sure
she has grasped the significance. How important are these entries? How momentous these daily anecdotes?
The time she had a frighteningly high fever and her parents had to rush her to the emergency room. How her mother slept on
a chair at her bedside and looked at her frail self in the bed, attached to tubes and monitors, and how she realized that
she was part of her now, as vital as the air she breathed.
The writing vacillates from neat to sloppy, from leisurely to rushed. Where was she when she wrote this? What was she wearing?
Gabriella reads, intent, almost tasting the words, so absorbed, the intrusion inside the narrative initially escapes her.
But then, she goes back, and finds it, again and again, as quickly as cigarette burns forever branding the pages.
Only when she finishes reading the entire diary for the third time does she realize that somewhere along the line the entries
have stopped being addressed to her. That her story has become her mother’s story, and Gabriella is no longer part of it.
She closes the book firmly on her lap and looks from the terrace at the view before her. It’s noon, and the cries of the cicadas
in the park across the street are fierce and insistent.
The sun is suddenly piercing bright and she’s momentarily blinded. But it doesn’t matter. For the first time in months, she
has a mental clarity she didn’t know she possessed.
When Lucía tells her to pick up the phone, her mind turns as deliberately blank as her eyes that can’t see.
“Gabriella,” he says, and when she hears her name again, she can almost smell the sound of his voice over the telephone. She
no longer considers her father, her grandmother, her cousin, the words that others will inevitably whisper, when she says,
“Yes, yes, I want to see you. Yes, I will see you. Yes.”
* * *
He drives a black Ford Explorer, and he’s flanked by a battalion of bodyguards, four in an SUV behind him, four in an SUV
in front.
Alone in his car with him, she concentrates on the minutiae of the moment: the way he smells of clean soap, the way the muscles
in his arms stretch and contract as he navigates the curves up the mountains, how his hair falls against his eyes.
“So tell me something about you that I don’t know, something true,” he says, looking straight ahead as he winds up the mountain.
“Like what?” she asks.
“Mmm. Your favorite movie?”
“Oh, God. That’s too hard. I’ve seen every movie ever made, I swear. I can tell you my favorite movies.”
“No. One.”
Gabriella squeezes her eyes shut. Her world is unraveling and she’s talking about movies. She laughs ruefully.
“
The Wizard of Oz,
” she finally offers.
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not,” she says smiling. “I’m really not. I love
The Wizard of Oz
. Do you know it was the first movie that mixed black-and-white with color? Can you imagine what people must have thought
when they walked into those huge theaters from back then and then the screen just exploded in color? I used to watch it every
month when I was little. I’d see something new every single time. I still do. And Dorothy was all alone in the world, with
Toto. And she had to figure everything out on her own. She had to be so grown-up and so responsible.”
Gabriella pictures Dorothy, leaning on the fence, singing “Over the Rainbow.”
“She was so pretty,” she says musingly.
She feels the tears begin to well behind her sunglasses and she stops, horrified, biting down her tongue.
“So it’s your turn,” she says, changing the subject. “Tell me something about yourself that I don’t know. Something true.”
“My favorite movie?” he asks.
“No,” she says slowly. “I bet it’s
The Godfather: Part II.
”
“How could you possibly know that?” he asks, looking at her incredulously.
“You’re a guy,” she says simply. “All guys who are serious about movies have one of the
Godfathers
as their
she has grasped the significance. How important are these entries? How momentous these daily anecdotes?
The time she had a frighteningly high fever and her parents had to rush her to the emergency room. How her mother slept on
a chair at her bedside and looked at her frail self in the bed, attached to tubes and monitors, and how she realized that
she was part of her now, as vital as the air she breathed.
The writing vacillates from neat to sloppy, from leisurely to rushed. Where was she when she wrote this? What was she wearing?
Gabriella reads, intent, almost tasting the words, so absorbed, the intrusion inside the narrative initially escapes her.
But then, she goes back, and finds it, again and again, as quickly as cigarette burns forever branding the pages.
Only when she finishes reading the entire diary for the third time does she realize that somewhere along the line the entries
have stopped being addressed to her. That her story has become her mother’s story, and Gabriella is no longer part of it.
She closes the book firmly on her lap and looks from the terrace at the view before her. It’s noon, and the cries of the cicadas
in the park across the street are fierce and insistent.
The sun is suddenly piercing bright and she’s momentarily blinded. But it doesn’t matter. For the first time in months, she
has a mental clarity she didn’t know she possessed.
When Lucía tells her to pick up the phone, her mind turns as deliberately blank as her eyes that can’t see.
“Gabriella,” he says, and when she hears her name again, she can almost smell the sound of his voice over the telephone. She
no longer considers her father, her grandmother, her cousin, the words that others will inevitably whisper, when she says,
“Yes, yes, I want to see you. Yes, I will see you. Yes.”
* * *
He drives a black Ford Explorer, and he’s flanked by a battalion of bodyguards, four in an SUV behind him, four in an SUV
in front.
Alone in his car with him, she concentrates on the minutiae of the moment: the way he smells of clean soap, the way the muscles
in his arms stretch and contract as he navigates the curves up the mountains, how his hair falls against his eyes.
“So tell me something about you that I don’t know, something true,” he says, looking straight ahead as he winds up the mountain.
“Like what?” she asks.
“Mmm. Your favorite movie?”
“Oh, God. That’s too hard. I’ve seen every movie ever made, I swear. I can tell you my favorite movies.”
“No. One.”
Gabriella squeezes her eyes shut. Her world is unraveling and she’s talking about movies. She laughs ruefully.
“
The Wizard of Oz,
” she finally offers.
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not,” she says smiling. “I’m really not. I love
The Wizard of Oz
. Do you know it was the first movie that mixed black-and-white with color? Can you imagine what people must have thought
when they walked into those huge theaters from back then and then the screen just exploded in color? I used to watch it every
month when I was little. I’d see something new every single time. I still do. And Dorothy was all alone in the world, with
Toto. And she had to figure everything out on her own. She had to be so grown-up and so responsible.”
Gabriella pictures Dorothy, leaning on the fence, singing “Over the Rainbow.”
“She was so pretty,” she says musingly.
She feels the tears begin to well behind her sunglasses and she stops, horrified, biting down her tongue.
“So it’s your turn,” she says, changing the subject. “Tell me something about yourself that I don’t know. Something true.”
“My favorite movie?” he asks.
“No,” she says slowly. “I bet it’s
The Godfather: Part II.
”
“How could you possibly know that?” he asks, looking at her incredulously.
“You’re a guy,” she says simply. “All guys who are serious about movies have one of the
Godfathers
as their
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