Page 53 of Dead Set on You
The last photo on the wall features Rafael in a graduation cap and gown—Loyola University’s colors. A group of people surround Rafael, each person’s smile wider than the one before. Except that of the man I imagine is Rafael’s father. Still, if pride were to be captured in a photo, it’s in this one. So much happiness. So much love. So unlike my graduation.
I celebrated alone, sitting in the booth at Pauline’s Diner, enjoying a slice of cheesecake (on the house). After which I went home and cried. Not because the day had been pathetically sad but because Annie wasn’t there with me. I’d crossed bucket list item #3 (Get a degree) off the list, like I’d done with #1 (Move to Chicago). I was checking things off alone, even if we’d started the list together, and somewhere along the line, I’d stopped doing the things at all.
“Proof I graduated,” Rafael says, startling me.
I freeze, hoping he can’t see the welling of tears from my profile.
“From the school of assholedinaires?” I pretend to study the photo.
He huffs a laugh. “Close. Prelaw. To my father’s dismay, however, I didn’t follow through with the law school part.” I don’t miss the way he slightly tenses. I know from the way hebarely speaks about his dad that there’s more there. It was how I realized there was more to him than what he offered the world. There were breadcrumbs, and I hoarded them for a time. “That’s Gloria.” He points to a more-recent photo of his oldest sister. “And her three children. She’s the closest to my mother, Louise, who just tried to smother me, so I’m sure you’d approve.” He grins as he drags his finger across the photos. “This is Graciela—Gracie. She’s finally pregnant, but she’s had a hard time getting here.” I should walk away—tell him to stop—but his guard is down (and I’ll take the lemons and lemonade). His finger hovers over a young woman blowing a raspberry at the camera. She’s older in this photo than in the one on his iPhone screen saver. “And here is the real baby of the family. Gianna. She’s finishing her first year of law school at the University of Michigan.” The pride in his voice makes my chest ache. “She’s the one who’s going to become an immigration lawyer and make up for all the ways I disappointed my dad.”
While pride still lingers in his voice, his almost-smile hints at something else. A missing piece he won’t talk about. From years of intel, I know Rafael Senior passed away shortly after things fell apart between Rafael and me. It was a short, aggressive fight with pancreatic cancer. Rafael was out of the office for twelve days after it happened. I remember The Dimple didn’t make an appearance for another three months. Mostly, though, I remember missing Rafael’s stupid jokes and relentless humming (I’ll die before I tell him).
I find I’m curious to know more … and willing to spend a few more moments hearing what he’ll share. For research, of course.
“We don’t have to talk to my abuela if you don’t want to,” he says, digging his hands into his back pockets. The change in topics has me trying to remember why we’re here to begin with. “I can do that on my own. I should have thought—”
“¿Con quién estás hablando?” We both jump as another Vela woman steps into the hallway. No taller than five feet, shecommands attention. A gray braid over one shoulder, skin that’s age loved and tan, and a kind smile kind beneath brown eyes.
“Abuela,” Rafael starts, turning to speak to her. He switches from English to Spanish. She listens and nods before tucking her hands into her colorful apron and walking away.
The floor creaks.
I stare after her.
“She’s waiting for me in her prayer room, but you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Rafael says. His sincere tone startles me. I hold his gaze, trying to see the trick.
I know Rafael isn’t so great at following through on plans, so I can see why he’d give me the option to back out … or maybe hedoesn’twant me to go with him because he’s got some reverse psychology at play. Like the one time he went on and on about Vinay Patel being an asshole who didn’t turn in projects on time and bullied others, only for me to discover Rafael wanted Vinay on his team and thought I wouldn’t take the time to actually do my research. As if I were some amateur. (Vinay works for me.)
I’m not falling for it.
We’re sticking to the plan.
“Lead the way,” I say, gesturing for him to go first—because never turn your back on a Vela.
Rafael stalls briefly before he follows after his grandmother to a room at the back of the house. His grandmother sits in the tiny room, which is just large enough for two wooden chairs and a shrine crowded with religious artifacts. Figurines. Crosses. More photos.
I halt in the doorway, the room already feeling too snug. Rafael looks at me as if to sayI gave you an option. And I answer with a look that saysI got this, thank you very much.
Rafael’s grandmother gestures to the seat beside hers. “Come, sit with me.”
Rafael obeys, the wood chair groaning beneath his weight. Even if his size seems to take up the entirety of the room, seems to dwarf her, she takes his hand in hers like you would a child’s.
“I missed you, mi amor.” She squeezes his hand. “Now tell me—how is your friend?”
Friend?
“She’s …” His brow furrows when he sees me rolling my eyes. I expect him to say lost or crazy or scared (but then I’d have to hurt him). “The same.”
“Between one place and another,” she says. Her thumb rubs his hand in a comforting way.
Rafael nods. “Like Tía Sofia. It’s why I’m here. I should have thought to ask before. How did she wake up? What helped her?”
His grandmother’s gaze turns distant. “Those first days of Sofia’s coma, I cried beside her bed night and day, not caring about anything else but bringing her back to me. She was so little, and there is nothing like the pain of losing a child.” She shakes her head. “I hope you never have to experience that, mi amor, because you will give me great-grandchildren.” Her tone is stern, but her smile belies her seriousness.
“Of course, Abuela,” Rafael agrees. Exactly what the world needs. Mini-Rafaels.
Nodding, she continues, “It was the most difficult ten days of my life, and while the doctors did their jobs and their machines kept her alive, I believe it was something else—something much greater at work—that helped her.”
