rang. He took it from his belt, flipped it
open, and said, “I have to take this. Excuse me.” He walked a few steps away and lowered
his voice. “Yes. I have told them that many times. They are to go ahead with the procedure
and they will be reimbursed. Yes. Call me when it is done.” He closed the phone.
“So,” I said, “I pretty much wasted my time coming over here?”
Cruz stepped back over and touched me on the elbow, a little gesture reminding me
who was in charge here. He was good.
“Your willingness to help has not gone unnoticed. I am sure that Elsa appreciates
your coming over.”
“You know that she called me?”
“I suspected as much. She looks out for Senora Santos.”
“And so do you,” I said.
“Yes. And this time will be no exception. Senora Santos will stay downstairs tonight.
Now, this may be a good time for you to say good-bye to her.”
“Why don’t you do that for me, Mr. Cruz? I’m not sure she wants to see me again.”
“Even though she did not invite you, Mr. Donne, I believe she would appreciate the
respect of your saying good-bye.”
We stepped back into the apartment, and this time, when I got to the pictures on the
wall, I stopped to look at them. There were some old photos, black-and-whites of palm
trees and beaches. Puerto Rico. Most of the newer ones, the ones in color, were of
Frankie: in his baseball uniform, graduating from elementary school, with someone
I guessed was his sister, Milagros. They were standing in front of the big, white
house I recognized from the picture in Frankie’s notebook. Next to that one was a
picture of a pregnant woman standing next to a young Frankie. The woman had the same
dark eyes, the same hopeful smile.
“Is this Frankie’s mother?” I asked Cruz.
“Yes,” he said.
“How did she die?”
“Non-Hodgkins lymphoma,” he said.
“Cancer?”
“Cancer of the blood, yes. The lymphocytes turn malignant and start to crowd out the
healthy white blood cells.”
“You a doctor, too?”
“I spent two years in medical school before I chose another path. It helps to understand
what afflicts the people I help.” He touched the photo. “Christina was diagnosed just
before she became pregnant with Milagros. She could not undergo treatment while pregnant,
and by the time Milagros was born the disease had spread too far.”
“How long did she live?”
“Another three years. A credit to her strength.”
I looked again at the photo, this time focusing on the smile that would be gone too
soon. She was putting forth one hell of a front for her son.
“When you grow up in the projects,” Cruz said, “and experience the hardships that
Christina faced, you don’t consider that it will be your own body that betrays you.”
We stood there for another moment before he said, “Come. Say good-bye.”
Mrs. Santos and Elsa’s mother were at the table, drinking their waters. Elsa stepped
out of the kitchen, drying her hands with a towel.
“Mr. Donne,” she said, so the ladies would realize I was back. “Thank you for coming.”
“I wanted to say good-bye.” I looked at the two women. They didn’t look back. I nodded
and said, “Good-bye.”
Elijah Cruz took my hand again. “Thank you, Mr. Donne. Perhaps you will knock on Mrs.
Santos’s door again someday.”
I gave him a small smile. “Perhaps.”
“I will walk you out, Mr. Donne,” Elsa said.
“Elsa!” her mother hissed.
“Mommy, shhh!” She waved her hand at her mother. “I’ll be right back.” She led me
out into the hallway. “I am sorry about that, Mr. Donne. They don’t mean to be rude.”
“It’s okay, Elsa. And please, call me Raymond.” She nodded. “That photo on the wall,”
I said. “The large, white house?”
“The ‘mansion’? It’s Anita’s. She lives upstate.”
“Ulster County?” I asked, remembering the real estate ads from Frankie’s book.
“Highland, yes. Why?”
“Just
open, and said, “I have to take this. Excuse me.” He walked a few steps away and lowered
his voice. “Yes. I have told them that many times. They are to go ahead with the procedure
and they will be reimbursed. Yes. Call me when it is done.” He closed the phone.
“So,” I said, “I pretty much wasted my time coming over here?”
Cruz stepped back over and touched me on the elbow, a little gesture reminding me
who was in charge here. He was good.
“Your willingness to help has not gone unnoticed. I am sure that Elsa appreciates
your coming over.”
“You know that she called me?”
“I suspected as much. She looks out for Senora Santos.”
“And so do you,” I said.
“Yes. And this time will be no exception. Senora Santos will stay downstairs tonight.
Now, this may be a good time for you to say good-bye to her.”
“Why don’t you do that for me, Mr. Cruz? I’m not sure she wants to see me again.”
“Even though she did not invite you, Mr. Donne, I believe she would appreciate the
respect of your saying good-bye.”
We stepped back into the apartment, and this time, when I got to the pictures on the
wall, I stopped to look at them. There were some old photos, black-and-whites of palm
trees and beaches. Puerto Rico. Most of the newer ones, the ones in color, were of
Frankie: in his baseball uniform, graduating from elementary school, with someone
I guessed was his sister, Milagros. They were standing in front of the big, white
house I recognized from the picture in Frankie’s notebook. Next to that one was a
picture of a pregnant woman standing next to a young Frankie. The woman had the same
dark eyes, the same hopeful smile.
“Is this Frankie’s mother?” I asked Cruz.
“Yes,” he said.
“How did she die?”
“Non-Hodgkins lymphoma,” he said.
“Cancer?”
“Cancer of the blood, yes. The lymphocytes turn malignant and start to crowd out the
healthy white blood cells.”
“You a doctor, too?”
“I spent two years in medical school before I chose another path. It helps to understand
what afflicts the people I help.” He touched the photo. “Christina was diagnosed just
before she became pregnant with Milagros. She could not undergo treatment while pregnant,
and by the time Milagros was born the disease had spread too far.”
“How long did she live?”
“Another three years. A credit to her strength.”
I looked again at the photo, this time focusing on the smile that would be gone too
soon. She was putting forth one hell of a front for her son.
“When you grow up in the projects,” Cruz said, “and experience the hardships that
Christina faced, you don’t consider that it will be your own body that betrays you.”
We stood there for another moment before he said, “Come. Say good-bye.”
Mrs. Santos and Elsa’s mother were at the table, drinking their waters. Elsa stepped
out of the kitchen, drying her hands with a towel.
“Mr. Donne,” she said, so the ladies would realize I was back. “Thank you for coming.”
“I wanted to say good-bye.” I looked at the two women. They didn’t look back. I nodded
and said, “Good-bye.”
Elijah Cruz took my hand again. “Thank you, Mr. Donne. Perhaps you will knock on Mrs.
Santos’s door again someday.”
I gave him a small smile. “Perhaps.”
“I will walk you out, Mr. Donne,” Elsa said.
“Elsa!” her mother hissed.
“Mommy, shhh!” She waved her hand at her mother. “I’ll be right back.” She led me
out into the hallway. “I am sorry about that, Mr. Donne. They don’t mean to be rude.”
“It’s okay, Elsa. And please, call me Raymond.” She nodded. “That photo on the wall,”
I said. “The large, white house?”
“The ‘mansion’? It’s Anita’s. She lives upstate.”
“Ulster County?” I asked, remembering the real estate ads from Frankie’s book.
“Highland, yes. Why?”
“Just
Similar Books
