Читать книгу One Perfect Man - Lynda Sandoval - Страница 12

Tomás’s grandmother, Ruby, kept him company, sipping her nightly cup of green tea, while he washed up the dinner dishes and filled her in on his day just the way she expected him to—starting at the beginning and going straight through until the end. He’d just gotten around to explaining about the business arrangement he’d reached with Erica.

Lamplight mellowed the mango-colored walls to a peachy gold, and the air remained redolent with the smells of chicken and green chile. His daughter was, as usual, cloistered in front of the computer in her room, working on homework—he hoped. She had finals in a few weeks and was a conscientious student. In any case, he had every parental control known to man on the computers in this house, so he didn’t harbor many chat-room nightmares about Hope. He still wished he knew a little more about how she spent her time on that darn thing sometimes.

“So, anyway, she thought I was gay,” Tomás told Ruby, with a rueful smile.

“The event planner?”

“Yup.”

For a moment, his grandmother just grinned. “Well, did she mean happy or homosexual?” She knew full well which.

Tomás snorted.

Ruby sipped, swallowed, then shook her head. “I don’t know what possessed people to change the meaning of a perfectly acceptable word,” she mused, mostly to herself. “It’s confusing for everyone, and homosexual is as serviceable a term as any.”

“You’re missing the point, Rube. A good-looking, single, twenty-eight-year-old woman thought I was—”

“You don’t date. What’s she supposed to think? And I didn’t miss the point, I was just thinking aloud.”

“How would she know I don’t date? Today was the first time I’ve ever seen her in person.”

“It’s the vibe, sonny.” She grouped the fingertips on one hand together and shook them. “You give off a vibe.”

He pondered his reflection in the window over the sink. “Maybe I need a new style. Or a tattoo. Something manly, like a power tool.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. What do you care if she thinks you’re homosexual anyway?”

“I…I don’t.” He wasn’t truly bothered by Erica’s mistake, but it was fun to joke about it. If he’d given it more thought, allowing her to believe he actually was gay might’ve been smart. At least there wouldn’t have been questions. Any time she sensed him watching her or felt his attraction, the attraction he couldn’t seem to overcome, she’d have written it off as her imagination. But, for whatever god-awful reason, he simply hadn’t been able to walk out of that room without making his sexual orientation very clear to her.

“She’s a looker, this woman?”

Sometimes Tomás wondered if Ruby could read his mind. His maternal line had always been a little bit psychic. “Yeah. And a real go-getter.” He tossed a sharp look at Ruby over his shoulder. “She’s also hired help. Period. I hired her for what she could do for Hope, not what you might be thinking I want her to do for me.”

“That would be the day,” Ruby scoffed. “It’s no wonder you have this reputation as a flamboyant homosexual.”

“Flam—” Tomás twisted around to look at his grandmother, who he knew was simply goading him. She always did love a good debate. “You know how I feel about bringing another woman into Hope’s life.”

“Indeed. How could I forget?” His grandmother sighed, running fingers through her artificially magentaed locks.

“Are you saying you disagree with the way I’m raising Hope?”

“Ay-yay-yay, and they say women are bad.” Ruby gazed heavenward, as though pleading mercy. “Men are tiring. Tiresome, too. Here.” She held out her mug. Tomás took it, slipping it beneath the bubbly surface of the sink water. He knew when a subject had been dropped by his grandmother. He also knew she never, ever intruded on his parenting. He appreciated it most of the time. Every now and then, he could have used a dose of wisdom. He was sure his mother would have given advice periodically, were she still alive. Then again, she had been very much Ruby’s daughter.

Tomás drained the sink water, hung the dishrag over the faucet and turned to face Ruby. She looked great, vibrant as ever. He knew only too well how deceptive MS could be, though.

“How are you feeling?” He didn’t ask often, and only offhand when he found he couldn’t stop himself. His grandmother was matter-of-fact about her condition and didn’t want nor tolerate mollycoddling. A lot of people were worse off, she never failed to remind him. Save your moonfaced sympathy for them, she’d say. I have a life to live and you’re on my last good nerve.

“Tired,” was her only response. She waved vaguely toward the small glass vial resting atop the counter. Its cap had been punctured by a hypodermic needle, and the whole mess had to sit until the medication had liquified within the saline. “Let’s get that shot over with so I can go to bed. It’s been sitting long enough, I think.”

Tomás quickly dried his hands, then rolled the small vial between his palms smoothly, so as not to bubble the mixture. Ruby, meanwhile, fished in her medication dispenser and popped a pain pill, dry.

“How do you think Hope’s going to feel about it?” No need to elaborate—Ruby knew what he meant.

“You should ask her.”

“Come on, Rube. I want your input.”

“Hope will be fine,” she said patiently, in a tone meant to convey her opinion that he spent far too much time worrying about Hope for no good reason.

He drew up a syringeful of Copaxone, then checked the chart they kept on the refrigerator to remind them which injection site to use. “Right arm,” he said, then squatted next to her. She’d already begun to roll up the loose sleeve of her blouse. They’d both grown so used to the intricate routine of these shots, Tomás found it hard to believe he’d ever been nervous to give them.

Alcohol swab, one swift jab, pause, then depress the syringe. Tomás administered the medication, removed the needle, then slipped it into a sharps disposal box mounted in an out-of-sight spot on the wall next to the refrigerator. He handed Ruby a Band-Aid. While she put it on, he crossed to the freezer to retrieve an ice-pack. The first half hour after each injection burned like a snakebite, according to Ruby.

“What I mean is, do you think she’ll be disappointed that a stranger is helping her plan this instead of her father?”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “For goodness’ sake, sonny. I think she’ll be overjoyed to shop for clothes with someone of the female persuasion for once, if you want the truth.”

Tomás pursed his lips. He didn’t know how he felt about that. He’d always tried his damnedest to be both parents for Hope, shopping for clothing with her and learning the purposes of all the various pots of makeup, in case she ever wanted to start wearing the stuff—which she didn’t need, mind you. He wasn’t some clumsy, clueless male. He was her father and her mother—had been since she was six weeks old.

He needed to think about this a little longer, come to terms with how he felt about letting a stranger replace him in Hope’s life like that.

“Stop worrying so much,” his grandmother urged, reaching out to pat his arm. “People would think you’re the old woman in this household instead of me. Hope will be fine, like I’ve told you a million times. It’s you I worry about.”

He didn’t need her worry. Hope was his concern. “You’re missing the point, Rube—”

“You always think I’m missing the point,” she said, aiming a gnarled finger at him. She smiled, to soften her words. “Someday you’ll find out it’s been you missing the point all along, m’ijo. But people learn when they’re ready to learn.” She shrugged, unconcerned. “I just hope I’m still around to witness the swan song. Good night.” Without waiting for reciprocation, she deftly maneuvered her wheelchair around the table leg and sped from the room.

Poised to push open his daughter’s bedroom door, Tomás checked himself, paused, and then knocked. He had to constantly remind himself Hope was a young lady now, an adolescent who deserved—and demanded—respect for her privacy.

“Yeah?”

He cracked the door and peered in. From across the room, behind a computer screen, and beneath a purple baseball cap, Hope peered back. He didn’t like her cloistered behind the desk, but she’d patiently explained that the new location of her desk was good feng shui, and he was lucky she didn’t paint her bedroom door red. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi, Dad.”

A ribbon of melancholy twirled around his heart. He missed the days when she’d called him Daddy. She still did occasionally, but only when she was trying to get something from him. Like a puppy, God forbid. “What’s up? Homework?”

She shook her head. “Already done. I’m just surfing.”

A quick jolt of concern struck, but he repressed it. Tomás wanted to give his daughter his trust and the benefit of the doubt. Hope had common sense. “Any interesting sites?” He approached the desk as casually as he could.

In a few keystrokes and button pushes, Hope had the computer off. “No. Just…nothing.”

He raised one eyebrow.

Hope sighed. “I’m not going in chat rooms, if that’s what you’re thinking. Those people are all creeps and idiots.” She smiled, deepening the dimples in her cheeks.

Tomás’s heart swelled. He chuckled at his daughter and tugged the ponytail pulled through the back of her cap, then took a seat on her bed. Why did he feel so nervous? “Have a few minutes to talk to your old dad?”

Hope kicked back, planting her heels on the edge of the desk. “You’re not old, newsflash. But go ahead.”

“You know I’ve been trying to plan your quinceañera, but I haven’t been doing a very good job.”

Hope twisted her mouth to the side, her tone turning almost plaintive. “It’s okay, Dad. I don’t need to have one.”

“Nonsense. You’ll have one. But I’ve hired someone to help us plan it. Help you. I think you’ll like her.”

He watched Hope’s eyes widen before a line—worry? annoyance?—creased her forehead. As quickly as it had come, it disappeared. All of a sudden, her expression went bland. “Okay. Who is she?”

“Just okay?”

She bit her bottom lip a moment, thinking. “Oh, I meant, thank you.”

Tomás sighed, hanging his head for a moment. “I wasn’t looking for gratitude, baby, although I appreciate it. I’m asking—what do you think about that? About having help? And she’s an event planner from Santa Fe.”

Hope shrugged, picking at the remains of the sparkle polish that looked so out of place on her stubby little fingernails. “Oh. It’s fine. Why?”

“I…don’t know.” He waited, but Hope didn’t volunteer further comments. “Okay. So, we’re going to have her over for dinner next Wednesday, so the two of you can meet. So we can start to plan this thing.” He paused for comments that never materialized. Weren’t teenage girls supposed to jabber? You wouldn’t know it from his enigmatic daughter. “You have anything going that night I don’t know about?”

“Nope. Nothing important.” Hope offered a placid smile. “What should we have?”

A low-grade sense of dismay settled in Tomás’s gut, and he didn’t know why. It wasn’t Hope—she was cooperative enough. Then again…maybe that was it. He felt as if she never really talked to him anymore, as if he didn’t know how she truly felt, or what went through that fertile mind of hers. “I’ll worry about the menu. You just be here at six next Wednesday. Deal?”

“Deal.” She giggled.

Tomás watched her a moment, loving her with an intensity that nearly suffocated him, and at the same time feeling as though he hardly knew her at all. But, for no reason. She’d always been a good, obedient daughter. No changes there. Somehow, though, he felt…a distance. And a powerlessness to change it. “Is everything okay?”

She shrugged again. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You’d tell me if something wasn’t okay?”

“Dad!” she moaned. “You’re bugging me. Stop being weird.”

With a tired, put-upon chuckle, Tomás stood. “Bueno. Okay. I’m leaving. God forbid a father should try to have a little conversation with his best girl.”

“I’m immune to your parental guilt trips.”

He turned back and grinned. “Dinner Wednesday at six.”

“I heard you the first hundred times, Dad.” She rolled her eyes and saluted. “Be there or be square.”

He stood and crossed to the door, then turned and studied her for a moment, his back braced against the doorjamb. “I love you, baby.”

Hope dropped her feet to the floor and clicked a few buttons on her keyboard before flashing him a quick smile. “Love you, too, Dad.”

“Don’t stay up late.”

“What do I look like, a vampire?” She bared her teeth.

A perfectly normal exchange, Tomás told himself as he left the room, his soft chuckle feeling a little choked off by the lump in his throat.

Perfectly normal.

So why did he feel so disconnected?