SUMMER
“We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full.”
—Marcel Proust
Chapter 1
At eighteen, Natalia knew seven things about her biological father, Joe. He was a tall, dark, handsome Italian. Although he was married when he met her mother, he wanted to leave his wife (that’s what he’d said) and run off to be with his mistress—in Mexico, where fresh air gave new life and the Caribbean waters washed away the heavy burden of guilt. Never mind his three children. Never mind his wife. Never mind his morals.
Now, ten years later, she would soon know eight. He was dying of cancer.
-----
She was enduring yet another date. Ted. She knew she shouldn’t have agreed to meet him. That damned Pamela. Her best friend since first grade. Pamela was always ready to try something new—new food, new drinks, new shoes, new men. Taking chances was her elixir for happiness.
“You need to venture out,” she’d encouraged. “Stop moping and looking for perfection. Stop looking for another Tyler.”
Natalia had reluctantly set up a profile on a dating site where she faced a barrage of messages and winks from men who hid behind dated photos and wishful thinking. You will know what I want you to know, she thought.
Ted seemed attractive enough and the dating site professed they were a match. But he was mechanical—every question, every response clipped. Each word enunciated with the utmost care.
“So, you like hip-hop, R&B, alternative, and rock music?” He seemed surprised.
What was she supposed to say?
“I’m not big on alternative and rock, but I like some of it,” she replied. “Red Hot Chili Peppers. Coldplay. And you like jazz, right?” She scanned the menu, though she already knew what she wanted.
“I do. Wynton Marsalis, George Benson, Jason Moran. How long have you been a runner?”
“Since college. I ran track. Were you an athlete?” She didn’t recall anything sports-related on his profile.
He dodged the question. “What events?”
“The 200 and the 400. Now I run distance—a couple of miles every other day or so.”
“Were you any good?”
What kind of question was that? She was grateful to see their waitress.
“I’ll have a hot green tea and a chicken wrap, please.”
“That sounds good. I’ll have the same thing,” Ted said.
Five questions later, she watched the steam escape from their cups and wished she could follow it up and out. Away from the tiny table where Ted sat entirely too close. Instead of settling in the booth across from her, he’d chosen to box her in against the brick wall. They weren’t at the side-by-side-in-a-booth stage, but what choice did she have? She had to crane her neck to look him in the eye.
She thought about the last time she’d sat in a booth this way and felt herself falling back to that moment as a memory of Tyler barged in. They were sharing a pizza and sipping sweet teas at their favorite hole-in-the-wall on a cold Friday night. She hadn’t needed to crane her neck because her head had rested comfortably on his shoulder while his muscular arm curved around her waist. There was security in his embrace and comfort in their silence.
Pushing those thoughts aside, she tackled Ted’s deluge of questions as they waited for their chicken wraps. Her left foot involuntarily shook as she fiddled with the white cloth napkin on her lap.
“What’s your issue with cats? Why don’t you like them?” Ted asked after their waitress delivered their food.
“I’m allergic to them,” she said, sighing.
He seemed to be operating off a software program. If he asked her one more predictable question, she was going to scream. She could see him mentally checking off items on some internal list. She didn’t think she could stand to hear another word come out of his mouth. And though she had no interest in his responses, she tried to deflect the attention off herself and throw a couple of questions at him. She stared at the two artificial white carnations leaning toward the chipped brick wall as Ted droned on about his siblings, his divorced parents, and his favorite pastime, playing chess.
As they waited for the bill, she found an opportunity to escape to the ladies’ room. “I’ll be right back,” she said with a fake smile, mentally urging him to stand up so she could scoot off to freedom.
A moment later, she reapplied her lip gloss and took a deep breath before walking back to their table. She’d rather design a concept board for a new client than let this dead-end date continue. She could do better. She could find another Tyler—or at least come closer than this.
“I have to get back to work,” she announced. “It was nice meeting you.” She hoped he caught the hint that they wouldn’t be seeing each other again.
“Well, um . . .” He paused, unsure of what to say as she stared blankly at him. “Okay, well, let me know if you want to have dinner next time. Lunch feels rushed, you know?”
“I’ll do that,” she lied.
She hurried to her car, thankful to be alone again. Thankful she’d had the good sense to decline Ted’s invitation to pick her up from her office. He would never know where she worked, much less where she lived.
She’d just turned the key in the ignition when her cell phone rang.
“Hey, Ma,” she answered.
“Hi, honey.” The “honey” held an unusually heavy weight. She knew something was wrong.
“Are you sick again?” She braced herself for the worst as her stomach galloped. A couple of years earlier, her mother had suffered a bout of something the doctors never diagnosed—a spell that stole her ability to sleep and left her weighing fifty pounds less. Natalia lived in fear it would return to finish the job.
“No, no. I’m fine,” her mother assured her.
“Then what is it? Tell me.” She clenched the phone in her hand.
“Well, it’s your father. Your real father. Not your stepdad.”
Ah, the man Natalia had dreamed about so often. She pretended it didn’t matter that she’d never met him, that she’d grown up without a real father-daughter bond. She pretended it didn’t affect her relationships with men, and that she didn’t despise him for what he’d done. But she did.
He must be dead. She’d never have a chance to meet him.
She dissected her one muddled memory of her real father. She was five years old and wore a blue sundress that flared out at the bottom. Her hair was in two puffy ponytails with large blue ribbons tied at the top of each. Standing on a corner with her mother, she stared up at a man she couldn’t quite see because the sun shone brightly just behind his head. She’d raised her hand to shield her squinted eyes and get a better look, but the sun’s power and glare were too strong, and she’d stared down at the concrete instead. She could have sworn he nodded in approval before giving her mother a white envelope.
She’d asked her mother who he was. “No one, sweetie,” she’d said. But Natalia couldn’t shake the feeling that the man was Joe, her real father. She lived with the regret of not moving her body just enough to get a better view of him. The three of them never stood on that hot corner again. It could have been her only chance.
“Is he dead?” she asked. She was numb as she watched an elderly couple leisurely walk into the restaurant she’d just abandoned, holding hands.
“Well, Barbara called me the other day and told me she ran into a friend of Joe’s,” her mother began. Barbara was her mother’s best friend and typically knew everything about everybody. “He told her that Joe had been having really bad headaches for months, but he wouldn’t go to the doctor. A few weeks ago, the pain was so bad, he was vomiting and couldn’t see clearly.” Then she delivered the bad news. “He’s very sick, sweetie. He has brain cancer.”
The light and air disappeared around Natalia as she struggled to inhale.
“He can fight this, right? He’ll have chemo, and he’ll live, right?” She willed her mother to say yes. There could be no other alternative. He had to live.
“They’ve given him a few months. Probably less.”
A few months. The words banged around in her head, reverberating from side to side, and then beyond as though she were in a canyon, the echo penetrating her chest. She trembled as she tried to suffocate an intense ache. Her heart cracked open and released her long-held, secret desire.
I have to meet him. Hold his hand, touch his face. Look into his eyes. Where is he? Who is he with? I have to see him. Now.
Chapter 2
Time had taken advantage of Rosa. It had stomped all over her face, leaving its fine tracks to prove not only its remarkable strength but also its ability to demolish beauty. She knew she was the opposite of that now—a shriveled flower, dried out and brittle. She’d accepted this ragged and wrinkled version of herself many years ago. Her once long, dark, luxurious hair, now thin and gray, hadn’t been washed in days. Her once luminous eyes were worn and tired.
Like her aging skin, she felt fragile. But she knew she had to be strong for Joe and their three children.
Her dear Joe. The love of her life. She’d been working as a waitress at one of the most popular Italian restaurants in New Orleans—Pascal’s Manale—when they met. He walked in, boisterous and charming, with a group of six other men. All dark-haired and tall, with olive skin and well-defined, muscular bodies sculpted from their years of military service in the Vietnam War.
As she made her trancelike way to their table, he was the only one she saw. The connection was instant. The chemistry palpable. She could see a lifetime of happiness in his gray eyes. There had been no doubt in her mind that Joe was the man for her.
Their summer wedding at St. Mary’s Church a year later was still the happiest day of her life. Her youth and beauty were accentuated by the most exquisite dress she’d ever worn. In the gown’s long lace sleeves, demure high neckline, fitted bodice, and flouncy, tiered skirt, she felt soft, subtle, and sophisticated. She could still remember the sound of the dress as it swished with just the slightest movement.
Now, thirty-four years later, she watched Joe lying before her, thin, pale, and struggling to breathe in an uncomfortable hospital bed. A shell of the man he’d once been.
How could there not be more years for them? How could they only have a finite number of days left with each other?
Recognizing their own limitations, the doctors at Touro Infirmary in New Orleans told them MD Anderson Cancer Center was their best chance—the center specialized in cancer research, treatment, and prevention. They used words like “multidisciplinary,” “chemotherapy” and “prolonging life.” But they were tentative as they spoke, folding their arms, taking deep breaths, and angling their heads. “He has a slim chance, and there are no guarantees.”
It was worth a try. After several conversations with center doctors who had reviewed Joe’s medical file and scans, she packed their bags and they made the five-hour drive to Houston.
She’d spent the last several weeks in this mauve-colored room. She’d memorized everything about it—from the gold-framed photos of muted flowers and pecan-colored hardwood floors to the diamond-patterned upholstered chair and tiny bathroom that Joe could no longer get up to use on his own.
As she held his cold hand, sadness surged through her, taking over her mind. A lifetime of love now reduced to an indescribable pain.
