Happy That It's Not True (28 page)

              About two hours into the flight, Diego felt a discomfort in his throat, like being softly choked by two hands.  Over time the tightness spread to his jaw and then down his arm.  The cabin air should have felt cooler at thirty-five thousand feet; his clothes stuck to the seat with perspiration.  Diego wondered—is it my heart?  The next time I see Ling—I’m gonna kiss her—I don’t care how depressed she is—Oh man—my heart—my heart…

Chapter Twenty Nine

If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.

- A. A. Milne

            
 
By the time Diego got into the cab at MIA, he felt light-headed and short of breath. 

              “Where to?” said the Haitian driver in a Creole accent.

              “Take me to the hospital,” Diego said.

              “Which hospital?”

              “Let’s try Baptist—I like Baptist.  My niece and nephew were born there.  I’m not feeling so good—just to let you know.” 

              Diego felt his phone vibrate and dug it out of his pocket to see a picture of Ling.  He smiled despite his dizziness and tried to read the text message, which shook with his hand.  Unable to still the blurry letters, he laid the phone down on the seat, but could not read the words that appeared like living forms deep in the ocean.  He thought the words said—I’m all yours.

              She messaged me—why couldn’t she have called?  But what a beautiful message—I wonder if it says what I think it says...

...

              Ling and Cara recognized each other as they ran through the parking lot, their paths bringing them closer as they neared the emergency department at Baptist Hospital. 

              “Hey Ling,” Cara shouted through her fear. 

              Ling glanced at Cara, but did not say a word as she ran with her toward the entrance.  Once inside, the name Diego Alonso prompted a phone call, and an invitation to walk through a doorway that led them to a woman wearing green medical scrubs. 

              “Cara and Ling?”

              Ling slowly nodded and Cara waited a moment before making a single slight nod.

              “I’m Dr. Fox—I called both of you.  Diego couldn’t see well enough to use his phone—he asked me to call—which I did just before he was triaged to the resuscitation area.”  Ling and Cara listened to her intently, sick with trepidation.  “I’m so sorry,” Dr. Fox whispered.

              Ling and Cara opened their mouths in horror, gripping each other’s hands.

              “All the doctors worked very hard on him—he had a myocardial infarction.  Mr. Alonso passed away at eight fifteen—just a short while ago.  I’m so sorry.”

              “Let me see him,” Ling said with a threatening look.

              “You can both see him—please follow me.”

              No longer in haste, Cara and Ling’s senses awoke to sounds of oxygen and monitoring machines and the odor of bile.  They also noticed that there were several patients being treated, some in terrible agony.  The screams echoed the cries of their hearts. 

              “Are you related to him?” Dr. Fox asked.

              Cara and Ling looked at each other with pained expressions. 

              “Yes-yes we are,” Cara said.

              “He referred to you both as his girls,” Dr. Fox said.

              Ling stopped and leaned against the wall as she bent down and sobbed, slowly toppling.  Dr. Fox and Cara put their arms around Ling to lift her up.  Ling could feel Cara’s wet and trembling face against hers and opened her eyes to see that Cara was also in great torment. 

              Dr. Fox was also on the verge of crying.  “Before you see him—just one more thing—I didn’t know when to bring this up—He wasn’t feeling well on the plane and wrote you a letter.”

              Dr. Fox removed a folded piece of paper from her pocket and held it out like a flower.  Cara took it, but did not open it.

              “Let’s see him,” Cara said needing to swallow.

              They walked toward a room with a drawn curtain.  Dr. Fox pulled on the curtain with a surprising harshness, causing tiny ball bearings to screech.  An entranceway into a place for departed souls had opened before them, the body laying on its sepulcher.  Diego didn’t appear any different than if he were sleeping.  Ling stood over him and whispered softly, “Diego—Diego.”  She put her head on his chest. 

              Ling’s words began like faint murmurs and crescendoed into cries, “I loved him—I loved him—I loved him—I loved him—I loved him—I loved him! —I loved him!”  She sobbed like she had finally been given the right to mourn for herself—an entire lifetime of emotional pain—released into whatever was left of Diego—rising into the heavens where pain cannot breathe or mock the eternal. 

              “You can have as much time as you want,” Dr. Fox said and walked away.

              Cara crept up to Ling and ran her fingers through her hair. “Thank you for loving Diego.”

              “I waited too long,” Ling whispered.

              “Diego always said that nothing in life made sense.”

              “He was right.”

              Cara stepped away to wipe her own tears and unfold the letter, which contained these words: 

              I’m on a plane and not feeling well.  Ling, all I can think of is you.  Thank you for being my friend.  The heart doesn’t need so much a body to touch as much as a person to love.  Maybe what Andy Warhol said is true.  ‘Fantasy love is much better than reality love.’  I’ve been so discouraged lately.  Sometimes I wonder if I’m losing my faith.  I’m confused about everything.  Everything except you.  You’re the only thing in this world that ever made sense to me.  The whole world is a desert, and you’re a treasure.  All anyone ever wants is to love and have that love returned.  I think you loved me – but if that’s not true, I hope I can die believing that it is.

Diego.

              Cara, hardly conscious, gave the letter to Ling.  Ling sat down and wept bitterly as she studied the glossy ink that became more and more blue—taking her deeper into the night, far from this world to be with Diego.

              Dr. Fox opened the curtain again and Cara could see Alex, Adriana and Joyce, their faces wilting with disbelief. 

              “Fathead,” Cara whispered.

              Alex spoke with a sigh of heartbreak, “Poor Tio.” 

              Cara, Adriana and Alex held each other.  Alex turned to Joyce.  “This is Diego—a great man—there’ll never again be anyone like him.  What a fascinating and creative man.  What a magnificent man.  An artist and a dreamer.  God, I’m going to miss him.”

              Ling whispered into Diego’s heart, “You left me.  You’re not supposed to leave a sick person before they get better.  You’re not supposed to leave a sick person.  You’re gone and I remain.  You’re somewhere and I’m still here.  Wherever you are, I hope you know eternal joy.  I know only sorrow and tears.”

              Diego dies?  Are you kidding me—he dies? We have been fools to make this journey.  And even more foolish to listen to this story!  What kind of a sick man are you to tell us a tragic story during a time like this?  Are you insane?

              Calm down—urged the large man. 

              The storyteller, with eyes that were both dark and flaming, snapped back. 

              Diego had to die.  He had to! 

              Why?—Asked the large man.

              No one appreciates a good man while he’s still alive.  No one is fully respected and admired until he’s dead.  And if a man dies before his time, he will be revered all the more.  While you’re still alive there is ample opportunity to bring disgrace upon yourself and all the people you love.  After you’re dead, they can say, oh what a good man.  He never hurt anyone.  He never raped anyone.  He never stole.  He never killed.  He never molested children.  He never tortured animals.  He never set fire to anything.  He never did anything indecent.  He never committed an unpardonable sin.  And then, once he has finally left this awful world they can say, what a good man.  And their hearts will ache from all the things that they were never able to express.  Only in death is a person truly loved.

              But why—why couldn’t he be with Ling, la chinita?

              It never would have worked anyways.  Love doesn’t cure depression.  Perhaps love is just an illusion.  I speak from experience.  A good man can never have the woman he loves. 

              Love can cure anything.  Don’t you know that?

              Not in this world.

              Hermano, your heart is dark.  I will pray for you.

              Yes, pray for me.  Now let me finish the story.  If it’s a happy ending you want, then that is what you will have. 

Chapter Thirty

              Cara attended college in the fall, majoring in Fine Art.  She took all the courses taught by Ling that term.  None of the faculty or alumni would ever know that they were like a mother and daughter.  And they were much more than that—shipwreck survivors, their precious Diego stolen by an angry sea that took away good men.  Yet there was something in Diego’s death that had marked a turning point for them.  Time seemed to unfasten, roles and priorities became clear. 

Traversing the campus one day, Cara stumbled upon a sign that read:  Italy in the spring.  She signed up for the overseas program to study the Renaissance, and convinced Ling to come with her.  It had been years since Ling had made such a trip, so she joined the group as a last minute painting instructor. 

It was a frigid time of year in Tuscany.  The sun hid behind a veil of white sky, forsaking all association with artists on pilgrimage to the birthplace of Michelangelo and Botticelli.  Cara had left a land of fast food, strip malls and parking lots and had entered a place of cathedrals and fine sculpture that seemed to surround her everywhere she looked.  There were churches on every corner, and inside those churches always a famous, priceless treasure, a painting or sculpture that attracted people from all over the world who would forever be able to say, I was there—I saw it.

Often, at the end of a marble aisle of wooden pews, red carpeted steps would lead to a platform with a Eucharist table, behind which would be a large Tintoretto or Fra Angelico dominating the house of worship.  Churches resembled art museums, conveying the more tangible language of emotion, sensuality and mystery—at least that’s how Cara perceived it.  If God were indeed there, he must have been in the art, not in the artificial holiness of a religious institution—that she was certain of.

In a chapel in Rome, Cara admired the Ecstasy of Saint Theresa, sculpted by Bernini.  Two white marble figures illustrated one of the visions of the mystical nun, Teresa of Avila who described an angel thrusting a golden spear into her heart.  She said it caused a spiritual yet partly physical pain that set her on fire with a great love for God, a pain so immense that it made her moan, yet so sweet that she never wanted it to end.

Ling’s eyes spoke high regard and amusement.  “This is one very scandalous piece.  People’ve always looked at St. Teresa’s face—some see pain and others pleasure.  It really does look like she’s having an orgasm.  A lot of people look at this and speculate if an encounter with God could be like sexual ecstasy.”

Cara wondered if such an angel could ever stab at her heart and cause her to love God like St. Teresa.  She looked at the angel and the Saint and turned to some of the students from her group kneeling in prayer.  She thought of the possibility that they were somehow also ecstatic—unsure if she could ever be like them.

One cold day in Florence, Cara was sitting on the steps of the Pallazzo Vecchio working on an ink drawing of the bronze statue of Perseus beheading Medusa, the incomparable masterpiece by Cellini.  A large group of Italian school children came to look and shouted, “¡Maestra!  ¡Maestra!  ¡Molto bene!”  Cara drew with gloved hands, shivering, enjoying the praise of the Italians who she assumed could all draw like da Vinci. 

Ling beamed as she compared the drawing to the sculpture.  As if reading from a script, she projected her voice.  “The great sculptor Cellini, a fugitive who escaped a death sentence in Sienna and fled to Rome where he became a pupil of Michelangelo.  At some point during his violent life of endless crime, they say that Cellini was somehow able to cast the statue of Perseus and Medusa in a single piece of bronze—an astounding accomplishment—The mythic hero with winged feet, moments after having slain a monster—holding its head—yet still looking away to avoid being turned to stone.

“You can’t help but notice the large artist’s signature written down his chest—BENVENUTO CELLINI—proof that the sculptor fully understood the greatness of his achievement.  Personally, I think this statue is too precious a treasure to stand outdoors in the plaza where birds can shit on it.”