Chapter 25 Visit Me
Me: Hey, don’t need that ride today after all.
It’s hard for me to send this message, but I can’t talk to Kang right now. I don’t plan to avoid him forever, but I don’t want him to see me in this mess of a state I’m in.
I have been doing breathing exercises to calm my mind, which seems to be at war with itself. Now, after crying so hard, I’m too exhausted to feel anything, like I’m stuck in some sort of limbo, floating endlessly in the nothingness without thinking, just being.
I need to get back to the real world, and the afternoon sunlight I now see filtering through the window gives me a clue as to how late it is. I just have to make sure there’s no one around before I leave this room.
My phone vibrates with Kang’s reply.
Kang: Everything OK?
No, nothing is okay, Kang, I can’t see you right now… I don’t know how I would feel.
There are so many things I want to ask him, especially about Perla. She warned me about him; maybe she knew I would get my hopes up only to find out that he was simply trying to help me.
Me: All good.
I send the text and sit staring at my phone, thinking about what I’m going to do now. I told Kamila that I was going to ride home with friends; she’ll worry if I ask her to come get me now. Besides, the hospital is not close; it would take her a while to get here.
Would Perla be able to give me a ride?
I quickly brush that idea aside. I don’t feel like seeing Perla right now, either. We’re just starting to establish a friendship and I don’t want her to see my face all red from crying.
Maybe I should just get an Uber. But somehow the idea of a stranger seeing the state I’m in is even more terrifying than being stuck on campus.
Diego.
For some reason I don’t mind him seeing me so vulnerable; maybe because he saw me at my worst when I was receiving my chemo alongside his father.
I scroll through the group chat for our class and find his number. I’ll deal with the consequences later.
Me: Have you left yet?
I pray he hasn’t, because otherwise I’ll have no choice but to ask Kamila to come get me, or Andy, who always leaves the law firm late. A few minutes go by with no response and I start to lose hope, until, finally:
Diego: Still here, picking up the paintings from last Friday’s exhibit.
Me: Where are you? Are there people with you?
I don’t want anyone else to see my red, swollen face.
Diego: Just me, in the auditorium.
And then I get another text from him:
Diego: Why so many questions? Are you okay?
Me: I’m fine, I was just wondering if you could give me a ride home. If you can’t, don’t worry.
Diego: Of course, on the way we can stop for the best strawberry Jell-O in the world.
And right there, I smile.
Diego: Come to the auditorium, I’m almost finished. I’ll wait here.
I tell him I’m on my way and stand up, rubbing my cheeks in a futile attempt to disguise the fact that I’ve been crying. I take a deep breath and open the door, then poke my head out to make sure the hallway is empty.
As I make my way to Diego, memories of Kang flash in my mind. I can almost see him standing there smiling at me, waving goodbye.
“It’s an honor to finally meet the mysterious K.”
“You don’t have to hide, Klara—you’re very… hot.”
“Hello, Klara with a K.”
“Damn, you’ve got such a nice smile.”
What am I to you, Kang? I can’t help but ask myself this question as I walk through the entrance to the auditorium.
Inside, it’s bigger than I expected, with three sections of seating.
I walk down one of the aisles toward the stage, where I see Diego moving paintings around behind the open curtains in the back.
He’s slightly sweaty and has a few strands of red hair stuck to his forehead.
He smiles when he notices me and carefully lowers the canvas he’s holding.
His smile fades, however, as I step closer and he gets a look at my face.
“Are you okay?” he asks, stepping forward. The concern in his voice is obvious. “Klara?”
He used my name—a first. Another obvious sign he’s concerned.
“I’m fine. Do you have much longer?” I ask.
“No, I just have to put away a few more paintings.”
“I’ll wait here.”
Diego hesitates for a second, as if he doesn’t know whether to probe further or leave it at that. I hope my expression lets him know that I don’t feel like explaining myself. I’m not ready to talk about my little meltdown.
“Okay.” He smiles and turns to go back to the stage.
I follow him, drawn to a corner where ten paintings are lined up against the wall.
They are lovely and I have no idea why my heart begins racing as I approach them.
I stop in front of a brightly colored portrait of a girl: Her face is a rainbow.
Instinctively, my hand moves to feel the texture of the paint, each brushstroke.
I gently run a finger along the contour of her face.
It’s been so long. I still remember my second-grade teacher telling me that I had an innate talent for drawing.
She said the same thing to my mother at the parent-teacher conference.
“Whenever we do drawing activities, Klara leaves us all amazed. She has talent. I recommend you enroll her in private drawing lessons.”
My mother gives her a warm smile. “That’s a great idea.”
That night, when we get home, my mother bends down to look me in the eye. “Klara, do you like to draw?”
I shrug.
“Your teacher says you’re good at drawing, but I’m not going to put you in private art classes unless it’s something you want to do. Would you like to take drawing lessons?”
I shake my head.
“Okay, that’s fine.”
“I want to paint, Mom.”
“Paint?”
I nod energetically. “Yes, that’s what I want to do.”
And that’s how I began taking art classes.
Being good at drawing is helpful when it comes to painting, but it’s not a requirement.
I’m a good sketcher, but painting is my passion—experimenting with brush techniques, mixing different colors.
My second-grade teacher found it strange that I preferred painting over drawing, but I’m grateful to my mother for taking the time to ask me what I wanted instead of just listening to the teacher. I was lucky to have a mom like her.
I remember the tears of joy in my mother’s eyes when my paintings won a district-wide art award and were exhibited at several schools.
I step back from the painting and stare at it.
The more I look at it, the more I feel like I can see the mood and emotions of the person who painted it.
At first glance, the face looks cheerful, full of color, but looking closer there are colorful tears under the girl’s eyes.
That’s what I like about art: It’s so subjective and lends itself to so many interpretations.
A painting might make me feel one way and make someone else feel completely different.
“Do you like it?”
I jump at the sound of Diego’s voice behind me. I turn to him. “Yes, it’s… It has a lot of feeling.”
“My father told me you liked to paint. Are you taking any art classes?”
I shake my head.
“No, I can’t… not yet.”
“Why not? The way you were looking at that painting—”
“I was just enjoying it; that’s all,” I say, cutting him off.
“Okay… Well, are you ready to go?”
I nod, and we begin to head toward the student parking lot.
Diego’s car is two-toned black and white.
It looks new and classy. We get in and the scent of his cologne permeates the air; it smells great.
It’s the first time in a long time I’ve ridden in a car belonging to someone other than Kamila, Andy, or an Uber driver.
I feel a bit anxious, imagining a variety of horrible accidents, but I’m not as scared as I would’ve expected.
Diego sighs and I hold on to my seatbelt as he pulls out of the parking lot.
We stop at a local drive-thru, where Diego orders two cups of strawberry Jell-O with vanilla ice cream.
Then he drives to the cemetery, and I immediately tense up.
I haven’t been back to the cemetery since the one time I was able to visit my mother’s grave before I was diagnosed with cancer.
Diego cuts off the engine, then turns his hazel eyes on me. “We can leave if you don’t want to be here.”
“No, it’s okay.”
He doesn’t question me further, and instead guides me along lines of gravestones until he finally stops in front of one.
DARIO ANDRADE (JUNE 5, 1978 – NOVEMBER 19, 2023)
BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER.
“DON’T LET FEAR OF DEATH STOP YOU FROM LIVING LIFE.”
P.S. IF YOU CAN’T CLOSE YOUR EYES AND ENJOY THE TASTE OF YOUR FAVORITE FOOD, YOU’RE NOT LIVING.
I feel a tightness in my chest as I remember Dario’s smile and how he changed as we got to know each other better.
We sit to one side of the grave. Diego hands me my cup of Jell-O with ice cream and uncovers his.
“Hey, Dad, I’ve brought a very special visitor today,” he says, glancing at me.
I smile. “Hello, Dario. I’ve come to share this strawberry Jell-O with you. According to Diego, it’s the best in the world—we’ll see about that.”
Diego and I each take a spoonful of Jell-O, closing our eyes to savor the taste and enjoy the texture.
If you can’t close your eyes and enjoy the taste of your favorite food, you’re not living .
The Jell-O is delicious. I didn’t expect it to be so good with ice cream, but it is.
When I open my eyes, I see that Diego is watching me intently. He smiles, lips bright red.
“What?” I ask.
“I thought you were going to ask to leave when you saw where I’d brought you. I’m glad you didn’t.”
“How could I say no to such wonderful company”—I point to his father’s grave—“and such delicious Jell-O?”
“Hey, what about me?”
I rub my chin, as if thinking about it. “Hmmm… You’re ten percent of the reason I’m here.”
“Ten percent?”
“Keep complaining and I’ll have to drop it down to nine.”
Diego laughs. He looks so sweet that I can’t help but laugh along with him. “I can live with ten percent if I can keep hearing you laugh like that.”
I shake my head, still smiling. “You’re crazy.”
We continue joking and eating. When we finish, I look to Dario’s grave. “I think I have to agree with your son. This is some of the best strawberry Jell-O I’ve ever tasted.”
I glance at Diego, who seems lost in thought, his eyes on his father’s tombstone. The sad look on his face makes it clear that he misses him very much. I’m grateful to Diego for bringing me here; somehow, remembering Dario, a person who always encouraged me to stay strong, has lifted my spirits.
“Diego.”
He looks at me, coming back to reality. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
He smiles sadly. “You’re welcome, Hoodie.”
I stand up and offer him my hand. “Let’s go.”
“Are we leaving already?”
“No, I want to introduce you to someone very special to me.”