The Book of Broken Hearts (3 page)

“Por favor,”
Mom said. “We had them last week.”

He wagged his finger. “You’re trying to trick me, woman.”

Spain. That’s where I’ll go. Or maybe South America, look up Papi’s old biker buddies, follow the trail he blazed all those years ago.

“We did,” Mom said. “Juju, tell him.”

“I don’t remember,” I said.

“That’s because we didn’t have them.” Papi reached for another empanada. Now that calories had been demoted on the list of Things Likely to Kill You When You Least Expect It, he could eat a few more. “When I die, bury me with a plate of these.”

Mom laughed. “I would not let perfectly good food go to waste in the ground. Speaking of wasting money, what were you saying about this Duchess boy?”

“Seems like a good kid,” Papi said through a mouthful of food. “His name was . . . what was it, Juju?”

“Finish chewing,” Mom said.

“Something . . . simple.” I scooted my chair closer to Papi. “Oh, Eddie. That was it. Eddie.” Mom might not remember the name of every last Vargas, but no sense taking chances.

“How much does this simple Eddie charge?” Mom asked.

“He’s cheap,” Papi said.

“What if you do it yourselves?” Mom scooped another empanada onto my plate. “Maybe you could order the parts from this Eddie, and read the manuals—”

“Don’t be silly. Juju and me, rebuild a bike from scratch? Oh,
mi amor
, you’re too much.”

Papi was right. If either one of us tried to fix the Harley alone, we’d end up with the world’s most expensive toaster.

“I’m telling you, it’s a great deal. And it’ll feel good to work on her again.” Papi knocked on his head. “I remember everything about that bike. We’ll show El Demonio who’s boss, eh, Juju?”

That’s what he called it—the Demon. The evil thing eating its way through his mind, devouring his memories. I pictured it that way too, some hell-bound red dragon, shadow and fire, carving a path of utter ruin.

The doctors had another name for it: early onset Alzheimer’s.

I watched him closely, and I wondered if he saw anything, if the words and images turned to smoke as he looked on, helpless. Or if it was more like trying to open a deleted file on the computer, something you thought was there last time but couldn’t be certain, and all you got was that annoying message, over and over.

File not found.

I waited for him to finally ask why we’d left Duchess in such a hurry, or to say something about Eddie-slash-Emilio, how he’d seen the family resemblance and changed his mind.

But Papi kept on chewing and smiling. He had no idea who Emilio was.

. . . never, ever, under any circumstances . . .

Dios mío
, the oath was a silly thing. The candles. The knife.
The burnt hair. The black book. Mari was such a drama queen. Plus, my sisters would’ve said anything to make Celi laugh that night. Plus, I was twelve years old—pretty sure no court would uphold a contract signed by a kid under duress. Plus, if anyone wanted to get technical, hiring a Vargas to rebuild Papi’s bike was certainly not the same as “getting involved” with one, which I would never do in a million years, oath or not. I stood by my pro-undergarment stance 100 percent—definitely not compatible with the Vargas lifestyle.

“So you like this boy, Juju?” Mom asked.

“What? No! Why would you think that?”

She squinted at me over the rim of her wineglass. “I don’t understand. Why hire him if you don’t like him?”

“I
like
him. I just don’t
like
him, like him. Like a boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Mom set down her glass. “Juju, what on earth are you talking about?”

I grabbed my water glass and chugged. For, like, ten minutes. Then I set it on the table and waved off her confusion. “Bad boyfriend. Good mechanic. Since we need a mechanic, and not a boyfriend, we’re in luck.”

“Juju . . .” Her brow was furrowed, eyes darting from Papi to me. “Do you trust this boy to work on the bike?
No estoy seguro
. . . . Is he a good idea?”

No. Under no circumstances, in Spanish or in English, is Emilio Vargas a good idea.

But across the table, Papi’s face was untroubled, his eyes
full of excitement and possibility, and I knew we’d done the right thing today. Papi’s soul was tied up in the Harley, his very essence. Emilio Vargas’s name set my teeth on edge, but we needed him. He was our
last
good idea. Our only hope.

My
only hope was that the youngest in the family of notorious heartbreakers had no recollection that one time, in a galaxy far, far away, we were
this
close to becoming family.

“Sí,”
I said, and Papi was totally glowing. “It’s a great idea.”

The storage barn was one teetering pile away from an episode of
Hoarders
, but there was an old workbench and tables that Papi had set up back when he was still allowed to use power tools. He and I had spent the morning clearing out space, and now the Harley rested on its kickstand beneath a dingy blue tarp right in the middle of everything.

“This is your girl, huh?” Emilio beamed at us over the bike, and I felt completely exposed, like I was wearing an even skimpier outfit than yesterday.

Does he know who I am?

Not possible.
He hadn’t seen me in two years, and even when we went to the same school, we never hung out. I was glued to Zoe, and he’d spent his BHS days surrounded by an impenetrable wall of girls who buzzed around him like spazzy little electrons.

And before that? We never had the chance to meet on
official family business. His brother Johnny had seen to that.

I squared my shoulders and shook off the cloud of nerves and guilt. We weren’t here to reminisce about how I never got to wear my junior bridesmaid dress, which was the color of lilacs and was still hanging somewhere in the storage barn, clean and pressed.

“Do the honors,” I said.

Emilio peeled back the tarp until the bike stood naked before us. She was dull and banged up, but beauty still shone beneath all those miles, all that time. Emilio ran his hand along the length of her, his feather-light touch lingering at the curves. His forehead creased with intensity as if he were communicating with her very soul.

“Do motorcycles have souls?” I asked.

“Better believe it.” Papi was at the workbench rifling through old tools, his hands covered in dust, eyes alert. The barn seemed to have a clarifying effect on him. Maybe it was the faint smell of oil and gas, the remembered clang of tools on metal. Or maybe he just liked being away from the note cards Mom had tacked onto every potentially dangerous object in the house. The barn was a label-free zone.

“They have their own magic,” Papi continued. “Especially Valentina—she’s something else.”

“Valentina?” I asked.

“That’s her name. She’s been with me a long time, lots of places. Did I ever tell you about Paraguay? We outran
a jaguar together. That beast chased us down the road for I don’t know how long.” Papi wiped his eyes. “If you don’t believe in God? That’s the day you find religion.”

I rolled my eyes. A jaguar? Honestly.

Emilio didn’t say anything, just squinted at Valentina, tapping and rubbing, watching and listening. I’d seen people treat horses that way, but not motorcycles. Papi didn’t seem bothered by it though. Maybe it was normal biker-guy stuff, like the toothpick thing.

I pulled the cell from my pocket and snapped a picture. Emilio looked up.

“It’s for my father,” I said.

“Lots of girls want my picture.”

Papi laughed.

“Actually, I wanted a picture of the bike, but your giant head got in front of it.” I turned back to Papi. “You be quiet. I was taking it for you.”

“Talk to me, Valentina.” Emilio knelt on the ground and pressed his ear to the gas tank.

What a show-off!

“She saying anything?” I asked, hopping up on the workbench.

Emilio glanced up at me, then back to the bike. “I can’t hear her.”

“That’s weird,” I said. “You must be easily distracted. It’s pretty quiet here most of the time. Except when Pancake spots a rabbit and goes nuts. Or when it rains. Then it’s like someone
dropped a bunch of quarters on the roof, and you can’t hear yourself think, because—”

“Juju?” Behind me, Papi dusted his hands together. “Let the man work.”

My cheeks went hot and I clamped my mouth shut.

Fine.
I could observe in silence.
No problema
. None whatsoever.
This is me, being quiet. Letting the man work.

On the dirt-dusty floor, Pancake yawned and stretched out on his belly. Together we waited, stealth mode, until Emilio finally waved Papi over for a conference. The two of them huddled near the engine, speaking a foreign language. Like, a not-Spanish one.

I hopped off the workbench. Apparently I wasn’t very helpful in the motorcycle restoration department, but it felt weird just sitting around looking pretty, as they say. Plus, my butt was asleep.

Emilio stopped speaking and looked up as if I might try to sneak in a few words, but I didn’t. He and Papi needed quiet Jude, so quiet Jude they got.

“Sodas,” I mouthed, pantomiming the act of drinking one with my right hand while I pointed toward the house with my left.

Yes, my friends, this is what six years of advanced drama looks like!

When I got back to the barn, Emilio was on the floor examining some parts he must’ve taken off the bike. Papi watched intently, but he’d gone still, his face drawn and pale.

“Come outside and take a break,” I said to them. Out loud this time, no more interpretive dancing.

We headed over to the picnic table, where I’d set out Cokes, a cold spread of leftover empanadas, and a bowl of Doritos.

Papi slumped in his chair and reached for a chip. He turned it in his fingers and crushed it, but when the crumbs hit the table, he stared openmouthed as if he’d expected some other outcome.

“Hope they’re not stale,” I said. “Have some Coke, Papi.”

Across from us, Emilio crunched loudly, and I prayed he was too engrossed in Blazin’ Buffalo and Ranch–ness to notice Papi fading out.

“Are these bad?” Papi mashed his thumb into the mess on the table.

“They’re not exactly healthy.” Emilio grabbed another handful. “But they’re awesome.”

Papi crammed a few chips in his mouth. “I’m not really a morning person,” he said, lips dotted with crumbs. “I like camping.”

My neck went hot and prickly. One minute Papi was talking about jaguars and chrome piston covers, which he hadn’t thought about in decades, and the next he was in outer space. He was like a GPS in the mountains, alternately navigating impossible roads with ease and then losing the satellites.

“We should all go sometime. Lourdes, do you still have that old tent?”

Searching for signal . . . searching for signal . . . searching for signal . . .

“It’s Jude, Papi. I don’t know where the tent is. Probably in the barn.”

I tensed and waited for Emilio to bolt, to come up with some urgent need that would take him anywhere but here. Maybe Mom was onto something, trying to keep Papi tucked away from the world. Not because we should be embarrassed of him. But because everyone else would be embarrassed
for
us, and watching them squirm was worse than enduring the uncomfortable squirming ourselves.

“Love camping.” Emilio reached for an empanada. “Only in the summer though. Anything below fifty degrees and I wimp out.”

“Remember when we camped at Rocky Mountain, Lourdes?” Papi asked.

I stared at my hands, twisted together so tightly my fingertips turned white. “It’s
Jude
, Papi.”

“Jude wasn’t born yet. Mom was pregnant with her. Don’t you remember? Mom couldn’t go on the big hikes, and you and Mari wanted to stay in the tent with her while Celi and I climbed Twin Sisters. What a beautiful view—we saw bighorn sheep. Celi almost gave me a heart attack, she got so close with her camera!”

I smiled. It seemed like a good memory; I would’ve loved to have been there.

But I wasn’t.

Lourdes lived in Mendoza now—she’d been out of the country for twelve years already. I barely remembered the times she’d lived here, sharing a room with Mari, who moved to Denver six years ago. Celi was the last to go, and she’d been in Manhattan four years already. They’d all gone off to live productive lives—winemaker, literary agent, executive assistant—and I’d been alone with my parents ever since.

I looked around at our once-crowded picnic table, and suddenly I felt the absence of my sisters like a pressure on my heart. I closed my eyes and tried to remember them exactly as I’d seen them at this table last—two years ago, huddled around Papi as he made wishes over fifty candles. Lourdes couldn’t come in person, but she’d attended via Mari’s laptop on Skype, and she cheered louder than anyone when Papi blew out the candles, all but one extinguished.

“Jude?” Emilio’s voice brought me back. When I opened my eyes, my sisters vanished. All that remained in my memory was that single flame, burning bright beneath the smoke of the others.