruel enough to be taken away from school and an education when you were clearly born with a fine mind and a good dose of ambition. Andrés. Andrés Segovia. She didn’t know exactly what about Andrés reminded her of Mister. Maybe it was because neither of them was very conscious of his physical beauty—and they were, both of them, beautiful. A woman could stare all day.
Andrés, Mister. She tried to put them together in her mind, and wondered what they would talk about if they found themselves in the same room. Such different kinds of men. She wondered how her son would’ve turned out if his life had been like Andrés Segovia’s. Would he have turned out to be as kind and as playful? Would he have turned out as comfortable with words? What would Mister have been like if he had traveled the same road as Andrés? What made them what they were, these men? Parents? Affection? Lack of affection? Fathers? Lack of fathers? Circumstances? Environment? Poverty? Loneliness? Want? Genetics? Temperament—and where did that come from, temperament? What was it, finally, that made the difference? And as they aged, would they stay more or less the same? Would they grow harder and more bitter? Would something happen to irrevocably change the way they saw and felt about the world? Fifty years old, and what did she know? What had she learned? Loneliness is fucking listening to other people’s problems day after day. That accusation. That echo in the room. “No, Andrés, loneliness is losing the man who owned your body and your heart.” She chastised herself for that self-pitying remark. She had nothing to teach Andrés Segovia about loss or rage or loneliness. He was an expert on the subject.
“Grace, you’re a disaster.” She stared at the ringing phone again. She wanted simply to walk out of the office, walk out and go to a movie, then buy herself a new dress, then go to the store and buy a pack of cigarettes, then go home and put on her new dress, then walk into her backyard, barefoot, with a scotch in her hand and a pack of cigarettes, and watch the sun go down. She wanted to do all of these simple things as if she were a young schoolteacher on the first day of summer vacation. And then maybe, after she finished her drink and smoked a few cigarettes, she’d cry until she washed away all the crap and garbage in her life. And when it grew dark, she would lie down and count the stars. She thought of Andrés, a boy of ten in a small courtyard counting each star, one two three four five.…She didn’t want to think of him, but there he was again, like a stalker. So many of her patients had stalked her—but it wasn’t them, it was her. She’d never really learned how to let go of things. And certainly she’d never let go of Sam. That’s why she’d never remarried. Of course that was why. It wasn’t a complicated matter. She’d dated exactly two men in twelve years. Two men. Three dates each. Six dates in twelve years. They weren’t Sam.
She wasn’t even letting go of her own life. Telling herself and Mister and Richard Garza that it was okay, that she could let go, that it was time. Didn’t they say that in Spanish, “Ya le tocababa”? About winning the lottery or getting married. Or dying. She was so calm about this cancer that was knocking at her door, asking her to come out. She was acting as if letting go of her own life was as easy as flicking the ashes of a cigarette. As if her life was nothing.
Maybe she was just pretending.
Maybe I’ll go buy a dress. I’ll put it on my credit card. Maybe I’ll be dead by the time the bill comes in.
She was leaving her office early. Why not? The phone rang. Again. It always rang. She wasn’t going to answer it. But she hadn’t answered it all afternoon. Well, she wouldn’t feel so bad for leaving early. If she answered it. “Hello. Grace Delgado.”
“Grace.” The voice sounded young and buoyant. Like a high school boy calling a girl he liked.
“Richard?”
“Are you busy?”
“I was just leaving for the day.”
“Oh, well, I was wondering—” He stopped, suddenly shy. “I have an article I’d like you to read. It might help you think about some treatments.”
“Treatments would only buy time in my case. Isn’t that what you said?”
“No. That’s not what I said, Grace. That’s what you heard.”
“You said it had metastasized.”
“No, Grace, I didn’t.”
“You didn’t?”
“I said it was advanced—but I said it hadn’t metastasized.”
“But it is advanced.”
“Grace. Can I ask you a question? Do you want to die?”
“Of course not.”
“There’s still time.”
“How sick will the treatments make me?”
“Some people hardly get sick at all—did you know that?”
“What about most people?”
“You’ve never been most people, Grace. Will you look at this article?”
“Yes, okay, I’ll look at it.”
“And—”
Grace listened to the silence on the other end of the phone.
“And will you have dinner with me? I mean, if you’re not busy?”
“Tonight?”
“Why not? I was just going to make my rounds, and I should be done by seven-thirty.”
“Don’t you want to have dinner with your family?”
“My wife…” His voice trailed off, then started up again. “She left me. She hooked up with a podiatrist and moved to Seattle.” He laughed, a nervous laugh.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Richard.” She hadn’t meant to sound so callous. Not her most empathetic voice.
“Bad day?”
“They’ll get worse.”
“So take advantage. Eat while you can.”
“Okay, why not? How about a steak?”
Three weeks ago, she would have found eating dinner with her doctor inappropriate. She was always one for boundaries. Her professional relationships stayed professional. Friendly. Even informal. But there was always that line. She never crossed it. Never even came close. She knew some people considered her emotionally aloof. Superior. Imperious. She’d overheard that once. She’d had a good laugh about it later. Imagine a girl from Dizzy Land being accused of that. She turned off the lights to her office as she stood at the door. She stared into the dark and empty office. Then closed the door.
On her way home, she went to her favorite dress shop. She tried on dress after dress, a blue one, a yellow one, a red one, a dress with flowers, a navy blue, floor-length dress with yellow polka dots. She bought the red one. After she left the dress shop, she stopped off at a liquor store and bought a bottle of Chivas and a pack of Marlboro Lights. Same brand she used to smoke. Same brand Andrés Segovia smoked. Three dollars. Three dollars and change for a pack of cigarettes. She always noticed the price of things, was the kind of woman who refused to buy a head of lettuce if she thought it was too expensive. That she could afford it was never the point for a woman with her disposition. Imperious, my ass. Almost four hard-earned dollars. Fifty cents more would buy her a lunch at Jalisco’s. She shook her head, and bought the cigarettes anyway. Why fuss over the price of cigarettes when she’d just spent a bundle on a red dress?
She went home, opened the French doors that led to her backyard, took off her shoes, and poured herself a drink. She found an ashtray in the back of a drawer and took out the fresh pack of cigarettes. She opened the cellophane pack and breathed in the smell. She could almost feel Sam in the room. She could almost feel him lighting her cigarette, his hand on hers. She closed her eyes. She half expected to see him standing there. She felt a pang of disappointment when she opened her eyes. She lit the cigarette.
Why don’t you quit? Because I’ll explode. “Go away, Andrés.”
She finished her cigarette and her scotch. She took a shower, put on her new dress, and stared at herself in the mirror. The light caught her diamond ring, the one Sam had given her when he’d asked her to marry him. She thought maybe it was time to take it off. So she did. She waved her naked hand in front of the mirror. She stared at the ring, sitting there on top of the dresser. She put it back on. She stared at the light—the light that was in the ring.
No, she didn’t know how to let go of things.