Page 47 of No Greater Oblivion

I don’t think of them often. I try not to. All it does is remind me of the fact Dad isn’t here anymore and Mom is somewhere else, equally out of reach.

All week I’ve felt off balance. Then again, it’s been years of this unsettling sensation, like the entire world has been thrown off its axis and I’m the only one who feels the difference. When Dahlia entered my life, some of that stability had returned, but not all—only enough to distract me.

I sit in the cold for hours, watching children drag their sleighs up and down snowy hills and adults making snow angels without a care in the world. The last night in Barcelona before Dahlia left runs on a loop in my mind without reprieve. I relive every word, every sharp intake of breath, every glossy-eyed gaze. Where did we go wrong? Where did I go wrong?

Dahlia and Rian O’Neil? I’d rather fucking kill myself than have to suffer through another moment of them in the same room together.

She was so conscientious of him and his needs, so gentle and aware as she cleaned his wound and put a bandage over the graze on his arm. I knew immediately that whatever existed between them was much more than the mindless hooking-up Dahlia implied. And as soon as the realization hit me, I was seized by the fiery grip of white-hot panic. My mind and senses shut down, and only my fight or flight instincts remained. The voracious need for survival consumed me and I’ve spent the last few days plotting all the ways Rian O’Neil could be killed with as little inconvenience as possible. Unfortunately for me, the O’Neils and the Narvaezes have history going back decades, not to mention Rian and I share a warm acquaintance that, if we were regular men, might be confused for friendship.

Lost deep in thought, I hardly notice my phone’s been ringing for the last five minutes. The sound is smothered by the insulated layers of my coat pocket and when I reach for it, three missed calls blink back at me. When Dahlia’s name reappears a split second later, I answer on the first ring.

“Be at my place in an hour…please.” The last word is an afterthought.

Dahlia hangs up before I can say anything else.

12

NO GREATER OBLIVION

Alejandro

The Present

The house is empty when I arrive.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Doña Ana’s getting new glasses, and Lyss went grocery shopping. I asked them to leave us alone for a while.” She moves behind the kitchen island and lights a cigarette with trembling fingers. “Where have you been staying the last few days?”

“The North Star.” I narrow my gaze. “Since when do you smoke?”

“Since a traumatic life event forced me to indulge in sense-numbing vices,” she snaps back. Almost immediately after, she straightens her shoulders and takes a deep breath. Dahlia puts out the cigarette and dumps it in the trash. “They’re herbal…I don’t like nicotine.”

A thick, uncomfortable silence settles in the room. I can’t believe this is what’s become of us. I’d rather the hostility over the unsettling disquiet. I don’t even know who we are anymore.

“I have something for you.” I hadn’t noticed it before but there’s something on the counter wrapped in brown wrapping paper and tied together with a simple ribbon. She pushes it across the marble until it’s within reach. “Happy Birthday.”

I stare at the gift.

“Today’s the tenth.”

After a moment’s hesitation, I reach for it.

I completely forgot today’s my birthday.

Thirty years and I have nothing to show for it except broken relationships, a child I never knew existed but was already gone, and the profound antipathy of the only woman I have ever truly loved.

Part of me almost rejects the gift. Feelings of unworthiness and self-loathing collide inside my chest. Pressure builds with every heartbeat and I fear that between this breath and the next, I’ll split open completely. But I can’t risk rejecting anything from her and the truth is, I don’t want to. Curiosity wins out in the end.

The ribbon comes undone with ease and I’m careful when removing the wrapping paper. Dahlia can’t help herself. Before I’ve turned the book over to read the cover, she tells me what it is.

“It’s one of your grandmother’s books—the poetry collection that went out of print?” She nibbles on her bottom lip. “I was already looking for it before…before everything happened. It ended up all the way in a rare bookstore in Virginia if you can believe it. I’ve had it since last March and figured this was as good a time as any to give it to you.”

My grandmother stopped writing not long after her children were born. Raising a family, especially during the early years of Abuelo’s career, was difficult. I imagine it didn’t leave much room for creativity. She was successful enough in her youth that her work was translated into a few languages but not all of her titles are still in print. Namely, the poems she wrote when she met and fell in love with Abuelo. Dahlia built a bookcase in my study for all the editions of her work, both in Spanish and the other languages they were translated into.

So many moves over the years meant many of her first editions were lost in the shuffle. I’ve been trying to track down as many as I could. This one especially.

As if having a mind of its own, when I open the book it miraculously lands on the one poem I had in mind.