FILTERS 23

EMILIA CRUZ-AMADOR

Rain hits car roofs, washes down storm drains, sounds around the building, sprayed by the commute. Emilia tries not to cry. She thinks Why? Her clothes are stuck to her, her hair flat against her ears, her cheek, her neck. She doesn't want to cry, but little word, little thought, pushes up. Her hands over the knot that forms beneath her breast, it rises to her throat. Why again? A gasping sob, her eyes closed, arms tight around her chest. "Why?"

She climbs into bed, tears lost in her wet hair against the pillow. She calls him, knowing he won't answer, hearing his voicemail from her phone on his pillow. She turns shaking into his smell and falls asleep.

Her back is on a tiled porch, she hears conversation.

"Ella está enamorada de un americano. Un güero, pero. . . no sé si es—but. . . I don't know if he's agreeable."

"He's a famous college athlete, mother. American football."

"Oh?"

"Yes, they call him 'The Fastest Man on Earth.'"

"Bah, typical Americans, so arrogant."

"I wondered that until I saw. I have never seen someone run like him."

"Yes, Neto, like when he spends all his time 'running around' and away from our daughter. He just did it again."

"Perhaps he had good reason."

"He woke her up before sunrise and left her standing in the rain."

"Perhaps he had very good reason."

"What sudden obligation could he have that would justify abandoning our daughter yet again?"

She tries to read her phone, vision hazy in waking, the dream falling away except for an orange doorframe and her grandmother's voice. She scrolls unreading past messages of Mama and New York City and Sofia and First and with none of Andrew lets the phone slip from her hand and pulls his pillow close and goes back to sleep.

"I've always wanted to go to New York."

"I feel like I still haven't been. It was just the hotel and the ceremony and the interviews. The pizza we had was great, though."

"We should go."

"We should, in a few years, when the recovery work is done."

"Recovery from what?"

He doesn't answer.

"Recovery from what?"

He runs, she follows.

"Where are you going? I miss you."

"You just saw me."

"Why do you always run?"

"I'll show you."

She's lost, in trees she more feels than sees. Then a glimpse of him in white.

"Do you see, Em?"

"I can't see anything but you."

"Try."

But she's paralyzed, fighting until she wrenches and wakes, rolling over his pillow and forgetting the dream. She still hears rain, still hears thunder. She pulls her phone from under her back but with her thumb to the screen it doesn't respond; dead. She rolls back and looks at the charger, then puts her phone beside it. Slightly superstitious abstinence, a little electronic fast, that she'll see him more quickly if she doesn't check, and she needs to see him first, so he can see her. When she screams, when she cries. So when she relents she can touch his cheek and feel his stubble when she kisses him.

She rubs the hem of her drying shirt, hanging in the bathroom. She looks at her hair, a mess from rain and sleep, and ties it back, staring at her eyes, unsteadily from one to the other. She washes her face and sees her keys on the counter in reflection, lingering on the one with the white band. She dresses and takes her umbrella and drives to his complex, unlocking the door without ringing. “Andrew?” she calls, seeing the tray in the kitchen with his wallet and keys, knowing he won’t answer.

His bed is made, bedroom always tidy. Canton biography on his nightstand, a few multicolored highlight flags in the pages. His closet is open, she sees her own clothes on hangers at the front. He laundered these, he placed them here. She pulls the sleeve of one of his many Florida shirts to her nose but only smells detergent. His hamper is in the closet too, she takes a white shirt from the top and smells him in it. Her hand runs over more of his shirts, to the bag with his suit, looking at the shelves above. On the top shelf she notices something small, black, and squarish. When she reaches for it her fingertips push it back. When she reaches again it’s too far.

There’s a heavy chair in his room. Too heavy, but the chairs at the table won’t be. She carries one into the closet and standing on it retrieves the object, his phone. Always a little odd to her, reading Librem5 USA on one side and turning it over, flipping each switch Andrew has explained as physical component disconnects, “The only way my dad would get us smartphones.” She turns it on, still locked, but it makes a series of pops, texts. So many it could be important, maybe whoever’s messaging him will try to call. She pockets it.

She doesn’t feel like eating but she knows she should, and she does want a distraction. She checks the pantry, a little bare ahead of the end of term. She checks the refrigerator, almost-empty milk, two eggs, a clipped bag of salad. But there’s half an onion, butter, a last bit of cotija, and a package of chicken sausage. Good enough. Back to the pantry for an apron, chicken stock, crushed tomatoes, and penne. Then to the spice cupboard for salt, olive oil, cumin seeds, and a bulb of garlic—

Where is he, Emilia?

I don't know. It must have been important.

Couldn't he have told you?

I think he was about to.

Why do you let him treat you this way?

I think—

Why do you let him treat you this way?

"I don't know! Because no matter what I think, when I'm with him I feel like every single thing he does has a good reason! And I don't fucking know why!"

She almost slams the cupboard, stopping her arm mid-motion, and takes last a mortar and pestle. She sighs and sees the stack of CDs beside his small Sony stereo–"Have you thought about a Google Home or something?"–"Nah. I like CDs, and you gave these to me. That's way better than a Spotify link."–she finds the spine of Hasta la Raíz and changes it with Good for You and presses play.

Frying pan first, low heat on the ceramic-topped electric range, swirling cumin until the smell is right and tipping the toasted seeds into the mortar and grinding them down. Garlic next, peeling, slicing the tips, and smashing each clove with the back of the knife. She adds the cloves with salt to the mortar and grinds all to a paste. She finely dices the onion half, singing with the stereo, and uses a spoon to pull butter in layers from the tub to drop in the pan. She adds the paste and the onions and as they begin to brown, pours them into a bowl. Olive oil and sausage next, using a spatula to break the meat into small pieces, then adding cayenne and stirring until it’s browned through. Onion-garlic-salt-cumin mix back, and last the crushed tomatoes and chicken stock, heat on high until it’s at a simmer, then on low, the timer set for an hour.

His phone continues to receive texts.

She looks at the television, then at his bookshelf, ordered by author. Where does he get the time? Top row has Coetzee, she brings Michael K to the couch, sitting cross-legged and opening to the middle.

. . . A nest of vice, men and women all together. The way they talked, there should be a fence down the middle of the camp, men on one side, women on the other, dogs to patrol it at night. What they would really like—this is my opinion—is for the camp to be miles away in the middle of the Koup out of sight. Then we could come on tiptoe in the middle of the night like fairies and do their work, dig their gardens, wash their pots, and be gone in the morning leaving everything nice and clean . . .

His phone continues to receive texts. She tries her birthday as the code, it fails.

Is he still running? Surely not, but then what? Who’s messaging him, and what’s so important they send so many yet don’t call? And. . . and why am I not worried? Why am I so certain he’s fine? Anybody else would be worried he’d been hit by a car or fallen off a trail somewhere, right? Right? I almost wish this were indifference after all the indifference he has shown me. “Is that our future?”–“Do you want it to be?” God, Emilia, what is wrong with you? Why do I know he’s fine? And I do know, I’ve felt it in everything he says, everything he does. What is that? How do I feel it here, even in his absence? Is it his family texting him? Don’t they know what’s going on? Could that explain why they text and don’t call, they aren’t worried either? They know what I only feel. But why would they text him?

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

They know what I only feel. They're his family. . . I do want that to be us. . . but I'm going to be. Is that the difference? It shouldn't be. I guess it is.

She checks the sauce then returns to the couch, to the book.

The front door unlocks, she jumps up, but Michael enters. He says "Oh, hey Emilia," and calls "Drew?"

"He's not here."

"Is he out on a run?"

"I thought he might be hanging out with you."

Michael looks at his phone, "Nope, haven't talked since yesterday. Why?"

"Because he's been gone since before sunrise, when he woke me up and left me standing in the rain."

She wished but didn't think this would draw a response. It doesn't. "Why are you not worried? Where is he, Michael?"

Michael shrugs. "Sometimes he runs all day. I was just stopping by, since he's not here I gotta go."

She scoffs. "You're both good liars."

Michael says "This isn't my business," and leaves, locking the door.

She reads until the timer rings, tasting the reduced sauce and adding a little more salt. She takes another pan and fills it with water and brings it to a boil then adds the penne. She tries a piece, more time. She waits. She tries another piece, just right. She adds the pasta to the sauce, letting the water carry over, and tosses it all together. She grates cotija and tosses again. She fills a plate, reading at the table while she eats.

. . . Is that the moral of it all, he thought, the moral of the whole story: that there is time enough for everything? Is that how morals come, unbidden, in the course of events, when you least expect them? . . .

She empties the pan into tupperware and puts it in the refrigerator, then washes the few used dishes. Where is—“I don’t know. I just have to wait.” She looks at the entryway, thinking of his absent blue shoes, seeing her own black shoes. In his closet there is a pair of red Ultraboosts, one she now holds up, lying in his bed. Sometimes she thinks she can see all of a person in their shoes. Not a story, a flashing impression. The thought of her father sitting on his bed, bending over to pull on a brown boat shoe, her mother with black flats over nylon, the thought of a custodian loosening the laces on his boots, the thought of a child pulling velcro straps. The littlest struggle to start the day, humble, humanizing, universal yet so personal. Shoes are a favorite target of ridicule for cruel children, antagonists hopefully oblivious but probably all too aware of how that mocking so indicts a person’s worth. ¡Lindas zapatas! In what carries you through the day you-are-not-good-enough! Winds back to leaving for school, back to putting them on, back to getting out of bed. Might as well not get up, you’re worthless. Look at you, so pathetic in the rain in your little rubber slippers while he abandons you again.

She doesn't wipe her eyes, she pulls on the edge of the comforter and rolls herself into a cocoon.

She's in his dorm. The television shows the sphere in Munich.

"Andrew?"

She looks in the bedroom, he isn't there. She lies down. Her mother appears and speaks to her.

"What are you doing in that boy's bed, Emilia?"

"His name is Andrew."

"'Andrew,' who you are having sex with."

"No, mom. But it wouldn't matter if we were because I'm going to marry him."

"'Marry him,' the boy you've known for three months! What if he's stringing you along, esperando tu castidad, while he sleeps with women behind your back since they give him what he wants?"

"That's not who he is. We've already slept together. Just slept."

"You have slept. You have not seen that boy sleep."

No longer her mother; herself.

"Why have you never seen him sleep?"

She hears him open the door. She runs to him, finding him in a white rain jacket.

"Do you see, Em?"

Her eyes open into darkness, moonlight on trees through the windows. She rolls out of the blanket, knocking his shoe to the floor. She looks at herself in the bathroom mirror and unties her hair, trying to relax as she brushes out the tangles. She moves to the couch, looking at the bookshelf, at the television, at Christmas lights near the lake. The door unlocks, she jumps up again, Andrew enters. Different clothing than the morning. Black sweatpants and shoes instead of white and blue, white Adidas rain jacket, white shirt underneath.

She should scream at him. She hugs him. “I haven’t seen you in this jacket in a while.”

She feels his hand, warm on the small of her back. He says "I only wear it when I need to. It's conspicuous."

"You should have worn it this morning."

"I should have. I've been wearing it all day, now."

"I have your phone."

"I couldn't bring it with me."

"Bring it where? And what do you mean you only wear that jacket when you need to? I see you wearing other jackets. No–" She pushes him back. "No, no. No. You ran away again! I walked out in the rain thinking you might come back and I don't know why. I love you and you say you love me but how you can so easily make me feel worthless? God, I love and I hate this feeling with you, right now. That somehow I know you always have a good reason to do something, but why? That's what I hate, it's like I'm being told I deserve this! Or–or it's like I'm being told I don't get to feel bad when you treat me this way, but that's not right! Just because you had to leave me? To do what? And I have to accept it? Have you been running all day, Andrew? What could drive you to do that when you could at least try to talk to me? I feel like things have been so great since the summer but I can't take this anymore. I can't take you making me feel this way, I can't take you leaving me alone, you don't even let me see you sleep! Why have I never seen you sleep?"

"Because I don't sleep. I haven't in three years."

She shakes her head, hands running through her hair to her neck. "What do you mean? That's impossible."

"It's not the only thing. I called you this morning because I was going to tell you everything. When I ran it was because I felt a sphere hit, and when I saw where it was I had to stop it."

Her breath catches.

There’s humility and self-doubt from nascent wisdom. She’s not oblivious, she’s sensible, if a little naive. She has wondered about the few but it’s idle thought, grander than others but still fantasy. What do they represent to her? Power, unobtainable and incomprehensible. She knows she has obtained Andrew, she knows she almost comprehends him, but the shadows in her picture? She would have never considered those expressions of power, not consciously. She has amused herself with the thought of Andrew having it, as she has with herself, with her sisters, with anyone she has seen. Vignettes of their lives, humors of professional tedium breaking to flying exhilaration. Helping when they feel like it and when they must, and having fun while they’re at it. But that’s wonder, fantasy. She wasn’t being literal when she said of the masked it’s like they don’t really exist, but there was wisdom in that little flourish of thought. They take off the mask, they shed what visibly sets them apart, and in joining the masses they go into nonbeing, which is to say, everything–everyone. When it can be anybody it’s nobody in particular. She has never thought she could tell if someone possessed it, and though she now wonders if she should have, she knows she has the benefit of knowledge. Without, concluding from the two signs she has seen but not perceived as truth would be the same as concluding that from any of his behaviors: senseless. That’s not how she thinks, that’s not how people think. He’s especially concerned about spheres–just as all should be. He goes on long runs, he’s an athlete. He’s detached from his phone, she finds it admirable, attractive, something she wishes she could do more often than just today. He’s in bed late and up early, the most successful share that trait. His every step, glance, movement, his everything shows absolute confidence, indomitable spirit–yes, and she saw it from when he first asked her about places to run. She saw it in his eyes when he first looked over his dorm. She heard and felt it in their first conversations in the café and when they began to date, everything telling her He is different than you. He is different from anyone you have ever met. He is set apart. Crush, infatuation, love. She cared what made him that way and she didn’t, and now that she knows, she still only wants to be with him, only wants him to stay with her. Quédate conmigo.

Of course she would have put it all together, if she had her phone.

Her hands are on his chest, on his jacket, and she looks in his eyes, finally understanding. She doesn't feel foolish, nor should she. She does feel fear, but she loves him more for it. He raises his right hand and she sees something small come through the air and settle in his palm. He opens the box.