Happy That It's Not True (22 page)

              “I don’t know.”

              “It must be terrible what she’s going through.  There are all kinds of things that are helpful—meditation, cognitive behavioral therapy—contemplative prayer.  I’ve known a lot of Catholic contemplatives—good people.  None of these things work for everyone, but why not exhaust every possible remedy?”

              “Amen,” Tom said.

              “When Mother Teresa opened a home for the dying in Calcutta, the nuns gave water from the Ganges to the Hindus and read the Qur'an to the Muslims.  They understood love to the point of sacrificing their Christian pride so that love would be best served.  And that’s the question we should always ask ourselves before we say or do anything.  How is love going to be best served?”

              Diego nodded.     

              “So is your friend getting help?”

              “Yeah, she’s doing everything she can to get better.”

              “Good.  I hope things work out for you one day.  You’ve already made your decision—so we need to support you.  If you were a ninety-pound girl going out with some big guy who likes to beat up women, that would be one thing, but you look like you can take care of yourself.  But please, do wait until she gets better.  Unless both of you are positive-happy people, it’ll never work.  If you can’t be happy by yourself, you’ll never be happy in a relationship.”

              Karen beamed as she rested the side of her head against her hand.  “It’s very romantic that you would love someone, despite her problems.  It must be a pretty severe depression—you would think that it would be hard to be sad, knowing that someone is in love with you.”

              Diego also rested his chin on his hands.  “It’s terrible what she’s going through.  I feel so bad for her.  And she’s actually quite normal.  I’ve met truly neurotic people before—people with serious issues—always complaining, accusing people of things, convinced the world is out to get them—childish and selfish.  No—she’s not like that—she’s just feeling very sick, and her medications aren’t helping—they make her feel worse.  I don’t understand why bad things have to happen to good people.”

              Belarenus looked at Diego sadly.  “I don’t think anyone knows the answer to that.  So, I guess she’s beautiful then?”  Belarenus smiled mischievously.

              Diego laughed.  “More beautiful than anything in heaven or earth.”

Chapter Twenty Three

              For Cara and Alex, the much anticipated moment had arrived, a Skype session with their father.  It was the middle of the night, and yet their excitement made it seem like morning.  Octavio’s smile caused their eyes to become watery. 

              “Hey guys,” Octavio said.

              “Hey Dad.”

              “How’s life with Tio Diego?”

              “He’s awesome.  Life is really good.”

              “I’m so glad to hear that.”

              “When are you coming home, Dad?” Alex asked.

              “Maybe by the end of the year.”

              “Is it okay over there?”             

              “You don’t want to know,” Octavio laughed.  “But you know that I’m the toughest person here.  Nothing is going to happen to me.”

              “I’ll never be as brave as you,” Alex said.

              “We’re made of the same stuff, Alejandro.  Remember, you clobbered Luciano over the head with a chair.  You took down a giant.  Believe in yourself.  Always ignore the voice in your head.  I’m only starting to realize that myself.  We’ll talk more some day.”

              “I miss you so much,” Cara said.

              “I miss you guys more than you’ll ever know…”

…

              Diego’s steps were quickening as the treadmill sped up in the cardiologist’s office.  He was shirtless and covered in electrodes, wearing a pair of jeans with a thick black belt around his waist—several wires becoming one cable that led to a laptop.  Behind the computer cart was a young Asian woman monitoring the cardiac stress test.  Diego thought about the possibility of the test results being skewed by the young woman’s presence.  She reminded him of Priscilla, another beauty, young enough to be his daughter.

              Diego found the pastel painting in front of the treadmill quite boring and chose instead to look at the nurse. “You use your left hand a lot more—are you a lefty?”

              “Yes,” she said.

              “So you must be very creative.”

              “No, not really,” She smiled.

              “I bet you have some hidden talent—you like to draw?”

              “No—can’t draw.”

              “You have musical talent?”

              “No, I’m not the stereotypical Chinese girl that had to learn an instrument when I was growing up.”

              “You write?”

              “No—I’m terrible at writing,” she laughed.

              “I got it—you have a genius for dance.”

              “Nope—I’m really not good at anything.”

              “But you’re left-handed—you’ve missed your calling somehow.  Someone must’ve convinced you that you had no talent, and you believed the lie,” Diego smiled.

              “I’m telling you—I have no talent.  Okay, so what else—can you think of anything else?

              Diego felt a surge of delight, knowing that his questions were welcomed—that the attention was flattering the beauty.              

              “Hmm—you’re an actor.”

              “No—not an actor.”

              “Do you know how to lie?”

              She laughed.  “Yes—I know how to lie.”

              “Ah—then you’re an actor.”

              “Maybe I am.  You’ve been feeling all right?” she asked.

              “Yeah—I feel pretty good. Got away from corporate hell.”

              “What do you do now?”

              “I teach art.”

              “A-ah—so were you trying to discover new talent?”

              “Maybe.”

              “Okay, I’m going to speed up the treadmill quite a bit—let’s see what kind of shape you’re in.”

              Diego felt that he was about to be humbled—a lean and muscular middle-aged man—fit enough to be vain, yet being analyzed by a young attractive woman.  This is where reality shatters all illusions, he thought, where self-esteem vanishes.  I deserve it—being so shallow—obsessed with physical beauty—why the strange obsessions with Asian women?  What has Ling done to me?  Why are women popping up everywhere to remind me of her?  Just a lonely old guy—wanting what I can’t have—nature offering me alternatives—My heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest.   

              “You haven’t had any chest pain—have you?” she said.

              “No,” Diego said almost too winded to speak. 

              “Okay—we’re going to slow it down—the test is almost over.  How do you feel?”

              “Well—you’re here—so I’m doing just splendidly.” 

              She smiled, not knowing how to respond.

              Later, as he passed the receptionist to leave the office, Diego turned around, hoping to see the nurse again.  Standing in the hallway, she smiled, her eyes following him out the office.  He said goodbye, closed the door and walked through the waiting room and then out the main entrance into a bright and chilling sun.  Maybe I should have told her that right hand—left hand doesn’t mean anything.  That I just wanted to talk.  Maybe I should have told her that I had a pain in my chest—that her beauty made my heart ache.

Chapter Twenty Four

            
 
There seemed to be no one in the art department by the time Cara had arrived.  Behind the oval counter and the workstation desk, she noticed the hands of a woman in another room typing on a computer keyboard.  Cara walked closer and leaned in front of the door.  “I’m here to see Ling Woo.”

              “She might be in the lounge—just walk down the hall and it’s on the left,” she said.

              Cara quickly found Ling, sitting at a small table, using her handheld device.  She was as beautiful as Diego had mentioned, but what he had said about her temperament made her hesitate.  Her voice felt weak, like a tool she was unsure she could rely on.  “Hi—Miss Woo?”

              Cara was surprised to see her smile.  It wasn’t a big smile, but enough to disarm her.

              “You must be Cara.”  Ling sprang up to shake her hand.  Cara thought her hand felt cold and fragile.  “Nice to meet you—a lot of beautiful people in your family.”

              “Nice to meet you also,” Cara said.

              “Let’s go into one of the classrooms and talk.”

              “Thanks for waiting for me.  I drove here straight from work—lots of traffic.”

              “That’s okay—I’m the one who wanted to see your work.  Besides, I was just surfing the web—not really doing anything.”

              Ling led Cara out of the office and into a studio drawing classroom.  She turned on the lights and positioned two art benches close together where they could sit.

              “All right, don’t keep me in suspense any longer—let me see what you've brought,” Ling said.

              Cara opened a small drawstring book bag, pulled out her drawing book and handed it to Ling.  “Here you are—just a lot of drawings.”

              “Drawing is where it all begins.  From drawing comes painting and sculpture—Oh my—Diego wasn’t kidding.”  Ling slowly turned the pages, practically swooning over the drawings as if she were studying the faces of infants.  “I figured he’d be a little biased because you were his niece, but you are a real artist.”

              “Thanks.”

              “I absolutely agree with him on his assessment of your talent.  Have you had any special training?” 

              “No—just high school art—whenever I could get it as an elective, which wasn’t often—classes filled up so quick.”

              “You're not even conscious of what you’re doing—it’s all coming to you naturally.”  Ling held up the book to point at one of the sketches.  “You see how you’ve got depth here—how it’s continuous and shows up in other places?  I’m trying to teach that to my students, but they’re having a hard time understanding.  Beautiful drawings—Cara, how did you fall in love with art?”

              “I guess I did it for Dad.  My drawings cheered him up when he wasn't feeling good.”  Cara studied Ling’s face—noticing that her expression was full of care and concern.

              “You know that your happiness doesn’t depend on others being happy.”

              “Sometimes it feels like it does.”

              “Those are faulty perceptions.  I have a lot of those,” Ling nodded.  “At least that’s what they tell me.  And how’s your dad doing now?”

              “I worry about him.  I once found a video he made—he said he didn’t feel well.  He has post traumatic stress disorder from the war—he’s depressed all the time.”

              Ling looked away for a moment and then slowly returned her gaze.  “I’m kind of prone to depression myself.”             

              “You are?”

              “I looked through two entire volumes of art history today, thousands of years of paintings, and I couldn’t find a single thing I liked.  Depression makes everything lose its beauty.  But your drawings are beautiful.”  Ling was taking deep breaths, her eyes tearing. 

              “Are you okay?”

              “I wonder sometimes.”

              “I’m sorry.”

              “Really.  I’m okay.”

              “You know Diego loves you.”

              Ling nodded her head and sobbed harder.  Cara moved to sit by Ling on the bench, and put an arm on her shoulder. 

              “I’m so sorry—that’s none of my business,” Cara said, noticing her wet cheeks and quivering lips.

              “Look at me—I’m a mess—oh man, I need to blow my nose.”  Ling sniffled and wiped her eyes with her hands.  “All right, I’m going to make this brief.  This is what you’re gonna do.  Do not argue with me—do exactly what I tell you.”

              “Yes Ma'am.”

              “You’re going to enroll here for the fall term as a full time student.  If you’re working full time—you’ll have to work around your school hours.  If your employer can’t handle that—find another job.  I want you to major in art or design and take some of my classes.  I’m gonna find a good art school for you.  I’ve become pretty good over the years at getting schools to accept gifted students.”

              “I’ll have to move away?”

              “Yeah, this is a nice community college. We can teach you a lot here, but you deserve the best.”