tilts his head and grins, his eyes crinkling at each corner.
“It’s so good to talk to you again, Tommy.”
“Ditto.”
And with that, we walk outside with our drinks in our hands, climb into my Jeep, and embark on a new adventure together, almost like old times.
3
Carlos
“Carlito, that is a beautiful new shirt. You look very guapo! The green brings out your beautiful, light brown eyes. I’m sure Daniel must like it, too,” Mami says, sitting across from me at Versailles for our weekly brunch. When she suspects something is going on with me, she opens our talk with a compliment before she unleashes her Cuban inquisition.
“Thanks, Mami. It was a gift from Daniel. He surprised me with the Banana Republic shirt this morning,” I say, trying to hide what is really bothering me.
“Carlito, que te pasa? You seem a little sad.”
“I’m fine, Mami. I just have a lot of homework papers to grade, as usual. How is the garden? I heard there’s a sale at Home Depot on rose bushes, not that we need any more. The front of the house has the most flowers on our block. Maybe you can get some more for the backyard.” I sip the ice water the young waiter has brought us.
“Good idea, Carlos, but look at who you are talking to. I’m your mama. Que te pasa? What’s going on?” She stares at me and right through me. Mami has this X-ray vision into my thoughts and feelings, which makes it hard for me to cloak my concerns. I hold up the green and white menu, which matches the décor of the restaurant, to block Mami’s view of me. She pushes the menu down.
“Is this about Daniel? Did he do something to upset you and gave you the new shirt to make you feel better? Bueno, I never liked him. He always seemed to look at other men when you both went out, and he should only be looking at you, mi amor. He always finds a reason to go out with his friends and not spend time with you and your family. You deserve better than Daniel, someone who wants you and only you,” she says.
“No, Mami! It’s not about Daniel. He’s in South Beach with his friends. We’re doing okay. We should order.” I hold up the menu again.
“Carlos…que te pasa? We’re here, right now, talking.” She taps her index finger against the table. “It’s just you and me, like always. Talk to me. I’m here for you.”
I momentarily put the menu down to tuck my hair behind my ears. My eyes well up with tears. I hold the menu up again, but Mami pushes it down.
“Mami, you’re sick. The cancer is back. I know. Don’t pretend. I overheard you on the phone with Dr. Gonzalez. What are we going to do now? I can’t see you go through the chemo again and lose all your hair. This isn’t fair, Mami. It’s not.” My throat tightens. I look down to avoid my mother’s piercing green eyes. She leans over to me and grabs both my hands and squeezes.
“Carlos, I don’t want you worrying about this. I am going to fight this! We are going to fight this. We can do this. I just need your support. Have faith, hijo. I beat the cancer once. I can do it again. I have too much to live for. I want to see Lourdes get married and give me some grandchildren. I want to see your Papi retire from the convenience store and take me on cruises to the Caribbean. I want to see you with your own casita, a child of your own, maybe even a little dog. I want to see you grow old, mi amor, and I will. I promise, but first, let’s order. Tengo hambre! Order the breaded chicken steak this time, and maybe for dessert, we can share a coconut flan.”
I plaster a smile on my face. Mami knows how to lighten a mood by talking about food.
“But what about your health? I don’t want to lose you, Mami.”
“Ay, Carlos, you won’t lose me. I will always be watching you. We will always have our talks. But right now, let’s eat and eat fast, because you have to wake up and go to school in a little. You’re alarm is about to go off in one…two…three…”
My alarm clock thunders in my bedroom, jolts me out of my dream, and scares the hell out of me. On reflex, I press the snooze button. Ay, Mami! I catch myself smiling at the dream and trying to overcome my weariness. I prop myself up in my bedroom and catch my breath. My breathing is labored. I rub my fingers in my eyes and open them. I grab my asthma inhaler on my bedside table and pump some medicine into my lungs. I’m feeling better. If only it weren’t a dream. Every now and then when I need to hear her or see her, she appears in my dreams like a guardian angel who steps in to give me her two cents. But why do these dreams have to feel so real? Again, we were having our weekly Sunday brunch. That was our time together to talk about my work week and my issues with my ex, Daniel. I looked forward to our weekly meetings. I didn’t have Papi there talking about the Marlins or his frustrations with running the convenience store we own in Miami Springs. I didn’t have Lourdes babbling about her boyfriend and whether he was serious enough to propose to her one day. It was Mami and me, the Martin team.
In this dream, she wore her favorite light-green blouse with her blue jeans that defined her big Cuban butt. Mami always liked showing off her figure, even at fifty-seven. She looked like her old self in this dream, just as she did before the cancer. In my dreams, I remember only the good things about Mami. She’s radiant. Her arms are free of brown bruises from injections. She smells fresh, like the perfume she bought on discount at Macy’s. She doesn’t smell like the chemicals her sweat exuded from all her cancer treatments. When I dream of her, she is healthy and beaming. She is Mami.
I lie back in my full-size bed, turn on my side, and look out my bedroom window. I have a view of the other triple-deckers and brownstones in my Cambridge neighborhood near Porter Square. Red digital numbers on my alarm clock read 5:00 a.m. Soon, I have to get ready for work at the high school, which is probably what Mami meant in the dream when she rushed me to eat so I could get to work on time.
I pull my light-blue comforter up to my chin and enjoy my last hour of rest, even though now I am wide awake. Gracias, Mami, I can’t go back to sleep.
I look forward to these dreams because they remind me in a strange way that Mami still looks out for me. I can only imagine what she must have seen on Saturday night when I was at Club Paradise with Tommy. Mami probably eavesdropped as I talked to Marcello. The lean, handsome, Brazilian guy made me laugh on the dance floor with his goofy jokes and Portuguese accent. I felt all hot and steamy whenever he brushed up against me as we danced. Every time he did, I caught a trace of his Calvin Klein cologne, which he must have doused himself with before heading to the club. It’s been a while since I’ve had sex with a guy, a few months actually, not since I moved to Boston. I thought it would be fun to make out with Marcello until the ugly truth slapped me in the face.
I get up and turn off my alarm clock so it doesn’t wake the entire building. I yawn and stretch and make way to the kitchen and brew some coffee. As I prepare it, my thoughts drift to Saturday night at Paradise with Marcello.
We danced as Tommy watched from the bar looking a little down, which is unlike him. Tommy always has this sunny optimism. It’s one of the reasons that I am drawn to him and why he can be a mystery to me at times. Who can smile and laugh as much as he does? Yet that night, he was off in his own world.
After I left Tommy at the bar (with his blessing), Marcello and I headed to a pizza place in Central Square where all the other club goers gather for some late-night food. That’s one thing I have learned about Boston and Cambridge. There is nowhere to eat after midnight except for a handful of places. In Miami, the possibilities are endless at any given hour. So this fine Brazilian creature of a man and I ordered two sloppy slices of cheese pizza and then sat in a corner booth surrounded by late-night revelers, mostly college students who don’t have to worry about mortgage payments or teaching high school students about classic literature.
As I munched on my slice, I studied every speck in Marcello’s hazel eyes, the way the yellow mixed with the caramel hues. I liked how his tight, curly, brown hair scrunched up in the front. As I scrutinized his looks, I also explained my complicated Cuban background