“You know what I think?” said Clare, her face brightening. “I think you should spend Christmas with us, Teo. Cornelia and I can sleep in her bed, and you can sleep on the couch.” She remembered something, and turned to me. “If it’s OK with you, Cornelia.”
I laughed. “It’s OK with me.” Clare turned back to Teo.
“It’s a really big couch,” she said.
Then the smile she gave Teo turned Clare into a girl only the hardest-hearted among us could refuse, so my old friend Teo, good man, didn’t stand a chance.
14
Clare
In Cornelia’s kitchen, Teo was teaching Clare how to chop.
While Cornelia was still working, they had walked around Chinatown together, buying a big bag of fragrant rice, small yellow mangoes, and the ingredients for a Filipino noodle dish called pancit. They’d also had fun choosing desserts Clare had never seen before, made with unexpected ingredients such as rice, coconut milk, and, most unexpectedly of all, root vegetables like cassava, sweet potato, and a purple yam called ube.
The gruff, elderly woman at the bakery had allowed Clare to sample some of the desserts before choosing, even though she said she didn’t usually do that and made a big show of being reluctant. Clare knew the woman wanted to do it because Teo had asked her. He’d told her his father was from Manila, and he let her shake her finger at him and tease him about his green eyes and his inability to speak Tagalog. Teo taught Clare how to say one of the few phrases he knew, “Maligayang Pasko”—Merry Christmas—and just before they left, he had taken the elderly woman’s hand and pressed it lightly to his forehead. “Salamat,” he said. Thank you. The gesture was called blessing, he told Clare later, and was something children did to adults to show respect. Clare loved it. When no one was looking, she tried it out by lifting one of her own gloved hands in the other.
After shopping, Clare had pushed Cornelia’s little cart back toward the apartment, and Teo had carried the bag of rice over his shoulder like Santa, except that he looked nothing like Santa, of course. He didn’t look like anyone else in the world, as far as Clare could tell, but she didn’t find herself marveling every single second at how handsome he was as she’d thought she would after first spotting him in the café.
As they walked through the city’s Christmastime streets, what Clare did marvel at was how easy it was. The muscles in her body, especially in her neck and between her shoulder blades, relaxed for the first time in a long time. Her body felt like something she was, not something heavy she had to carry around from place to place. The big tree at the courthouse; all the red, green, and gold; the garland and lights wound around everything on Broad Street and down Walnut didn’t hurt her as she’d feared they would. The sky stretched above it all, a single clean blue like a laundered sheet. Out in the snow-scented air, under the sky, she could even think about her mother and of all the Christmases they’d spent walking around those streets together, without slipping into panic.
Clare was not such a little girl that she could spend one morning in a café talking with adults and feel that everything was going to be fine. But after her conversations with Cornelia and Teo, Clare stepped out into a world in which fine was a possibility, in which fine didn’t feel like a distant, dimly shimmering universe she would never enter again. Watching Teo ahead of her carrying the bag and turning around to smile, she understood suddenly what the difference was, such a simple change: She’d been alone for a long time; she wasn’t alone anymore.
She caught up with Teo. She didn’t want to talk—not really. She liked the bubble of easy quiet they walked in, but she wanted to ask one question.
“It’s OK to feel happy, right?” She hoped he’d know what she meant.
“Right. Very OK,” he answered, not looking at her and not slowing down or stopping but smiling into the distance a private smile—more eyes than mouth—more to himself than to her. Then he said, “How are you at chopping?”
Not bad, as it turned out. After Teo showed her how, she rocked the big knife like a seesaw over the scallions, staying at a slight angle, and left a trail of small, fairly precise pieces.
“It’s kind of like the quarter trick, right? You turn off your mind and trust your hands?” asked Clare.
“Kind of. But don’t trust your hands too much. Not yet.” Teo grinned.
Teo was wonderful at it, amazing to behold, so fast and controlled at the same time. Zip, zip, zip, and the carrot became a line of discs, overlapping one another like fallen dominoes, and all just the same width.
“Showoff!” called Cornelia from the couch.
“Are you a surgeon?” asked Clare, a little out of breath from just watching him.
Teo laughed. “If surgeons cut like this, they wouldn’t stay surgeons for long. No, I specialize in therapeutic radiology.”
“What does that mean? X-rays?”
“He’s an oncologist,” said Cornelia, walking up and popping a carrot piece in her mouth. “He treats cancer patients. He just doesn’t like to say it.”
“But treating cancer patients is good,” said Clare.
“Sure it’s good, but saying the word ‘cancer’ can put quite a damper on a dinner party. I’ve seen it happen. ‘Pull up another chair, dear, death just showed up!”’ said Cornelia.
“It’s like a magic spell. You say it, and instantly everyone around you gets depressed,” said Teo, chopping up a Chinese sausage effortlessly, like someone signing his name or shuffling a deck of cards.
“You should become a coffee-bar manager. When I say I’m a coffee-bar manager, instantly everyone around me just thinks I’m an underachiever,” said Cornelia.
Just as Clare was worrying that Cornelia might be talking about what she’d asked that morning, Cornelia put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “And don’t you think I’m talking about you, honey. Besides, there are worse things someone could think about me. At least the term ‘underachiever’ hints that I’m capable of ever so much more. Ever, ever, ever so.”
“On the other hand, maybe you’re flattering yourself. Maybe they’re just thinking you’re a loser,” said Teo innocently, and Clare was rather shocked at this, but Cornelia laughed and threw a piece of sausage. It hit Teo right between the eyes.
“Remember a few hours ago, when I said you were a nice guy? Backspace. Delete.”
“Here’s Cornelia’s story,” began Teo to Clare.
“Oh, a lovely way to begin what I’m sure will be a lovely character assassination,” said Cornelia. Clare wasn’t worried anymore about their being mean to each other. She imagined that someday she’d be part of a friendship in which she and the friend thought so highly of each other and were so sure of this that they could say anything.
“Cornelia’s story is that she’s unquestionably smart,” said Teo.
“Unquestionably. Without question,” agreed Cornelia.
“Growing up, every kid in our neighborhood heard, ‘Why can’t you get grades like that little Cornelia Brown?”’
“‘Little’ being the operative word,” said Cornelia. “When you’re thirteen and look like you’re nine, you develop that which is developable.”
“And she’s talented, too. But her personal favorites among her talents, the ones she’s decided to make the most of, are not necessarily the kinds of talents that lend themselves to a career,” said Teo.
“Readily,” corrected Cornelia. “That lend themselves readily to a career.”
Teo lifted just his eyes from the cutting board and flashed Cornelia an evil grin. Clare almost gasped, but stopped the sound in the back of her throat and held it there, like a kid caught with a cigarette and a mouthful of smoke. She’d been telling herself she’d gotten used to Teo’s face, but she’d been wrong. By the time she realized she was holding her breath, she had no choice but to pant a little to get enough air. When she noticed Cornelia noticing this, Clare turned the panting into a cough.
“While the rest of us were in med school and law school
and grad school and business school or whatever,” Teo continued, “Cornelia was studying hard too, but subjects like funny conversation. Sarcasm. Cleverness. What am I leaving out?”
“Wit. At least, give me wit. And making light of serious matters. And flattery—backhanded, of course,” Cornelia said, pretending to count on her fingers.
“And personal style. According to my sources, Cornelia doesn’t have a ton of money to throw around, but she’s always had great personal style,” said Teo, gesturing around at the apartment.
“You do.” Clare nodded enthusiastically. “You have great personal style. Great plates and pajamas.”
Cornelia laughed. “I was born in the wrong century. I could have been an ace courtesan.” Then she looked at Teo with a serious, wondering face. “But here’s the thing, Teo. You’re right. You’re exactly right. What you just said, that is my story.”
“Of course it is,” said Teo.
“I just never thought anyone else knew that. If I can apologize in advance for sounding like some idiot high school girl, I’d just like to say that I feel so—gotten.” Cornelia pressed her hands to her heart and made her voice high and gushy when she said this last part, but she wasn’t really joking.
Teo shrugged, said, “Apology accepted,” and looked down at the chopped meat and vegetables, his face pleased but shy, as it had been that morning when he’d stood in the doorway of the café. Teo, Cornelia, and Clare stood there in the kitchen for a moment, hushed—Teo looking at the vegetables, Cornelia looking at Teo, and Clare looking at them both. For a few seconds Clare felt so warm and peaceful and normal, like she was suddenly standing in a pool of sunlight in a familiar place. Home. For a few seconds, this spot felt like home.
Then there was knock at the door, and Cornelia answered it, and it was Clare’s father. Before he noticed anyone else was there, he hugged Cornelia and leaned down to rest his forehead on her shoulder briefly, then he kissed the top of her head. When he pulled away, his arms fell to his sides, and Clare saw that his face had a somber expression on it, maybe even a sad expression. He looked worried, too—his eyes looked worried. Clare thought about how her father had said he’d been learning how to read Cornelia’s face. Clare didn’t think she knew much about her father’s face, but whatever the expression was, it was real, she could tell.
Then Clare’s father noticed her standing there, and then noticed Teo. “Hello, everyone,” he said, and all the sadness was gone. His smile was assured, expectant, and perfectly symmetrical.
“Hi,” said Clare. And then, because she had seen him standing there, unhappy, in his coat with his arms hanging inside its sleeves, and had felt sorry for him, and because feeling sorry for her father was a new feeling, she added, “Dad.”
“Martin, this is Teo Sandoval, my sister Ollie’s husband. He appeared at the café this morning hungry and with petrified bones, so we took him in,” said Cornelia, brightly. “Teo, this is Martin Grace.”
“Nice to meet you, Teo, petrified bones and all.” Clare’s father put out his hand. “Or are they better?”
Teo rubbed his hands together, then shook Clare’s father’s hand. “The bones are better, but the hands are pretty garlicky. Sorry about that.”
“What’s cooking, Sparrow?” Clare’s father unbuttoned his coat, and Cornelia slid it from his shoulders. She tossed it over the back of the couch first, but then picked it up.
“You’ll stay for dinner, Martin?” she said, “I mean, naturally, you’ll stay for dinner.” She ran her hand over her hair, then took Clare’s father’s coat and hung it in the coat closet.
Clare found herself talking to her father about the shopping trip with Teo and about how they’d brought the groceries back in the cart, with the sack of rice over Teo’s shoulder, and about the dish she and Teo were making. It was easy to talk to her father now, and she remembered that much of the time, in the past, talking to him had been pretty easy. For most of Clare’s life, there’d been so much distance between her father and herself, an empty space across which she could send stories or information because telling him mattered so little. She only ran into difficulties when she wanted him to like her, which she’d fallen into now and then over the years, or when she’d needed something from him, which she’d never done until recently, or when she was furious at him, as she’d been just yesterday. At least for now, that fury had fallen away. He was just the near-stranger he’d always been.
She told him about Teo blessing the woman in the bakery.
“Why don’t you show him?” suggested Teo. So Clare did what she’d wanted to do since they’d left the bakery: She walked over to Teo, carefully put her palm under his, lifted his hand, and touched it to her forehead. Teo smiled at her, but then looked quickly over at Clare’s father. Clare saw concern in Teo’s face. Puzzled, Clare looked at her father too. He was leaning casually against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, and had started in about some other country he’d been to in which the children performed some similarly charming gesture. Her father was fine.
Even so, she was glad her cooking project kept her too busy to talk to him much. Teo showed her how to peel and de-vein the shrimp and then cut them lengthwise. As she worked on this, he chopped cooked pork and chicken and cabbage. The sharp blade through the cabbage made a lovely sound. Then he cut the ends off each crisp snow pea.
While they were cooking, Cornelia made two small platters of snacks: wedges of cheese, pieces of French loaf, clementines, and grapes so purple they were nearly black. She put one platter in the kitchen for Teo and Clare and set the other on the coffee table; then she joined Clare’s father on the sofa.
Cornelia had left a couple of feet between them, and Clare’s father reached across and rested his hand on the back of Cornelia’s neck, as though to draw her to him. Cornelia didn’t move closer, but she reached up and pressed his hand with hers, briefly. Then she reached for a clementine and began to peel it with her swift, delicate hands. Clare thought how disappointed her father must be. If none of this had happened, if Clare weren’t here, he would have had Cornelia to himself. He’d probably made all kinds of fancy Christmas plans for the two of them—romantic plans. Clare imagined air travel and boxes within boxes. Even though she didn’t want to be with him, either, and of course didn’t want her mother to have gotten sick and left her, Clare felt a short, mean rush of satisfaction. Even her father couldn’t have everything the way he wanted it all the time.
Cornelia gave half the peeled clementine to Clare’s father. He didn’t eat it, but rocked it distractedly back and forth in his cupped hand.
“I spoke to Lloyd. The good news is that the Barcelona tickets were never used. In fact, there’s no indication that Viviana got on a plane going anywhere,” said Clare’s father. “The bad news is that before she picked Clare up at school that day, she withdrew a large sum of money from the bank. If she’s using cash, we won’t be able to track her credit-card charges.”
“I can hear you,” Clare wanted to call across the room. “I’m not deaf. You know that, right?”
Immediately, Cornelia turned her attention from Clare’s father to Clare. Their eyes met.
“Clare,” said Cornelia, waving her over, “your father was just filling me in on the search for your mom. Come sit with us?”
Clare’s father looked startled, which disgusted Clare. He never realized how old she was. She remembered being in the car with him the morning before, after they’d driven away from her empty house, how he’d said, “I bet some really good hot chocolate would fix you right up.” Now she imagined him thinking, The baby’s over there, busy with her noodles and shrimp; she won’t notice we’re discussing her life right in front of her.
“No, thanks,” Clare said nonchalantly. “Maybe you can just tell me about it later, Cornelia.” She popped a grape into her mouth, turned her back on them, and stood there wishing she had something to do with her hands when Teo handed her a big pan and said, “Ready?”
As Clare sautée
d garlic and onions, she focused on distilling her feelings down to simple gladness that her mother had not left the country. Everything they didn’t know about where her mother was or what she was doing tried to crowd in with its darkness and clamor, but she willed herself to ignore it, to push it out and slam the door. It was only when Teo put his hand over hers, the one that held the funny metal spatula that resembled a child’s sandbox shovel, that she realized how hard she was gripping it.
“There you go,” he said, shifting the garlic and onion around in the pan. “Perfect.”
The pancit was delicious; everyone said so, even Teo and Clare—especially Teo and Clare. Clare said it was better than spaghetti, lo mein, pad thai, and spaetzle put together, and Cornelia congratulated her on her sophisticated palate.
“When I was eleven, I didn’t know spaetzle from pretzels,” Cornelia said.
“Or pad thai from bad pie,” said Clare’s father.
“Or lo mein from Rogaine,” said Clare, who had thought of this in the nick of time, and everyone laughed.
“When you were little, did your mother make this?” Clare asked Teo.
“My dad makes it. My mother tells this story about how, before they got married, a whole troop of my dad’s aunts came to meet her. They brought her a big pearl ring and some other stuff to wear at the wedding, but she figured out pretty fast that this was just an excuse. Their true mission was to teach her how to cook.”
“Did she learn?” asked Clare.
“Sure. She learned. And then, after the wedding, the aunts boarded the plane to go home, and she promptly forgot everything. Turned the kitchen over to my dad, for which we are all eternally grateful,” said Teo.