But then that double punch of Monica’s car and his mother’s collapse undid his entire life. Failure upon failure. He couldn’t call her.
His phone chimes. It would be great to see you. He can sense her anxiety, which makes him anxious, too, and vaguely guilty, and resentful that he’s being made to feel guilty, because hasn’t he been doing the right thing, caring for his mother?
Things have been crazy, Amadeo types, but instead of sending it, he calls her, not examining his reasons. His pulse throbs in his temple.
“Hey,” she says, voice low and cautious. “How have you been?”
“Okay. Busy. Things have been crazy.” He’s trying to think how to tell her about his mother, but then she breaks in.
“It’s just kind of weird that you haven’t been in touch. I mean, I’m not saying we’re in a relationship or anything, it’s just pretty weird. Like, we were seeing each other every week. Texting all the time. We”—and here she drops her voice still lower—“slept together.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“And then you disappear. Like, what am I supposed to think?”
Amadeo should want to comfort her or explain himself, but instead he’s furious. His heart hops, ready for a fight. Who does she think she is, ambushing him like this? He called to tell her about his mother.
“I don’t know what you think this is,” he starts, then falters.
“Listen. I’ve taken real professional and ethical risks to be with . . . to spend time with you.” She’s whispering harshly, and he has the uneasy sense that tears are around the corner. But then she takes a deep breath. “Sorry,” she says, voice clearing. “Okay, using my words. I guess I just thought you’d call and was bummed that you didn’t.”
Her frankness sets Amadeo at a disadvantage. “Well, sometimes you’re not the most important thing going on.”
A beat. “Okay, then. What is going on? Can we at least talk about it? About what’s happening with us? It seems like we should talk about it.”
Amadeo has the sense of losing ground. “Listen, you’re a great girl and all, but there’s a lot of shit happening in my life right now.” This is a breakup script, he realizes.
“So what, you’re ghosting me?”
“No, because if I was ghosting you, I wouldn’t be calling, would I. My fucking mother is dying, okay? So get the fuck over yourself.”
He hangs up. It was a slam dunk, an absolute, unassailable win, but the rush of vindication doesn’t come. My fucking mother is dying. Stupid. He should have said, My mother is fucking dying. He punches the mattress. It’s so damn hot in here. “Argh!” he yells, then stops. He listens for his mother’s croaking, plaintive voice, for a breath. But all is quiet.
Angel’s life is split in two. The first part is home, where she’s always cooking or tending or rushing to do her homework, where, each day, her grandmother and her son display new behaviors, new changes to their bodies.
Connor almost crawls now, rocking back and forth on his hands and knees as if he’s about to launch himself across a ravine, before splaying flat and dragging himself army-style across the floor. His bare chest squeaks on the linoleum, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
For her part, Yolanda is becoming vague, hesitant in her speech and movements. She’s misshapen, too, simultaneously too thin—breasts and belly deflated—and, from the steroids, swollen. Her cheeks have puffed; her skin is the color of dust. Her wrists, which were always narrow and graceful, have thickened, so that the silver bracelet she’s worn Angel’s entire life is a tight band.
One afternoon Angel comes across her grandmother standing before the bathroom mirror, smoothing the hair at her temple, smoothing, smoothing. Each time, it springs up, wiry and unruly.