Maldeamores (Lovesick) (Heightsbound #0.5) (22 page)

My heart is alive and pumping my blood something fierce, but I could swear for the first time in my life, there’s no crazy burn in it.

Chapter 21

Belén

T
he hardest part about saying goodbye to Poughkeepsie is finding a new home for Napoleon. Lucy plans on backpacking all over Europe and then later South America. She tried to get her parents in Chicago to take her and they said they’re allergic.

Eventually I come up with the perfect plan. We are researching how we could get Napoleon signed up to become a service animal, either in a hospital or a nursing home in the area. I’m reading an article about how crucial companion pets can be for someone’s rehabilitation, when it dawns on me that I already know the perfect person.

Lucy drives me to Bryan’s with Napoleon crated in the back seat. His lawn needs mowing, but there are cherry blossoms on the tree in his front yard. It’s raining perfect pink petals all over the driveway and the ground below it.

I knock three times and no one answers. I feel like an asshole for not reaching out sooner. But Bryan terrifies the hell out of me. He’s only one degree of separation from what I could easily be.

The screen door is closed but the door behind it is open. The lights are off and the house is dark. I open the screen and step into Bryan’s kitchen.

The countertops are covered in discarded soup cans and boxes of long-eaten TV dinners. There are newspapers all over the kitchen table and some on the floor. The mail that’s been thrown in the slot is sitting in a huge scattered pile where it landed.

“Bryan?” I call out, my voice quavering and timid.

There’s no answer so I flick on a light and make my way to the living room.

Bryan is sitting upright in a recliner. He’s got a stretched out T-shirt on and a pair of pajama bottoms.

“Bryan?” I say, feeling so apprehensive. He looks grey and pasty and I don’t see his chest moving.

“Bryan?” I say again, taking hesitant steps closer.

His eyes pop open and I gasp when they do.

“Belén!” Bryan says, “What are you doing here?”

“Hey!” I say running over to give him a hug. “I came to check and see how you were doing. And also ask you if you wanted to adopt our dog.”

“Help me up,” Bryan says, and I grab his wrist and help pull him to standing. “What kind of dog do you have, Belén? Why can’t you keep her?”

“She belongs to my roommate. She’s a mixed Pit and Lucy’s parents won’t take her. We’re going to Spain for a whole month and then Lucy will continue her travels. Napoleon has a benign tumor so she has to eat special food. She needs a lot of attention and someone who will love her.”

“I’ve never been a dog person,” Bryan says, running his fingers through his hair. He looks like he hasn’t bathed in days and his face is covered in stubble. “Did you bring her with you, now?” Bryan asks, his face perking up. He goes to the bay window in the kitchen and pulls the blinds up, letting the light in.

“She’s in the car with Lucy. Should I go get her?”

“Sure. Sorry the place is such a mess.”

“I’m really good at cleaning and Lucy isn’t half bad,” I say, slipping out the door. My mom would blitz through Bryan’s house with a mop, a bucket and a bottle of purple Fabuloso. Blasting Anthony Santos and dancing, she’d get all the dirt gone in no time.

Napoleon trots in and heads right over to Bryan. He kneels down to scratch her and his face breaks into a smile.

Two hours later, we have the house almost spotless. Bryan is in the back yard tossing a tennis ball for Napoleon and I’m not sure which of the two of them is wearing a bigger smile.

Lucy has gathered all of the garbage in the kitchen and sorted it into recycling bins. I’m dusting off pictures of Jan and Bryan on the mantelpiece. In one they are wearing flowered leis and Hawaiian shirts. Jan’s hair is long and blonde and Bryan had a mustache and a tropical tan to boot. The next is their wedding picture—it looks incredibly dated. Jan has one of those strange veils where there’s a hat attached to it. Bryan has a white tux and the big, bushy mustache.

“Nineteen-eighty-one,” Bryan says, Napoleon standing at his side panting. “The house looks great, Belén. I can’t thank you enough.”

“I should have come sooner, Bryan. I’ve been a terrible friend. I was afraid you‘d be angry with me. I was scared it was my fault because I couldn’t save her.”

“Nobody could save her. Not even Jan herself,” Bryan says, while one hand absentmindedly scratches Napoleon’s head.

“Do you think you want to keep her? I realize it’s a long shot and totally unfair of us to launch a surprise attack on you like this.”

“I’ll keep her, Belén. I think it will do us both good.”

“Yeah, she’s a really sweet dog and she loves the attention.”

“I meant me and you. Go see the world, Belén. Don’t let the whole universe shrink down into just one person.”

At Museo del Prado we check our backpacks and spend the entire day looking at paintings. We’ve been sleeping in hostels and navigating bullet trains around the country, listening to live music in tapas bars and eating like gluttons. In Madrid we plan to take advantage of seeing all of the amazing art the city has to offer.

When we come across Diego Velázquez’s painting
Las Meninas
, I recognize it immediately from art history. Velázquez was appointed a painter of the court of King Philip IV of Spain, a prestigious position that required he paint all of the royal portraits. Some of the figures in the painting appear very strange. Our art history professor explained that King Philip and all of the Habsburgs maintained their royal lineage through centuries of inbreeding. That the family was known to have an outrageously large and monstrous-looking jaw, as well as stunted growth and some occurrences of dwarfism.

“I’m gonna go outside for a smoke,” Lucy says, sticking the lens cap back on her fancy camera she bought just for the trip.

“Okay, I’m going to take a minute with this one.”

I stare at the figures in the painting just like I did on that day in class when we covered the unit on Spanish Golden Age Painting. I remember how the students groaned and laughed when the professor explained how common interfamilial marriage and reproduction was in preserving a royal bloodline. Apparently royal lineage took precedence over recessive gene mutations and stigmas.

I wipe tears from my eyes and I didn’t even realize I’d started crying. I gaze into the face of the strange-looking child in the forefront and think about how she had no choice about where she came from and no choice about who she’d marry, whether her children would be deformed or even able to survive. She was the experiment, not the root of the problem.

We’re all parts of a narrative that we didn’t write. Maybe Betty would have fallen for Luis anyway. Maybe he was the one for her regardless of what family he came from. When the pen falls into our hands, we can’t erase the past. All we’re allowed is the chance to create a new ending. Betty did the best she could with the circumstances she had. My mother’s supposedly shameful love was really quite innocent.

I didn’t write Lucky into my life, but I did try to write him out of it. The only ending I ever want is one that has Lucky as part of it.

I meet Lucy outside in the park. We sit down on the grass and relax until we fall asleep in Parque del Retiro. I wake up with my head on Lucy’s stomach when the sun’s already starting to decline. We don’t know where we’ll eat or have any idea where we’ll sleep. Lucy is chewing on a blade of grass while she reads our travel guidebook. She’s kicked off her boots and has her bare feet in the grass.

“BeyBey, do you want to go to Portugal? They call Lisbon, ‘the white city.” It looks incredible—check out these photos of the beach.”

“You keep changing our itinerary,” I say, rubbing a plum on my tank top and taking a bite of it. “We’re skipping the places we planned on and then stopping everywhere in between.”

“That’s the whole point. We can do whatever the hell we want. Go wherever we want. This is the definition of freedom.”

I toss my plum pit as far as I can. The sky is so blue and the breeze smells like blossoms.

“I’ll go to Portugal, what the hell?”

Lucy smiles at me and sits up to pull on her boots.

“You’re a good egg, Bey.”

Chapter 22

Lucky

W
e’re on a reconnaissance mission in southwestern Iraq. This is one of our longest missions away from base and the Arabian Desert is endless. We trained for weeks on survival skills particular to the region, like always keeping your head covered because the sun is so fucking hot it will burn a hole through it. We’re looking at temps around forty degrees Celsius. They call this desert Al-Dibdibah. I call it Orchard Beach and tell the guys that any minute now we’ll hit the water, where chicks with thick thighs and round asses will be lining up for miles just to flirt with us.

There are fourteen of us in the platoon and we’re all pretty chill, but four days out here can make you feel like you’re starring in a Mad Max movie and any second you’ll come across some batshit crazy bikers ready to kill you with fire cannons. But the only thing we’ve come across is some stoic-looking Bedouins.

Our guy Marc is a translator and we stopped to trade with them and ask them some questions. They weren’t giving up any info and it didn’t surprise us. I can’t believe they live like they do and stick a tent up in the middle of nowhere. Park your tent by a river, they got a few here. Or how about where there’s a forest so you can get one fucking inch of shade.

We’re looking for a rumored weapons flow between the city of Al Basrah and Saudi Arabia. If we find a trail they’ll send our squadrons to dismantle it. They might even end up using drones. We’re just the tour guides and we don’t get to do any of the fun stuff. But today we’ll turn back because we’ve gotten too close to the border. Looks like the weapons swap meet was actually just a rumor.

I like it when I look up and see a bird in the sky. Doesn’t happen very often but when it does I at least feel like I’m on Earth instead of lost in a never-ending sand pit. We’re traveling in armored vehicles, Humvees that can navigate the sand, but a lot of the time we’re out and walking. It’s low risk for a ground attack because we can see for miles in each direction. The only planes that have flown over us in four days have been our own—dropping in supplies. Food, water and ammo. The first load they dropped our squad leader said it was drive-through night at the Sands Casino.

I’m used to this life. It’s just become my work flow. Instead of bagging groceries in the Heights, I’m tromping through the desert halfway across the world. I think of my old life often and wonder what would have become of me if I hadn’t gotten out. I’d still be using, probably dealing, still living with my ma.

And I think about Bey. Yeah, I think about her a lot. More than any woman I’ve ever known, she struck me deep, left her mark on the inside. I remember what her breath sounded like when she’d get aroused from me kissing her. I think about all the stress and tension and work it took to avoid her. Then I think about how good it felt to throw that out the window and finally take her.

I wonder if she’s got a man and if she still uses me to get off. I wonder if she’s happy and smiling and showing the whole world just how special she is. I won’t let myself think of her eyes when they were haunted, when she was suffering so bad from wanting me.

Belén, who knows what she’d think of this desert? She probably knows more about it than I do and she’d explain the geography and teach us all something we’d never heard about it. What would she make of Luciano Cabrera, Jarhead? I miss her laugh and her smell and her tight little body. I miss how her fingers dug into me when she’d come and how her whole body shook with the sensation and the emotion.

I need her. I can feel it like a physical pain in my chest. There ain’t nothing I can fill that spot up with, it’s reserved for Len and I’m pretty sure it’ll ache my whole life. Sometimes I think about what she said, about how she loved the pain because it was something we shared. So I try not to fight it and just let it hurt.

I’m thinking about Len when the vehicle behind me blows up.

Belén,

We’re in Cascais on the coast of Portugal, sitting by the sea. The water is a deep, cobalt blue. I’ve eaten more octopus than anyone should. Lucy got us fresh sea urchins, which we cracked open and ate live out of the shell. It feels like Paradise on the edge of a cliff.

“Did you get a chance to talk to your mom?”

“I got an email off to her at the internet café. I tried to call last night, but she didn’t pick up the phone.”

“We can stop by that international calling station and try her again. Maybe you can catch her before she leaves for work.”

Lucy drinks the rest of her Coke and pays the bill. We’ve left our backpacks at the hostel so we’re sightseeing with a wallet, a camera and a bag with swimming suits and flip-flops. I’m darker than I’ve ever been in my life and my hair has become naturally highlighted from the sun. I think all of the vitamin D has given me a boost; I’ve got no problem hiking all day and going out dancing at night. I wonder if anyone would recognize me, back at school or in the Heights. I wonder if I’m blossoming, if this is the moment my mother told me about.

Mami answers on the third ring. It’s six in the morning her time, I probably caught her just stepping out of the shower.

But instead of excitement I hear disappointment in her voice—like she was expecting someone else and a call from her own daughter is a let-down.

“Mom, it’s Belén,” I say. “I’m calling from Portugal.”

“Oh,
mi hija
. I was hoping maybe it was a call about Lucky.”

“Why?” I ask, but the whole world contracts down to a pinpoint. I know something has happened before she even gets the words out.

“Oh Belén, I hate to tell you like this.”

“There’s no other way, just tell me,” I demand.

“His battalion was hit. There weren’t any survivors. They’re flying the bodies to Germany for identification and then returning them home. From what we know it happened last Wednesday. They’d been days in the desert and it was an unexpected ambush. It may have been a rocket. They couldn’t have seen it coming. The blessing is that no one suffered,
mi vida
.”

“Not Lucky. No, Mom. It can’t be.”

“We sent dental records earlier in the week. We’re waiting to hear on a positive ID.”

“No. Please, Mom. Not Lucky.”

“Belén, this was always a possibility. He knew and took the risk. He wanted to serve his country. Luciano’s greatest gift was protecting those he loved. He died in service to others—it’s what he would have wanted.”

“Are the bodies destroyed, are they no longer recognizable?” My chest collapses with the thought of Lucky’s body—of something so beautiful—no longer being part of this world. And the person inside was everything—he was all I ever wanted.

“I’m not sure to what extent, Belén. Awilda’s been speaking with the people at the base as well as those overseas in Germany. Maybe you should come home, love. We need you. We all need to be together.”

“Where in Germany?”

“It’s a military hospital. I have it right here. The Landstuhl Regional Medical Center. It’s near Landstuhl, Germany. I guess they take all the injured and casualties there.”

“I’m going to Germany. I have to. Give me the contact or else call them and let them know I’ll be coming.”

I wipe sweat off my brow and drop the pen that I’m gripping.

“Belén,
amor
, did you hear me? There were no survivors. It was Lucky’s platoon and no one was spared. I love you,
corazón, an
d I know it’s extremely difficult, but Lucky is no longer with us. Going to Germany isn’t going to make him come back.”

Lucky

The blast reminds me of a building being demoed. There’s the shock from the impact, but then there’s the force that ricochets outward after, blasting sand and debris that cause most of the damage. I’m face down on the ground. I can’t move at all. The heat from the fire is a fucking inferno. It’s like the desert is laughing its ass off. “Oh, you thought
that
was hot, young fresh blood, well try some of
this
shit!”

I can’t breathe; I’m not sure if my lungs have collapsed or if it’s because the wind was knocked out of me. I can’t take the heat so I start pushing with my toes, just moving my fucking toes like a salamander escaping the pond. My arm is flung up cushioning my head, so my position is aerodynamic and the toe swimming actually does move me. Not fast enough or far enough to make much of a difference.

The flames and black smoke die down after a few hours. I don’t think anybody else made it out. I don’t hear any signs of life. That was a bitch-ass move, definitely a big weapon. Probably a rocket-propelled grenade. Either Saudis or insurgents. We were told we had clearance all the way to the border, that there would be air cover to make sure of it, but somehow word got out and, apparently, got out to fuckers who don’t particularly like us. Don’t ever talk to the Bedouins. Rule one of the Arabian desert; everybody is an informant.

I ain’t got much time. Not in this heat, not bleeding like a stuck pig without any way to even stand up and signal to flyovers. Supplies were dropped just yesterday, so basically I’m screwed. If I’ll bleed out or dry up first is anybody’s guess.

Belén

I buy a ticket to Germany. I don’t have the money for it but I put it on my credit card. I haven’t broken down. It’s more like a daze. Lucy tells me I’m in shock, but I sort of feel like the earth stopped its rotation. That all the clocks stopped ticking and the flowers stopped growing. I have to see Lucky. I have to see his body. There’s no way I’ll ever accept a box or an urn. It isn’t him. It can’t be. Lucky is such a huge part of me. He’s my whole life. If it were true I would know. If he were no longer with me, I would be able to feel it.

Lucky

Night falls and so does the temperature. I wonder if I’m paralyzed or if I’m fucked up from a concussion. I thought I wouldn’t make it through the rest of the day. But here I am, still toe surfing farther away. I’m able to move my hand a bit too, so I’ve improved my game.

I found a rock with my digging finger and I’m holding onto it. First one I felt, so as soon as I can move my whole arm, it’s going in my pocket. I’m trying not to let my mind wander but it’s getting harder and harder. I don’t want to let my mind go before my body.

The night is a blackout and the stars come out strong. Dark velvet sky filled up with a scramble of stars that go on forever and ever. The more I look, the more I get lost in them. I stare up into the layers and I think I must be seeing other galaxies, whole other universes. It blows my mind how small I am, that my one little life isn’t important, just another grain of sand in the never-ending desert. I try to pick out the constellations but I never was much for that. We don’t see stars in New York City, except the ones dancing on Broadway.

I wonder if Belén is looking up at this same sky, like that night we sat on the roof together back in the Heights. It doesn’t matter to me how insignificant I am. I only ever really wanted to be important to one person.

I’m fading in and out and I’m really detached. The night is a thousand years long and I can’t tell half the time if I’m sleeping or if my mind is awake. I swear I watch a bright star in the sky, so bright it twinkles. Then it shoots down to earth with a trail like a comet.

Belén

I arrive in Landstuhl at three in the morning, book myself a hotel and sit in a chair at the desk and look out the window. I don’t even close my eyes, even though I’m exhausted. I can’t eat, but I drink cup after cup of softened water from the tap. Water that tastes like a bad vitamin or maybe like it’s poisonous, but I swallow it down regardless. It’s not fair that I have to keep on going if Lucky has left me.

If I’m in shock, then it’s lasting longer than I expected. If I’m in denial, it’s a great coping mechanism, because I barely feel anything. No nerves, some apprehension, maybe anger under the surface. I’m not in touch with the pain yet. Maybe my body knows it couldn’t handle it. Whatever it is that’s sheltering me, I’m so grateful for it. I’m in some kind of cocoon and everything has been suspended. I rest my chin on my hand as I stare out at the night sky. The stars are brilliant and plentiful, not at all like the sky we grew up under in Manhattan.

Lucky

I made it through the night, because the sun is making its appearance. It didn’t fuck me up enough yesterday so it’s back with a vengeance.

I can move my arm so I reach for my canteen. I get water to my mouth and even though I know I shouldn’t prolong it, I can’t stop instinct—my thirst at this point is way stronger than me. I pull the rock down to my face. It’s my touchstone, my weapon, a precious jewel in the desert—it’s the last fucking thing I’ll touch before I go meet my maker.

I jerk my hand down and use my chest to help pry open my own dirty fingers. I look at it and moan out loud. It’s a goddamned piece of beach glass. I groan and curse and blow air through my lips. What a fucking cruel joke. I can’t even take it.

“Belén!” I scream out her name. Fucking screaming it into the wind and totally in vain. Screaming into nothing and using up my last breath to do it.

A picture show runs through my head. Belén in the kitchen. The sound of her laugh. Skinned knee on the playground, crying, calling my name and limping. Sharing treats, licking our fingers. Sharing secrets, whispering in each other’s ears. The sound of her breath, the smell of her hair. The curve of her hip right before it meets her ass. The feel of her lips opening up to my tongue. The taste of her kiss. The sweet, intoxicating drug that her love was.

I think I scream her name a lot, until my throat runs dry. It hurts to open my eyes because of the sand and because there’s not a drop of water left in my body. If there was, I’d use it to cry tears for Belén.

I lose consciousness, but I don’t let go of my desert rock.

Belén

They tell me it’s unorthodox. They tell me I have to wait for the VP. They make me sign ten pounds of paperwork and get a hospital-issued picture ID.

I have to wait for a special military command official who takes me into a room and explains that the soldiers were badly burned and that many visual IDs weren’t possible. I sign all the waivers, including a non-disclosure and confidentiality agreement.