music that never stopped on the weekends.
For the past five years, I’ve lived in a tree-shaded home in Beverly Hills with a vast front yard and a row of trees that
shield me from the world outside. A strict noise ordinance banned any music or loud noise after 11 p.m., and I realized I’d
forgotten about the music and the sweat and the anxious imperfections of life here.
Now I could barely remember the quiet of that street anymore. The line between my two lives was stretched so taut, a flicker
of my finger could break it and send one end recoiling into itself.
On an impulse, I picked up the phone and dialed Los Angeles, even though it was already 1 a.m. there. But the machine picked
up, and I heard my own voice, delivering a friendly California message: “Hi, this is Marcus, Helena, and Gabriella.”
“Hi,” piped in Gabriella in a baby voice we’d found irresistibly cute when we originally recorded an announcement.
“We can’t pick up, but we want to hear from you. Leave a message!”
“Leave a message,” Gabriella echoed, then giggled.
“Marcus?” I said urgently. “Marcus, pick up!”
But he didn’t, and I remembered that Marcus and Gabriella were spending the weekend with friends up the coast.
I slowly hung up and turned off the lights, leaving the curtains open so I could continue to hear the dull thud of the music
and look at a sky heavy with clouds.
In the darkness, I ran my hands over my breasts and brought back his touch, fresh from an hour ago. In the darkness, the only
scent I smelled was his as it closed over me.
Gabriella
T he diary looks innocuous in the morning light.
She lets it sit on the dresser while she has her coffee and breakfast, while she showers, while she dresses, sneaking furtive
looks at it, but forcing herself not to touch it.
When she’s ready, she tucks it under her arm, then goes to the kitchen and pours herself another cup of coffee.
She goes to the terrace, where the light is brightest and the hills and the city spread out before her, and the traffic and
the shouts from the vendors below remind her that all is well, that things have not come to an end.
Gabriella looks at her mother’s handwriting on the first page curiously. She tries to feel a connection with the strokes of
the pen, tries to recognize the curve of the words, the cadence of the language.
Helena’s entire life has been an anecdote for her, up until this point. Now, she can physically touch her. The last thoughts
she placed on paper are now hers.
Helena was nearly thirty-one years old. Not so much older than she is now. She couldn’t have imagined that she was writing
her last words. Couldn’t have imagined things were going to be all over. What would she have done—what would she have written—the
next day or the next or the next had she lived?
Gabriella has never believed in fate. Her mother’s violent death made her a skeptic. Destinies are carved out by individuals,
she always says, and in the middle of everything, accidents simply happen, like thunderstorms.
Now, the pages between her fingers seem to mock everything she’s lived by. How many single, independent acts were necessary
for this book to end up with her? wonders Gabriella.
She literally holds her mother’s life—what’s left of it—in her hands. The enormity of the thought stops her for a second.
But just as quickly, she surrenders to the joy of the moment, to the thrill of the possibilities that lie in these words her
mother wrote. For her.
Then she slowly, methodically, begins to turn the pages, carefully separating each sheet of paper, smoothing it gently before
she reads.
The diary is all written in Spanish. The chronicle of her life. Her baby adventures. Her first steps. Her first haircut. The
outfits she wore for Halloween the first four years of her life.
Gabriella turns the pages faster and faster, anxious to read the next word and the next, anxious to go back and make
For the past five years, I’ve lived in a tree-shaded home in Beverly Hills with a vast front yard and a row of trees that
shield me from the world outside. A strict noise ordinance banned any music or loud noise after 11 p.m., and I realized I’d
forgotten about the music and the sweat and the anxious imperfections of life here.
Now I could barely remember the quiet of that street anymore. The line between my two lives was stretched so taut, a flicker
of my finger could break it and send one end recoiling into itself.
On an impulse, I picked up the phone and dialed Los Angeles, even though it was already 1 a.m. there. But the machine picked
up, and I heard my own voice, delivering a friendly California message: “Hi, this is Marcus, Helena, and Gabriella.”
“Hi,” piped in Gabriella in a baby voice we’d found irresistibly cute when we originally recorded an announcement.
“We can’t pick up, but we want to hear from you. Leave a message!”
“Leave a message,” Gabriella echoed, then giggled.
“Marcus?” I said urgently. “Marcus, pick up!”
But he didn’t, and I remembered that Marcus and Gabriella were spending the weekend with friends up the coast.
I slowly hung up and turned off the lights, leaving the curtains open so I could continue to hear the dull thud of the music
and look at a sky heavy with clouds.
In the darkness, I ran my hands over my breasts and brought back his touch, fresh from an hour ago. In the darkness, the only
scent I smelled was his as it closed over me.
Gabriella
T he diary looks innocuous in the morning light.
She lets it sit on the dresser while she has her coffee and breakfast, while she showers, while she dresses, sneaking furtive
looks at it, but forcing herself not to touch it.
When she’s ready, she tucks it under her arm, then goes to the kitchen and pours herself another cup of coffee.
She goes to the terrace, where the light is brightest and the hills and the city spread out before her, and the traffic and
the shouts from the vendors below remind her that all is well, that things have not come to an end.
Gabriella looks at her mother’s handwriting on the first page curiously. She tries to feel a connection with the strokes of
the pen, tries to recognize the curve of the words, the cadence of the language.
Helena’s entire life has been an anecdote for her, up until this point. Now, she can physically touch her. The last thoughts
she placed on paper are now hers.
Helena was nearly thirty-one years old. Not so much older than she is now. She couldn’t have imagined that she was writing
her last words. Couldn’t have imagined things were going to be all over. What would she have done—what would she have written—the
next day or the next or the next had she lived?
Gabriella has never believed in fate. Her mother’s violent death made her a skeptic. Destinies are carved out by individuals,
she always says, and in the middle of everything, accidents simply happen, like thunderstorms.
Now, the pages between her fingers seem to mock everything she’s lived by. How many single, independent acts were necessary
for this book to end up with her? wonders Gabriella.
She literally holds her mother’s life—what’s left of it—in her hands. The enormity of the thought stops her for a second.
But just as quickly, she surrenders to the joy of the moment, to the thrill of the possibilities that lie in these words her
mother wrote. For her.
Then she slowly, methodically, begins to turn the pages, carefully separating each sheet of paper, smoothing it gently before
she reads.
The diary is all written in Spanish. The chronicle of her life. Her baby adventures. Her first steps. Her first haircut. The
outfits she wore for Halloween the first four years of her life.
Gabriella turns the pages faster and faster, anxious to read the next word and the next, anxious to go back and make
Similar Books
