Rosa Jordan - The Woman She Was

“Always did,” Franci reminded her.

“—does not mean he is going to turn my head.”

“Did before.”

“Then I probably was sex-starved.” Celia smiled ruefully. “Just not as lucky as you with whom I picked to meet the need.”

Franci sighed luxuriously. “I am lucky, aren’t I? I can’t imagine life without Philip. He’s more than my playmate; he’s my anchor.”

“Luis is a good friend,” Celia said thoughtfully. “But Liliana is my anchor. I can’t imagine life without her .”

For a moment both were silent, studying their side-by-side toenails, Franci’s polished silver, Celia’s unpainted.

“Well, Doctor, what is your diagnosis?” Celia queried, wondering whether Franci had an inkling of any of the things she had not said.

“My diagnosis?” Franci glanced over at her and smiled. “I think you’re right. José Lago is not going to knock you loopy this time.”

“Maybe I already am loopy,” Celia flipped, again giving Franci an opening to mention any aberration she might have noticed.

“Nope. You’re grounded, girl. Looks like we both got lucky. Not in the same ways, but each in a very good way.”

“You mean you got the best man, I got the best child?”

“Just our luck. Not 100 per cent but pretty damned good.”

“Listen,” Celia teased. “I’ll share my child if you’ll share your—”

“In your dreams!” Franci howled.

Celia stood up and yawned. “Okay, I shall dream about it. But I must say, Doctor, your bedside manner leaves something to be desired. First you criticize the men in my life, then monopolize the one you claim is the best ever.”

“Finders keepers.” Franci tossed out the cliché they had used as teenagers when one got asked out by a guy whom both found attractive. She pointed her hairbrush at Celia and added, “But think about those Lago boys, okay?”

“Think what?”

“If you want one of them to be the man in your life, fine. If you don’t—well, you know running away won’t help.”

“Franci! Who said I was running away?”

“Okay, okay. So you’re standing your ground. You are not going to let either of them push you into something. Promise?”

Celia grinned. “Stand my ground. Don’t let them push me around. Sure. I can do that.”

“Good.” Franci smiled, but her eyes remained serious. “Because what I really think is that there’s more than you want to admit going on. In here.” She patted her chest.

Celia nodded. “The down time helped. I got a lot of things sorted out.”

“Good start, but keep at it. All any woman can get completely sorted in a single day is the week’s laundry.”

“Ha!” Celia kissed Franci on the cheek and headed for the door. “If you think I can get my laundry sorted in one day, that’s because you don’t live with a teenager.”

CELIA recalled that remark without amusement when she entered her apartment the next day. It was strewn with clothes, most of which looked in need of washing. The table was littered with dirty dishes.

“Liliana?” There was no answer.

Celia collected the dishes and carried them to the kitchen. Sink and counter were similarly cluttered, forcing her to stack dirty dishes atop ones already there. She ran a glassful of water and poured it over a wilted African violet. Then ran another for herself and drank deeply.

She went back into the living room and surveyed the chaos. Liliana had left for school only a week ago and should have been there still, as the pre-university students were on a twenty-four-day class schedule, followed by six or seven days at home. Had Liliana come home because she was ill? If so, it had not affected her appetite. There was a scattering of plantain chips around the sofa, as if she had lain there watching television while she ate. And where was she now? Had she got better and gone out? Or got worse and gone to a neighbour’s apartment rather than lie here alone? Probably the former, because if she had been really sick she would have called Alma, and Alma would be here looking after her.

Celia found her own bedroom as neat as she had left it. She and Liliana had meticulous regard for each other’s privacy. Not once in all the years Liliana had lived with her had she borrowed a garment, prowled a drawer, or used Celia’s cosmetics without asking permission. She dropped her bag on the bed and was deciding whether to call Alma or check with neighbours first when the apartment door banged open.

“Tía Celia?” Liliana called.

“In here,” Celia called back.

Liliana rushed in and gave Celia a strong warm hug. “I’m so glad you’re home! How was Santiago?”

In the few seconds she and Liliana held each other, Celia felt health and vitality radiating from the young body and from herself a responding surge of affection. She pushed back Liliana’s dark brown curls and openly examined her niece. Her eyes sparkled. She was anything but sick. So why wasn’t she at school? Celia might have asked but preferred to wait and let Liliana explain, as she was sure she would.

“The conference was fine, and I enjoyed seeing Franci and Philip. I am tired, though. The train broke down twice so the trip took hours longer than it should have.”

Liliana sprawled across Celia’s bed and looked her up and down. “You don’t look tired. You look like—did you get a haircut or something?”

“No.” Celia felt suddenly self-conscious. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Younger.”

Liliana’s intuitive recognition of something Celia felt but had assumed did not show caused her to catch her breath. She covered it with a laugh. “I doubt I got much younger in four days. What about you? What have you been up to?”

“You won’t believe it when I tell you. You are going to flip out.”

Celia flopped across the bed next to her niece. “Go ahead,” she challenged. “I have not had a good flip-out all day.”

Liliana smirked. “I went to Varadero with your two fiancés.”

“Liliana, I only have one.”

Liliana held up two pink-tipped fingers and pointed to them as if teaching a pre-schooler to add. “One past, one present, which makes two . And I had lunch at La Casa de Al with both of them.”

“La Casa de Al?” Celia was shocked.

“Tío Joe paid. The check was more than Tío Luis makes in a month!”

“Ay! That José!” Celia exclaimed indignantly.

“And he bought me a T-shirt. Wanna see?”

Before Celia could reply, Liliana was off the bed and into her own room. Celia waited uneasily. It was no surprise that José would have played the big spender. But why was Liliana with them? Luis, in telling her he planned to go to Varadero with his brother, had not said anything about taking her along.

“And then ,” Liliana called from the next room, “we went dancing.”

“They took you dancing ?” Celia cried. “Where?”

“I knew you’d be jealous.” Liliana’s voice wafted from her room in a sing-song tease. “At SuperClub Puntarena. There was this great band playing poolside, and you should have seen them go at it. Tío Luis is an awesome dancer, you know. The kind other dancers stop to watch.” There was a pause, and Liliana called, “But Tío Joe is more fun.”

Celia stood abruptly, opened her travel case, and began flinging things into various bureau drawers. All good fun, she told herself, but what she felt was closer to anger. What might have kindled that emotion she could not have said. Certainly not jealousy. Perhaps it was the image of her adorable niece gyrating on a dance floor encircled not by teenaged peers but by lecherous, half-drunk foreigners—not to mention two men old enough to be her father who were not altogether immune to lechery themselves.