And it is that word, again, that terrifies him, as if by uttering it she opens up the possibility that he has it in him to do this again—even, somehow, makes it inevitable. From the kiddie pool, Angel watches her parents, eyes wide and black and unwavering.
“Don’t you walk away,” Marissa yells, and Amadeo turns just long enough to see her grab the baby, too roughly, Angel’s head falling back as Marissa swings her onto her hip, water from the baby’s sodden diaper spreading dark across her shirt and denim cutoffs, down her short brown legs. She’s calling him names, and he’s thinking of how loud her voice must be so near Angel’s soft pink ear. Even as he starts the truck, Amadeo doesn’t think he’ll leave. His breath is ragged, he’s shaking, and he’s on Paseo de O?ate when he realizes he’s still gripping the stegosaurus in his hand.
Now he slides down beside his daughter and pulls her to him.
ALL AFTERNOON Angel is remote. He holds Connor, and when the baby becomes fussy from hunger, she takes him wordlessly and positions him against her, her movements careful. By evening, though, she is once again narrating to the baby every detail of every moment: “What’s Mama cooking? She’s cooking chicken breasts. One, two, three.” He allows himself to think that whatever mood struck her has passed, and he tells himself that if only she’ll be okay, if only Connor will be okay, he’ll never speak with Brianna again, except, of course, in the way that a caring father interacts with his daughter’s teacher.
Angel coos at Connor. Impossible that his daughter could possibly feel such despair. Yes, she’s going through a difficult time, and Connor’s not sleeping well, but she’s young, she’s pretty, she has a new baby in a soft little duck suit.
As the summer wears on, Yolanda’s great-grandson grows, good-natured and rashy. His eczema covers his bottom and encircles his little scrotum, red and painful-looking, creeps down the backs of his legs. His thighs are scaly and dry, little white rings of roughness around new pink skin beneath. Angel spends hours on the internet looking for cures, insists on leaving him naked whenever possible.
“You’re a little yucky,” sings Angel sweetly from the bathroom as she daubs him with cream as thick as oil paint. He kneads his toes. “You’re a sticky yucky baby-pie. Let’s get that old rash off you.”
A baby should be the ideal antidote to death. Watching him grow new rolls of fat and learn to laugh and kick should be exactly the thing to distract Yolanda from her own failing body. But for reasons she cannot understand, she is having trouble focusing on him.
Her interests have constricted around her. She no longer cares to watch her telenovelas, no longer feels compelled by the outlandish plots. She no longer cares about work. She doesn’t have the energy anymore to even flip through a magazine. She spends the hours she isn’t at work or appointments lying on her bed, looking up into the canopy.
Angel doesn’t knock, just comes right in, and Yolanda feels a wringing little twinge of annoyance, but she pats the bedspread anyway and says, “Come sit down.”
Angel flings herself, limbs flopping every which way, her hair spread on the satin sham. She’s not a child; she has a woman’s body, but still, she seems to think she can climb into her grandmother’s bed and curl up. She thinks she is safe here.
“What’s going on, honey?”
“Gramma, do you love him?”
“Connor? Mi hijita, of course I do.” But as much as she loves him, she loves him at a remove. She likes to watch him, but doesn’t want to hold him.
“I feel like you don’t love him, Gramma.” Angel’s voice is thick, and Yolanda can see how much it costs her to say this. “I mean, I know you love him. I just thought you’d love him more. Like you love me.”
“Oh, hijita.” How can she explain that the love she feels already is too much to lose? How can she be asked to get to know and then part from someone else? “I love you both more than anything.”