The Sea of Light by Jenifer Levin Read Free Book Online Page B

And if I—I’ll probably—well, I mean, let’s just see.”
    Okay, I say. Okay, señorita.
    We are silent.
    The tears I have in me never fall any more, I don’t know why. Ever since the visit to Tia Corazón. As if I let them all out there and the conduits are now permanently closed, sealed by unspeakable things. I want to cross the carpet between us and hug her close, stroke her hair the way I do Teresa’s and tell her everything will be all right, that I myself will see to it, will watch over her, protect her. But she’s pulled back already, settling firmly against the sofa. There is this unhealed part of her gazing out warily. It’s always been there in her, anyway—the part that comes from Barbara: a silent, austere pride that makes you careful of handling her casually, or of touching her at all.
    And who is to say that this steely untouchable side of my daughter is not, in some way, her greatest asset? Maybe it’s that, only that, which pulled her through alive. You, Delgado, you pride yourself on your ability to embrace both these aspects of your family—the love of what is lavish and romantic coupled with the need for discipline, regulation, order—but can you say that in the end it is always love that pulls you through? Maybe survival has nothing to do with love. Maybe, sometimes, it is merely a matter of sheer will, will pitted against even your own desire to stop, to die. Even if your desperate Cuban witchcraft were conclusively proven to work. Mechanisms of ritual, of love. Bah humbug. No. You don’t really know her so well, Delgado. You really don’t know this daughter of yours.
    “Babe, listen. Your mother and I—we want you to be happy. That’s all.”
    Such bullshit, Delgado. What is it now that stops you from saying what in your heart you want to say? I love you. I am proud of you. I would take the pain away from you, if only I could.
    There. What stops you?
    The fact that these expressions of caring would be too much. I’m supposed to go easy on her. No pressure, the doctors all said that. No pressure. Not even the pressure of knowing how much I care. She’ll assume it as another burden. Something else to carry, along with the weight of a team of dead souls.
    “Don’t tell Mom.”
    I give her a questioning look.
    “I mean, I’ll tell her myself. Tomorrow. That’s what I mean—okay?”
    It sounds a little desperate. I nod. Okay, I tell her, whatever you say.
    We sit a while, not speaking. My feet worship the carpet-thick Belgian wool. Mahogany-paneled walls. A house where everything has been tastefully done in materials of the highest quality and where, more often than not, cost has not been a consideration. Proof of the times my money purchased fulfillment—for Barbara and me, yes, but more importantly for my children. Handing over all those American dollars blithely, easily, for uniforms and fees. The trips Babe has taken: to Texas, Mission Viejo, Toronto; plane fares, club dues. I whistled while signing checks, pulling credit cards from my wallet, proud, fiercely proud, that after the life I had come from I could provide all these things for my children, my beautiful, protected, talented children. Because I remembered how in the end my own father could not—not in the blinding heat of Havana streets, resources dwindling daily while we waited at the tips of bayonets. I promised myself then that when I was a man myself I would have as many children as possible and a big house to put them in. That, somehow, I would seal them there and keep them safe. So they would never suffer the agony of the world. This I promised. Now, running naked soles over the lush carpet, I know I’ve failed.
    “Are you all right, Babe?”
    I wish I hadn’t said it. But stern pride rushes over her again, protecting us both. Sure, she tells me, I’m okay. Then my hands slap the chair arms with a cheerful finality I do not feel. Well, I say, time for bed, eh?
    “You go ahead, Dad. I think I’ll stay up