We spent the day hanging the paintings of Washington forests, Indian jungles, African savannah, the Salisbury Crags. They were the places we should see together before we fell into a ditch and broke our necks, or were run over by a truck on the street. Once, we figured it would happen on a plane from El Paso to Edinburgh, over the ocean, and we would survive the crash itself only to freeze to death in the North Atlantic. They would find us in each other’s arms, frozen stiff. There would be obituaries for each of us, mine in the El Paso Times, hers in the Edinburgh Evening News.
This is what we talked about, Em and I, until the evening rose and we stopped unpacking. I had been extraordinarily tired for days as we managed moving out of our respective small apartments and into the single large domicile that we now called home. I was so tired, in fact, that I went out for a long walk. The area was quaint. There were strings of little lights across the big oak trees and several restaurants and bars within walking distance. It was the kind of place we’d hoped for, with lots of people around to add appropriate color to our neighborhood.
“Where’d you go?” said Em. “I waited.”
She waited. Always waiting.
“To think,” I told her. “That’s all. The usual.”
“You think too much for your own good.”
“Maybe.”
We broke in our communal bed and brand new sheets that night. They had a high thread count or something but felt the same as any other time. Em liked to stand at the foot of the bed and watch me pleasure myself, and she preferred if I did so with great vigor. I sometimes acted, sometimes imagined something that brought out the vigor. It was after I climaxed and was coated in sweat that she climbed into bed so I could feel how excited she was, which preceded the actual act of making love. This was our routine and I considered suggesting something different, something new, but at the end of the night I just wanted to get off, and I think that’s all she ever wanted, too.
The new larger bed did make it easier to sprawl out, though.
The following morning was gray and Em was hungry for something, so I offered to go out for food.
“Something fattening!” she said, and I jangled the keys to acknowledge her request.
I’d seen a few interesting places the night before. Indian food, barbecue, and even a place that specialized in cream puffs. I was just past the cream puff place when I saw a taqueria on a corner next to a liquor store. The smells were overpowering, rich with spices, cilantro, and all manner of meat. Em would enjoy tacos that morning.
I approached and ordered a chicken super burrito for myself and sometacos de tripas for Em (she loved that gross stuff, but then anyone who eats haggis would), and stood aside to allow the next person to order. I was standing alone and staring at the cloudy sky when I heard her weak little voice for the first time.
“Nice converse,” she said, and I nearly fell back in shock. I looked down and right there in front of me was a little girl, no older than ten and no heavier than a person made of sticks. I remember thinking that little girls standing in front of fast food order windows should not talk to strange men minding their own business. My arms were folded over my chest which in my experience is a clear indication of stay the hell away.
I’d later find out her name was Bianca.
I looked around for a parent and saw what must have been the mother on the phone around the corner. She wore old sweats and the haggard hair around her face almost blocked the view of her lost eyes as she stared off into the tree across the street. She was completely unaware of the child, her child, behaving in a very peculiar manner, specifically along the lines of looking at people she shouldn’t be looking at. I glanced away and her eyes persisted.
“Um, thanks,” is what I said, hoping that it would end there.
“Where did you buy them?”
“I forget.”
“Oh. Well they’re cool.”
Cool? Those were old and stringy, and moldy to boot. They were hardly nice or cool. It was unexpected and my order was almost ready, but not quickly enough. An expectant smile awaited me upon the next glance.
Her tactics were astounding.
“Yours ain’t bad either,” I told her, for lack of a generic shoo. “I dig the straps. I wish mine had straps.”
I detected a hint of snark as Bianca informed me that those shoes, they were for kids. I clearly do not know this.
“That’s not true,” I said. “Only smart people wear shoes with straps. Imagine the time you save in the mornings.”
“I guess.”
I looked at her and noted something else that was strange. Velcro-strapped shoes, jeans, and a t-shirt were to be expected. A big yellow cap was not. It became all too apparent that there was no hair beneath the cap and I did not want to make anything of it. The mind drew its own conclusions about bald little girls well before I did.
“Twenty three!”
Saved by the order, I grabbed my bag and said “take care.” It was sincere, for the most part. I felt that she waved as I walked away but did not turn to confirm. When I got home Em practically pounced on me and took the bag, kissed my cheek, and muttered, “Om, nom, nom.”
Em wasn’t much of a cook and I never bothered, so we ate out a lot. We sat and ate at the outdoor tables, watching people come and go, enjoying the patter of soft, flat shoes or the clicks of sharp, smart heels. Parents walking with their children on their way to the theater, the fathers with their arms around the mothers’ shoulders, the children practically skipping along. Teenagers walking hand in hand, old people doing the same. We ate pizza siciliana, macher jhol and luchi, California cheese steaks, cream puffs, and ice cream. And, of course, tacos de tripas. Those quickly became Em’s favorite and she always ordered them when we sat at the old wooden tables at the taqueria. I’d watch her bite into them, the grease dripping from the corners of the tortillas, her red hair blocking my view of her face. When Em bites into something she crinkles her nose, like it’s too pleasurable. I couldn’t stand it but didn’t have the guts to tell her.
It was a few weeks after we’d settled in when I saw Bianca again, and at the taqueria again. She was sitting at one of the outdoor tables with her mother next to her, on the phone again. This time she was wearing a red cap, but the mother was in the same old, tired clothing. I thought she looked like an old hag. I feel really bad about that.
Bianca recognized me before I even ordered.
“Hey!” she yelled, but I didn’t respond, didn’t even look at her. I hoped she wasn’t yelling at me.
“Hi!”
I kept still. She’d give up. People give up, eventually. I was about to approach the window when she walked up and pulled on my sweater sleeve. I looked down and there was the smile again.
“Hi! Remember me?” She pointed at her shoes. They were the same white, strapped sneakers.
“Um…”
“Converse!” She pointed at my shoes, the same ones I’d worn that first time I suppose. I gave a half-hearted smile and nodded.
“Sure, yea. Straps.” I pointed at her shoes and she nodded.
“Yep!”
I looked toward her mom, who was in turn looking intently at me. I’d never been so glad to see a cold, hateful glare.
“Your mom’s waiting for you,” I said, and pointed at the frumpy woman at the table. Bianca walked back to her mother which freed me up to place my order. They knew me by then and so all I had to say was, “Lo mismo,” and pay.
I glanced at Bianca and noticed she was talking to her mother and pointing at me. A profound feeling of guilt came over me. Bianca then approached me again but this time with her mother in hand, practically pulling her along.
“Hello,” said her mother, and I nodded and said, “Hi.”
“I’m sorry if my daughter is bothering you…” and she looked at my shoes.
“Tell him!” said Bianca, and the mother looked at me again. Her eyes were soft now and I could tell she was going to ask something. Sometimes you can just see it coming.
“My name is Alta. This is Bianca, but you have already met she tells me?”
“Sort of. We chatted about shoes.”
“Yes, I know. The shoes. My daughter has strange interests—”
“Tell him, mom!”
The mother threw her hands up and said, “Aye Bianca, por favor!” Bianca scratched the brim of her red cap and looked down in defeat. I didn’t understand what was going on but I wished they would hurry my order.
“This is very strange, I know, but Bianca likes to take pictures of shoes and people. It is a very strange thing.”
“I see…” I looked down but Bianca was suddenly very shy and wouldn’t look up.
“It is just that Bianca would like to take a picture of you and your shoes.”
I paused for a moment and looked at them, those old sneakers I kept for lazy evenings. I really didn’t understand any of it but just then I had to chuckle.
“Really?” I asked. Bianca looked up and again and nodded. “Well, sure, I guess.”
They smiled and I stood and waited for them to say something that never came.
“Sorry, I’m Peter.” I offered my hand and shook Alta’s hand, then Bianca’s. She seemed to have gotten over the bout of shyness and was now grinning wide. Her teeth looked too big for her mouth and it looked like she would have needed braces. She was a cute kid.
“So’s this going to be a phone picture?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” said Alta. “Bianca has a camera. Go bring it, mija.”
“It’s a camera for professionals,” said Bianca, and she ran to a blue Honda in the parking lot to get it.
“I am so sorry,” said Alta while we waited, and I shook my head.
“No problem. It’s good for a kid to have hobbies.”
“Yes,” she said. “Bianca has become very involved in photos. She wants to take pictures of people and their shoes…” She trailed off as Bianca returned with a large black camera. It had a big lens and looked like something found on a red carpet or on safari. It definitely wasn’t what I expected a kid to be using.
“Nice camera,” I told her.
“My daddy bought it for me,” said Bianca. “He wants me to be a photographer, too.”
Alta nodded and I scratched the back of my head.
“So,” I said. “Do I just stand here?”
“Yea,” said Bianca. She had the camera strap around her neck and began to back away from me with the camera in front of her like a shield. She turned the red cap backward and again I noticed that she had no hair at all. It was unsettling.
“Could you look cool?” she called, and I looked at Alta who shrugged at me.
“Sure,” I said, and I crossed my arms and put on what I think was a tough guy face. Bianca furrowed her brows and then stepped closer to me, looking at me through the viewfinder.
“Be yourself,” she said. “Be cool like before.”
I don’t what that meant exactly so I just put my hands in my pockets. She found that satisfactory and snapped the picture. She looked at it in the camera’s viewer then grinned and walked back to us.
“Look!” She seemed thrilled. Alta and I looked at the photograph of me standing awkwardly with my hands in my pockets and a line of people waiting to order behind me.
“You can barely see my shoes,” I said.
“It’s because you’re too tall,” said Bianca. Alta and I chuckled and Bianca just smiled deftly and turned the camera off.
“Thanks,” she said.
“No problem.”
We talked about other people she’d taken pictures of, including a set of twins wearing shiny red shoes like the ones Dorothy wears in The Wizard of Oz, and then said goodbyes when their order was ready. Bianca thanked me again and said it was a really “awesome” picture. I continued to wait in silence until the tacos and my burrito were ready.
That night, Em was rambunctious. She moved from the living room, where we had been sitting on the couch watching figure skating and hovering around second base, to the bedroom. I didn’t bother to watch her leave and she called out from the darkness.
“Peter?”
“In a minute. She’s about to pull off one of those crazy spins in the air, I just know it.” I was struck in the head by a pillow and smiled into the darkness of the room.
“Well, she was.”
She asked, “Do you love me?”
“Yea,” I said. “Of course I love you.”
“Then come to bed.”
I stood up and turned off the television. I stopped in the doorway to look in but I couldn’t see anything now that the television was off. I couldn’t sense her, or smell her perfume, or make out anything inside. I couldn’t even hear her breathe.
The final time I saw Alma and Bianca was only a few days after she took my picture. I was at the taqueria once again, this time late in the evening. The fog was pushing its way over the hills to the West and I was just standing there and staring as it pushed over the hill and vanished into wisps of air. The fog kept pushing and kept evaporating into nothing and I thought it was brave. It felt like maybe there was a lesson in that. Keep pushing and don’t stop, even if you evaporate into nothing.
It was after this moment of reflection that I saw Alta approach the restaurant. I smiled and waved.
“Peter?” Her face was more ragged than usual and she looked horribly depressed.
“Yea. Um, Alta?” I remembered her name so I don’t know why I pretended I didn’t.
“Yes. Can I speak with you for one moment?”
I nodded and looked concerned to match her somber appearance. Her eyes were soft.
“I am sorry to bother you with this. It’s Bianca.”
“Yes?”
“She… Did you notice her head, before? Under her hat?”
I nodded and swallowed. My mouth was dry and swallowing nothing scratched my throat.
“She, eh… She has cancer. Lymphoma?”
I nodded even though I didn’t know what that was at the time.
“I’m sorry.” It was all I could think of and it felt so terribly pathetic. The woman’s daughter had cancer and I was sorry.
“Thank you. She is fighting it.”
“That’s good.”
It was silent for a moment as if she was waiting for me to say something more, but I had nothing else.
“I wanted to ask you, and this is strange I know… She lost the photo she took of you.”
“Lost it?”
She nodded. “The memory card broke or got erased. She lost of lot of people and it has made her very depressed. Her pictures mean so much to her. She just lies in bed and says nothing or cries…” Her eyes began to glisten and it made me even less certain of what to say.
“That’s terrible.”
Alta nodded again and dabbed her eyes. “Yes, I know. I have been looking for the people she took pictures of to ask them if they can visit her so she can take the pictures again.”
“Oh,” I said. I knew that she was going to ask but she seemed embarrassed to do so. She paused again and looked off to the side, dabbing at her eyes.
“So you’d like me to visit her?”
She let out a breathy laugh and smiled, still looking to the side. “Oh, you would? She would love it. It would make her so happy.”
“Sure. No problem.”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pen, then grabbed a napkin from the dispenser next to the order window. “This is the hospital and her room number. Oh, and my number. Do you mind if you visit her in the hospital?”
“No. Um, when should I stop by?”
“The afternoons are best for her, when she is resting.”
I was hesitant to tell her when I’d visit because then I’d be committed to it, but she looked at me expectantly and I became very nervous. The only way I could think of it was the feeling a kid gets before going on his first date. I decided the sooner, the better.
“This afternoon?”
She nodded and reached out for my hand. “Okay, good. This afternoon, anytime after three is okay. Thank you, thank you.” I smiled and nodded but she still went in for the hug. She held me tight against her sweatshirt and then pulled back, dabbing at her eyes again.
“No problem,” I said.
Hospitals save lives but they depress just as effectively. Matte white, cornflower blue, canary yellow. Muted and suited for people in pain. The other four senses help to alleviate the fifth, and eyes on white walls help.
The people at the front desk asked me who I was and I told them a friend of the family, which felt like a great lie. They checked in with somebody on the phone and told me to go ahead, it was just around the corner. As I walked down the aisle I saw Alta standing outside talking on the phone. She smiled when she saw me and pointed at the open door nearest to her. I smiled back and nodded then proceeded toward the door. I unknowingly held my breath until I was finally at the doorway and looked inside.
Beeps. Lines jump up every second or so.
Bianca was lying in a large white bed, too large for a little girl I thought, and all around her were pictures of people taped to the walls. There were children, old people, couples, random assortments of individuals. In one picture I saw two girls in yellow dresses wearing red, sequined shoes.
I stepped inside and looked at Bianca’s face. She was looking at the wall opposite the door.
“You awake?” I asked.
She looked at me and beamed, shaking her head.
“Hi.”
She was wearing the yellow cap again, but didn’t look as sad as her mother had made her out to be. Her face was sickeningly pallid beneath the halogen lights. An image of her bed in the middle of a supermarket aisle came to mind.
I approached but wasn’t sure what to do, being unfamiliar with death and kids and all, so I stood by her bed and scratched my one arm with the other hand.
“Nice place.”
She looked around and nodded. Pride is sometimes difficult to see but that’s what I saw when I looked at her. Some sort of pride.
“You can sit down,” she said, so I did.
“It’s like a museum here. You’re quite the photographer.”
“Maybe. My mom says the new pictures are better. Oh, look!” She pointed to a pile of photographs on the table nearby and nodded excitedly.
“Look at the top ones.”
I picked up the stack and saw a woman in the first photograph. She looked young, just starting college perhaps. Her eyes were squinting in the sunlight, her hair was short and blonde, cut and styled in the way of girls who are becoming women. She wore a green t-shirt with an unfamiliar logo on it and small jeans of the kind that people wear now. She was holding a camera in her hands and pointing it at the photographer. Her backpack was at her feet where I noticed that she was wearing a pair of red Converse. They were low tops, like the ones I’d worn when Bianca took my photograph, the ones I was wearing as I was sitting in that hospital room.
“I never had them in red,” I said.
“Yea, they’re cool in that color. I want ones like that.”
Bianca reached out for the stack and I handed them to her. It took her a few seconds to find a photograph and hand it to me. It was a photograph of Bianca, wearing the red cap, a pink hoodie sweater, and jeans. I could see she was wearing the same Velcro strapped shoes and a large camera was blocking her face from view.
“She took that,” she said. “Her name is Poleth. She came yesterday and dropped this off for me. We took each other’s picture.”
“That’s nice of her.”
“She’s a photographer like me. She takes pictures of all kinds of things, not just shoes. She showed me a picture she took when she was driving to the ocean with her friends. The sky was really blue, like heaven, and the water was shiny. She’s going to give me a copy of it. She’s so awesome.”
“She sounds like it.” I stared at the photograph of Bianca as she spoke and I don’t know why, even now, but I felt a great pressure in my chest. It had started when I entered the room but now that she was talking about heaven and the ocean in her little voice the pressure boiled over and my eyes began to burn. By the time I’d returned the photographs to the table there were tears in my eyes and I had to look away to wipe them off.
We were silent and I was conscious of the fact that she was looking at me as I composed myself, and I shouldn’t have done that, I know, but sometimes a thing can’t be helped.
Then she started talking which made is so much worse.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m making you sad.”
I took a deep breath and smiled the smile one smiles when everything has to be okay.
“No, no. You’re not making me sad.”
“Yes, I am. My dad cries, too. It’s okay to be sad.” I stared at her hand as it lied unmoving on the blanket and waited for my eyes to resume a dry state.
“So,” I finally said. “I hear you need a picture of my shoes?”
She said she did, and I stood awkwardly against the white wall, hands in my pockets, waiting for her to set up and take the photograph of the last time we’d see each other.
When I got home that night Em was out. She often headed out to hang out with coworkers at some bar, one of those girl’s night outs. I needed space sometimes so I didn’t mind it. My original intent was to watch some television but I began to think about Bianca in her large bed at the hospital with all those pictures surrounding her. She barely even knew any of the people in the pictures and yet she felt so close to them, like they were family or somehow just very important to her. I looked around our apartment and we had almost no pictures. There were a couple of small ones of Em on a table near the balcony, one of me from that time I’d gone fishing holding a fish the size of a baseball, and several of both Em and I from various points in our relationship. I began to wonder if I should tell Em about Bianca, about the conversations we’d had and her lymphoma and the pictures, but I decided against it. I’m not sure why.
Then I decided I didn’t want to be alone. It felt worse, everything did. My head wouldn’t stop talking.
I walked outside. The sky was ragged, streaked by clouds and poor attempts at a lovely sky. The same people milled about, smiling, eating ice cream and holding each other’s hands and waists. People sat and ate, and talked about things. It all seemed so meaningless. Nothing seemed liked it could look beautiful. Everything was terrible.
I stopped at the Catholic church. Only one of the large, wooden doors was open and when I stepped inside it smelled like burning candles. There was a donation box to the left of the arch that leads into the church proper and a basin of holy water on the right. I felt compelled both to donate and dip my fingers in the water. It was cool to the touch and made me feel sad, sadder than I’d ever been. I stepped inside and found an elderly couple sitting at the pew closest to the front. I sat at the back so as not to interrupt them.
I sat for a while, looking at the large metal cross placed in the center of the farthest wall from the entrance. I thought about my parents, and that I hadn’t seen them for a long time because once I left El Paso I had no intention of returning. They are Christians of no particular denomination but still go to church regularly. As a kid I’d go with them and sit in the wooden pew waiting for the service to end. They would let me sit while everyone else stood or kneeled, and it never made sense that anyone would move around so much just to hear a man read from a book. I thought about Em whose parents were Protestant but allowed Em to choose her own path to God. Like me, she chose not follow a path at all.
The old couple eventually stood and walked down the center aisle toward the exit. The old man was slightly shorter than the old woman, and held a newsie’s cap in his hands. He had deep, dark wrinkles running down his neck. The old woman was thin and looked like she may have been the prettiest girl in the world, once, with what may have been light brown hair and twinkling green eyes. That old man didn’t look like he was handsome at any time in his life and was probably lucky to have found her. They both nodded at me as they walked by and I pursed my lips and nodded back.
Then I thought about angels. I thought about how angels don’t just live in heaven and how they can look like people we see every day of our lives, or just once in passing.