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“I can’t. I have work tomorrow, and I have to check on Papa.”
“Then I’ll stay with you.”
She turns her head and lifts a brow. “You realize Javier sleeps in my room, and there is no chance of you getting laid.”
“I never intended to.”
“You lieeeee.”
I do lie, but I don’t want to go home without her.
Veronica comes out of the apartment when we arrive. She fills us in on how the day went. Franco sits in a rocker, watching television. Javier says hello to his grandpa and takes off down the hall.
Franco points the remote at the television, his brows draw tightly together. “The reception is so bad I can hardly see anything.”
“Papa, where are your glasses?” Maria ask him, and smiles at me, rolling her eyes. This must be a nightly ritual with them.
“Oh.” He picks them up from the side table and slides them on. “Ah, a little better. I must have forgotten I took them off.”
The television is at least thirty years old. I’m surprised it works at all and can’t imagine the reception is any better with glasses.
“Papa, this is my friend, Tug.”
“Tug?” he grumbles. “What kind of a name is Tug?”
“It’s a nickname, sir. My name is Aidan.”
“I like Tug better,” he mumbles.
“So call me Tug. It’s nice to see you again.”
“You mean, it’s nice to meet you,” he corrects me, and I don’t argue that we’ve already met, knowing he doesn’t remember.
“Oh, right. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Maria, I’m out of cigars again, and that kooky nurse wouldn’t get me any.”
There are several resting on the table next to him.
Maria rolls her eyes again. “Okay, Papa, I’ll get you some tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“I think it’s time to get you in bed,” Maria says, sliding her hand under his
arm.
“Yeah, uh, okay.” She helps him get to his feet. He steadies a hand over the top of his walker and shoots me a look. “Who are you?”
“This is my friend Tug, Papa, remember?”
“Tug? What kind of a name is Tug?” he asks in the same rough voice he did the first time.
“It’s a nickname, Papa. Come on to bed.”
“All right, I got it.”
Maria escorts him down the hall. As difficult as the situation is for Franco’s family, I can’t help but think it would be nice to forget certain parts of your life, the painful memories that cling to your soul, like a permanent stain. If I never remembered my mother, life would be less complicated. Trust would come easier for me. I struggle with the daily battle between the woman who swallowed the butt end of a forty-five and the cookie-baking brilliant woman who raised me. I’m not sure which version is easier to stomach: the one I adored and looked up to, or the one I despised who kept secrets. Maria keeps secrets from me. Will she stomp on my heart eventually to protect them? I had one of Gibson’s investigators to look into her to try and find out anything about Javier’s father, but nothing turned up. There is no name on the birth certificate. The only thing he discovered about Maria was that she and Franco left the Bay Area for Mexico three months after Javier was born.
