theresa
eturning to Los Angeles had been dangerous and stupid. Our journey back had the potential to ruin our lives. If we’d continued with our plans in Mexico, Antonio would never have reconnected with Valentina. I wouldn’t be considering admitting to shooting Paulie. We would have gotten married, bought a house, had children.
But we came back for Jonathan, a fool’s errand that wouldn’t do anyone any good. When I saw my rake of a brother in that bed—tubes sticking out of him, hair a mess, skin battered in flour—I was glad I had come.
I sat in the chair beside him. “If you’re up, I’m over here.”
“I’m up,” he said, slowly turning toward me. Machines beeped incessantly, and a hiss of a medical apparatus underscored every other sound in the room. “You look like hell.”
“You look great. I saw your girlfriend on the way in.”
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
I thought he slipped out of consciousness, or maybe he was gathering strength to speak. But his eyes closed, then opened halfway.
“She won’t marry me. I asked, and she ran off.”
“Why?”
He held up his hand, or he attempted to. He had too many tubes sticking out of him to do it properly. I held it down and squeezed it.
“Pledge open,” I said.
“Dad’s making trades with her. He bought her house to keep it from foreclosure.”
A seemingly kind gesture in my father’s hands always required a payment. You might not see it. You might not understand the depth of it, but no favor went unsettled.
“And I’m stuck in this damned bed,” he said. “She doesn’t know what she’s getting into. I don’t know how else to protect her.”
“I don’t blame her for saying no,” I said. “No one wants to be asked out of desperation.”
“I’m not desperate,” he protested. “I’m pressed for time. And Dad…” He took a few deep breaths. “I’ll kill him.”
“You need to get better first,” I said, as if that might give him some hope and strength. Looking at him, the very idea of recovery was as ridiculous as the idea of him dying.
“What if I don’t get better?”
“She’d be a widow.”
He swallowed, leaving a long gap between the word “widow” and our next words. I smiled to myself. If Antonio died, he’d have a widow, and it wouldn’t be me.
“I realized something today,” I said. “I realized what I thought of marriage. I think I took it all for granted, with Daniel. I just said yes because I did. Because I could, and it seemed like the next stage of life. But it’s sacred. It’s holy. Let no man tear asunder. We have to mean it when we say it. No one should rip up a contract God wrote. I’ll go to hell for plenty I did without thinking, but I won’t go for a crime I chose while knowing better.”
He didn’t answer. His eyes were closed, then he tightened them and looked at the ceiling. “What’s today?”
I counted days from the Bortolusi wedding. “The nineteenth.”
“Merry Christmas.”
That was Jonathan, naturally deflecting from his seconds-span of unconsciousness with glib sarcasm. I’d miss him if he were gone. Even if I lived far away under a different name. The world would feel less sardonic and far too serious without him in it. “What do you want under the tree? Besides a ‘yes’?”
“I want her,” he whispered. “I asked for the wrong reasons, but I want her.”
“It’s forever, Jonathan.” I put my elbows on the bed and my hand on his shoulder. “Do it for the right reasons. Don’t do it because it’s convenient. Don’t do it because you’re scared. Marry her because you love her and your life wouldn’t add up without her. Can you do that? Can you promise me you’re not forcing it? It would break my heart to see you propose because you wanted to give yourself a reason to live.”
“What’s wrong, Tee?”