Still, it’s something I consider until Vera tells me not to worry about it, that she’ll handle it. Chloe Ann has a sort of summer day camp on Wednesday mornings so that Isabel can have the entire day off and Vera has come with me to this camp to pick her up at noon on numerous occasions. She’s even driven there once or twice, so I have no worries about her wielding the SUV through Madrid’s bottleneck traffic and volatile drivers.
When I finally get home though, around six in the evening, I find a different scene at the apartment than the one I had expected.
Chloe Ann is sitting in front of the TV, staring up at it with big, glazed eyes. Vera is on the balcony drinking a beer.
I have to admit, my first thought isn’t a good one. Vera is not supposed to be a babysitter, someone to plunk my child in front of the television so she can go drink. She and Chloe Ann are supposed to spend quality time together. It is important to me, more important than it is to either of them.
“Hi, darling,” I say to Chloe Ann as I crouch down beside her. My eyes flit to the window where I see Vera noticing me. I kiss my daughter on her head. “How are you?”
She gives me a sweet smile and then looks back to the television where some obnoxious cartoon is playing. They don’t make them like they used to.
“Fine, Papa,” she says.
I nod and sit down on the ground beside her. “Just fine?” I ask, resting my arms on my knees and looking between her and the TV. “Why is Vera outside?”
“I don’t know,” she says with a little shrug.
“How was camp today?” I ask.
“Fine, Papa,” she says, and for a moment I think the television has stolen her soul, but then she looks to me and smiles more genuinely. “We got to make pretend a petting zoo.”
“I bet you were a panda.”
“I tried,” she says with a pout. “But they said it wasn’t allowed at this zoo. I was a goat. It was fun.”
“That’s great, darling,” I tell her, and get to my feet. I stare at her for a few moments, at the light brown hair spilling down her back, the once-neat braids that Isabel had made for her this morning now all messy and rough, then I make my way over to the balcony.
“Is everything okay?” I ask Vera as I step through the sliding door.
She’s not looking at me; her attention is on the apartment across the street, but she swallows, jaw tense. “It’s okay.”
“As long as it’s not fine,” I say, taking the seat across from her. “Then you would sound just like Chloe Ann.”
Vera brings her eyes over to mine, and they are full of worry. She looks exhausted too, her face sallow.
“What happened?” I ask, my eyes darting into the living room, making sure Chloe Ann is still there.
“A lot of things,” she says, and her voice is hoarse. “I had a bad day.”
“Chloe Ann is all right?”
She nods. “Yeah. She’s all right. We’ve been . . . fighting, I guess.”
I raise my brows. “Fighting?”
“Not physically.”
“Well, no, but what are you talking about?”
She exhales heavily and her shoulders slump forward. “It all started when I picked her up. I was standing around with the others. You know, the other parents. I came early, so I was waiting for it to be over. The kids were all in a circle talking, and we were all just standing around. Everyone knew each other. But one girl came up to me and started speaking in Spanish. And I didn’t really understand. I mean, I got the gist of it, but I told her that I didn’t speak Spanish very well, that I was learning. She asked why I was there. She spoke English after all. I told her I was there to pick up Chloe Ann.” She takes a deep breath, and for some reason my heart already hurts, that I know where this story is going.
“And the girl says, oh, interesting, and I know she’s trying to figure out why a non-Spanish speaker like myself has my child at this camp, so I say she’s not my child. And even then it was fine because the girl nods, understanding and stuff. But then this fucking bitch who was like fucking listening to the whole thing comes over in her Balenciaga bag and her Louboutin shoes, and her overtanned yoga body and starts speaking rapid-fire Spanish to the girl, who then looks at me like I’m fucking white trash.”
“I’m sorry,” I find myself saying, but Vera plows on.
“And I guess that would be fine, I mean I can only imagine what this woman is saying, but at least I can play dumb and save face. So I’m standing there with this frozen smile on my face, and then the kids are dismissed, and Chloe Ann comes over just as the woman is still spewing her vile bullshit. I thought maybe it would go over her head, but it didn’t because then later we were in the car, and Chloe Ann, she turns to me and says something like, ‘why are you pretending to be my mother’ or ‘you’re not my mother,’ and . . .” A tear escapes Vera’s eye and I reach over to brush it away, but she puts her hand up to keep me back. “And I tried to tell Chloe that I wasn’t her mother, but I was her friend and her father’s friend. But my Spanish, I’m not sure she understood. And then she started crying, saying she wanted her dad and her mom, and that she hated me.”
“Oh, Vera. Estrella,” I say to her.
“But that’s not all.”
“That’s not? How can there be more?”
“I felt so bad about everything, that on the way home I stopped at an ice cream shop and told Chloe Ann she could have whatever she wanted. It didn’t stop her crying, but she still came with me in the shop and I got her mint chocolate chip, and then . . .” She pauses to wipe her eyes. “Then as we were leaving, this fucker appeared and started taking pictures of us. Chloe Ann started crying more, and I fingered the guy, just fucking screaming at the guy to leave.”
“Good,” I tell her, putting my hand on her bare knee and squeezing it. “I’m glad you did that.”
“Yeah, but now that will be in the papers.”
I shrug, pretending it doesn’t mean what it could. I don’t want to add to Vera’s guilt complex. “Maybe, maybe not. But does this mean that they were following you?”
“I don’t know,” she says feebly. “It was your car, maybe they know what to look for.”
“The photographer never said anything to you?”
She shakes her head. “No, he just took the picture. When I started yelling, he did fuck off like I asked him to. But still, I think Chloe Ann was traumatized.”
“She’s fine, Vera. She’s inside watching a cartoon. She told me she got to be a goat at camp today. That’s all that is sticking out in her head.”
“She hates me,” she spits out in defeat.
“No, no, no,” I say, grabbing Vera’s beautiful face in my hands. “She does not hate you. She is my daughter, and you are my lover, and there is only love between you two. She is just young, that is all. She is fine. It’s the women at the day camp I have to worry about. I’ll talk to them, don’t worry about that.”
She squeezes her eyes shut. “Mateo, please,” she says painfully. “Don’t try to fix another problem. Just let them be. Let those bitches say what they want.”
“There is a difference between saying what they want and saying it in front of my daughter. I won’t let Chloe Ann be fed lies about you and me. That isn’t fair to her or to us, or even to Isabel.” I let go of her and stand up. “Now come inside and we’ll order in dinner tonight. You can tell Chloe Ann she can order whatever she likes.”
Vera looks unsure, but I grab her arms and haul her up to her feet. “Stop hiding out here and go inside. Chloe Ann is fine, you’ll see.”
For a moment I think Vera is going to set up camp outside forever, but then she brushes back her hair, squares her shoulders, and marches past me into the apartment. The fact that she’s acting like that, trying to impress my young daughter, does curious things to my heart. I can’t help thinking, for all her youth and insecurity, Vera would make a wonderfully caring and compassionate mother one day.
And as Chloe Ann warms to Vera again, and we all set
tle in for a night of pizza and cartoons, the thought builds and builds and builds until it’s all that I can think about.
For now, though, there are other things to get through first.
Over Thursday and Friday, Vera and I are vigilant about looking for the latest news from the gossip magazines. Though we don’t say it, I know she is as convinced as I am that the photo of her and Chloe Ann is going to turn up somewhere.
When it appears on Friday afternoon, on a magazine’s website, I am almost relieved. The search is over. There it is, the bloody untruth of it all.
Fortunately, I find it when I am at home with Vera and not at my office. Pedro could have lost his mind over that because what the magazine says, it’s not good for Atlético’s image, and especially not for mine.
It’s just one picture, but that picture tells a thousand half-truths: Chloe Ann is in tears and trying to get away from Vera who is holding on to her hand tightly, her other hand extended into the middle finger which hasn’t been blurred out. Vera’s face is angry, brows pinched, lips in a sneer. For a moment I am grateful that she’s not in her pin-up dresses as usual but in capri pants and a conservative tank top, otherwise the press would have something terrible to say about that. She knew how to look when she went to pick her up.
The article talks about how unhappy my daughter is with Vera—the homewrecking Canadian girl—and how divorce affects so much more than just the parent. Like usual, there are a lot of exclamation points and hyperbole and bold statements that accompany most of the garbage out there in these magazines.
As I sit there looking at that on the Macbook, Vera appalled and reading over my shoulder, I feel so much rage that I feel I might die in it. I look at the name of the man who wrote the article—Carlos Cruz, who is also the photographer, I’m guessing the one with the mullet—and I’m immediately planning out how I can hunt him down and beat him to within an inch of his life.
Once again, Vera apologizes, and once again I have to convince her that it isn’t her fault. She did the right thing—the sweetest thing—and the paparazzi got her at a bad time, which is always the best time for them. I tell her that this will blow over, that it’s not saying anything we haven’t seen before.
I believe it all too, I really do.
And then I get a phone call.
From Isabel.
I stare at the screen of the phone as it sits in my hand, and I know, I know, why she’s calling. She’s seen this exact same thing. Either she was looking for it, found it on her own, or someone tipped her off about it, but she’s seen it. I place the computer on Vera’s lap and get up. My hand, as I put the phone to my ear, is shaking slightly.
“Hello?” I answer.
I hear air being sucked in through teeth.
“Mateo,” Isabel says, her tone carved out of ice and snow. “We need to talk.”
I clear my throat. “We are talking.”
“No,” she says, and it’s then that I realize how badly she’s restraining herself. There is a warble in her voice underneath all the steel. She’s about to lose it. “You come here. And then we’ll talk.”
I glance at Vera who is staring at me, stricken, like she knows. I wonder if there is any use in pretending that I have no idea what Isabel wants to talk about, but I decide there is no point. It’s all going to come out anyway.
“All right,” I say. “When? Monday?”
“Right. Now.”
I am a dead man. Isabel has to be beside herself if she’s seen the article. No one wants to admit they are afraid of their ex-wife, but I am.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll leave now.”
“Leave the tramp at home,” she commands, and then hangs up before I can say anything.
I swallow and stare down at the phone for a beat before I shoot Vera a wary smile. “Isabel. I think she knows. I have to go.”
Vera looks like she wants to protest, but she only nods, her knuckles strained as she absently grips the computer. “Okay,” she says in a small voice. “I’m sorry.”
“Vera, stop,” I say, raising my hand. “I don’t want to hear any more apologies out of you.” I sigh. “Why don’t you look online for a restaurant we haven’t tried before? When I get back, we’ll go out to eat, get drunk, have sex. Sounds good, yes?”
Food, alcohol, and sex are three of her most favorite things, but the suggestion doesn’t even bring a smile to her face, just a wan shrug of her shoulders. She is really hurting. I want to stay and comfort her, but that will have to come later, and at that point I have a feeling she may be the one comforting me.
The drive to Isabel and Chloe Ann’s takes far longer than it should have. Friday evening traffic seems to be extra mad today, and I actually see two people in a fist fight at the side of their gridlocked cars. The heat is getting to everyone, and even though the air conditioner in the SUV is on full blast, I imagine what would happen if it suddenly conked out. I, too, would probably jump out of the car and start taking on the world, standing on the roof and beating my fists against my chest.
This month has been madness.
When I finally reach the house—my old house—I feel like a poorly wound watch. I take in a deep breath and head up to the front door. The small slice of front yard is as immaculate as always—you would never guess that a small child lives here. That is all Isabel, of course.
I ring the doorbell instead of knocking. It feels weird to even do both when I used to waltz right in. This was my home for seven years. Now it is a stranger’s house.
When Isabel answers the door, she is a picture of simmering fury. Though her short blonde blob is slicked in a severe side part and she’s wearing a simple dress that shows off years of yoga and pilates, her shoulders are stiff, her face is red, and her eyes are as sharp as razors, ready to draw blood. I’m sure when she opens her mouth her tongue will be the same.
“Isabel,” I say cordially, though I’m not smiling either.
“You’re late,” she seethes.
I look at my watch and shrug. “Traffic. I wasn’t aware I was being timed.”
Her eyes narrow. “I have a hard time believing that you’re not aware of something.”
And so we are already headed into sentences with double meanings. Time to face this head on.
“Why did you call me over here, Isabel?”
I step into the foyer that still smells like lemons and wood polish, and she slams the door behind me. “You know very well why you’re here.”
And then she erupts into a flurry of the most interesting graphic insults and swear words that I have ever heard, each one of them fired at me like a weapon. As usual, they bounce off my skin. I am almost impressed by the names she calls me, tossing around blanket statements like “bad father” and “mid-life crisis,” and “endangering our daughter,” but it isn’t until she pulls Vera’s name into this that I’ve had enough.
“It wasn’t like she asked for it,” I throw back at her, trying to control my temper. “She was just taking Chloe Ann to get ice cream.”
“My daughter is lactose intolerant!” she yells, horrified.
I frown. “What? No she isn’t.”
“Yes she is! And do you know how much sugar is in ice cream? I will not have a fat daughter who gets diabetes before she’s in high school.”
I raise my brows to the heavens. “Isabel, seriously. She’s a child, children eat ice cream, and she’s not and never has been lactose intolerant. You feed her cheese all the time. Are you more upset about that or the picture?”
She takes a step toward me, her nails out, and I’m not sure if she’s going to go for her usual slap or not. I stand my ground and don’t look away. “You have been making me look like a fool all over again. You know, everyone was talking about Vera the other week, her dancing with that kid in the club, and I was happy. Really, I was happy because she was making you look like the fool for once. But then there were more pictures, the two of you, out for dinner, out for a walk, and then of my daughter with that wretche
d little tramp, and every time the magazines talk about our divorce, every time they remind me that you threw me aside just to get some young lips around your dick from some fat foreign slut, and—“
“Shut the fuck up!” I yell at her, taking a hard step so I’m right in her face, bearing over her. “You shut your fucking face and keep your vile words to yourself, or this is going to get really ugly.”
She doesn’t back down. “It’s already ugly!” She throws her hands up to the ceiling. “You got my daughter featured in that swill!”
“She’s my daughter too!” I roar back. “Don’t you think it bothers me?”
She gives me a contemptuous look. “I think you thank god every time I’m made to look like an idiot. I think you’ve been thanking him a lot lately.”
I turn away, burying my face in my hands, and let out a desperate moan. “Isabel, please. Just listen to me. None of this was done on purpose, it was just unfortunate. You know that being back with Atlético will push some attention my way again, but it will all blow over.”
“All this time,” she says softly. The change in tone is jarring, and I have to look at her. “All this time you could have done something with yourself and you didn’t. Not until you left me. Not until now.”
I frown, puzzled. “Uh, Isabel. I owned a restaurant until recently, an extremely successful one that you pushed me towards. I am fairly sure that counts as doing something with myself.”
She looks at me pointedly. “You know exactly what I mean.”
And I do. But how am I supposed to explain that meeting Vera made me realize I was living the wrong life? It would mean nothing to Isabel, and it would only add fuel to the fire.
“Where is Chloe Ann?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Upstairs.”
“What? You called me over here for a fight when she’s upstairs!?” My throat tightens, and I crane my neck to see up the staircase. Luckily Chloe Ann isn’t there. “How dare you let her be exposed to this? Don’t you think she’s gone through enough already?”