oma por favor,” said Adán’s father. “Es
tu desayuno preferido.”
Adán looked down at his plate. Huevos rancheros. Adán
remembered how he actually dreamt of his father’s breakfasts
while in Iraq. The dreams were so real that when he finally awoke
and realized that he wasn’t going to be eating his father’s
cooking, he felt sadder, lonelier, farther from home than before.
But now that he’d been back for months, Adán felt
as though he couldn’t taste anything. Not even Mexican
spices. His father stood over him waiting. Adán politely
dug his fork into the eggs, beans and tortilla, and put the large
mound into his mouth.
“Tastes great,” he said. “Perfect.”
His father smiled, grabbed the coffeepot and poured two mugs
of coffee. “What you going to do today, mijo?” he
asked as he put the mugs on the table and sat down near his son.
“Did the paper come?” asked Adán.
“Over there, on the counter where it always is this time
of morning.”
Adán stood slowly. His father sighed and sat back to
watch. Adán walked to the counter. But rather than bring
it to the breakfast table, he spread the front page out and scanned
the headlines.
“Son of a bitch Sadr cut a deal with that goddamned Ayatollah,” he
said. “No repercussions for the people he killed.”
His father nodded even though Adán couldn’t see. “Well,
what do you expect. It’s crazy over there. Our rules don’t
apply.”
“Goddamn it.”
“¿Qué más?”
“No, it’s this goddamned foot,” said Adán. “I
need to get it adjusted or something. It doesn’t seem to
give enough.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Too goddamned stiff.”
“Shouldn’t you complain or something? Talk to your
advocate?”
Adán came back to his chair without the newspaper. “I
have physical therapy today. I’ll ask about it.” He
pushed his plate away. “That’s what I’m doing
today, Pop. How about you?”
“Haircut. And then I’m going to visit your mother.”
Adán took a gulp of coffee. “You need a haircut
to see Mom?” He wished the words hadn’t come out.
His father hesitated for a moment as if he were weighing several
different responses. Finally: “Do you think you need to
be fitted for a new foot? You know they’ll pay for it.
You don’t have keep that one if it’s bothering you.”
Adán looked at his father. “It took me forever
to get this goddamned thing approved.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know if they’ll approve a new one.
I mean, remember what I went through with DME? And the Chief
of Prosthetics? Everyone had to approve everyone else’s
approval. Goddamned bureaucrats.”
Adán’s father rubbed his face. “Oh, there’s
a message for you. By the phone.”
“Who?”
“Tina.”
“Shit.”
“You don’t have to call back but you know, you
gotta tell me to tell her not to call again. I can’t just
keep on lying.”
Adán finished his coffee with a large gulp. “I
know.”
“She’s a nice girl.”
“I know Pop.”
Adán’s father looked at his watch. “Gotta
go.”
“Yeah, Pop.”
“Haircut and then your mother.”
“Say hi to her,” said Adán. “Tell
her I’ll come by soon.”
“I will, mijo. I will.”
dán eased his car into one of the parking slots behind the building.
As he pulled the parking brake up, he wondered how bad things would have been
if he had lost his right foot. Driving would have been complicated beyond belief
with eleven inches of titanium, kevlar and polyurethane between his flesh and
the gas pedal. He probably would have had to install a left foot gas pedal
or hand controls. But he wasn’t certain. All Adán knew was that
he used his right foot to drive the way most people use their fingers to put
in contact lenses: subtly, with great control, but almost without thinking.
It could be worse, his father had told him the first night back from Iraq.
Yes. It could be. But those words didn’t help much.
Adán opened his car door and waited a moment before
putting his left foot out. The noon heat quickly overcame the
air conditioned interior. He sighed and pulled himself up. Adán
remembered what his physical therapist, Chet, had said when he
was first fitted with the foot: walking is really just falling
forward. The key was not to forget this. The other rule Chet
told Adán to remember: heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe. And
Chet should know. He had lost both legs just below the knee to
a mine in Desert Storm. He made it look so simple. Chet even
skied. “It’s basic physics,” he’d advised. “And
a lot of sweat. Don’t forget the sweat.”
Adán rang the buzzer. A small, pretty woman pulled back
the blinds, smiled, unlocked the glass door which a little click,
and opened it.
“Ah,” she said. “Good to see you. Come in.”
Adán nodded and offered a small smile. He entered slowly.
The woman waited patiently for him to move far enough so she
could close and lock the door.
“Is Claire free?” Adán asked as he pulled
out his wallet and fished out several bills.
The woman shook her head. She reached for the money and said: “She
is busy. We have another nice woman. Just like Claire. Much better.”
Adán released the money. “Okay.”
The woman put the money in her skirt pocket and touched Adán’s
arm gently. “Come back with me.”
Adán followed her down a hall with doors, some opened,
some closed, aligning both sides. Soft, nondescript music filled
the air punctuated by a few, muffled voices coming from behind
the closed doors. The woman finally stopped at an open door near
the end of the hall.
“Here,” she said as she motioned with a small hand. “She
will be here in a minute. Her name is Jasmine.”
“Thanks,” he said as he entered the room.
“Please get undressed. Get comfortable.” The woman
bowed and then closed the door.
Adán looked around and tried to get used to the dim
light from a miniature lamp that sat on what looked light a nightstand
by the massage table. He undressed and hung his clothes on a
hanger behind the door. Adán sat with a little grunt on
the folding chair in the corner of the room and removed his foot
placing it carefully under him. He stood and hopped to the massage
table, put a large, white towel over his midsection, and lay
on his back. He wondered if this were a mistake. Claire was used
to him. She was gentle, didn’t look surprised when she
looked at Adán’s body. He realized that Claire was
paid to make men happy about themselves. But he had a deep sense
that she cared for him, on some basic, human level. Maybe even
in a sexual way. And she became part of his secret routine before
each physical therapy session. After time with Claire, Adán
felt like a complete man. It fortified him for the frustrations
of P.T. This special time with Claire kept him from giving up
altogether.
A soft knock brought Adán out of his thoughts. The door
opened and small face peeked in. “Hello,” she said. “May
I come in? I’m Jasmine.”
It was too late now. Adán’s courtesy took over
and made it impossible to leave. He nodded. Jasmine did in fact
look a lot like Claire but a little plumper which didn’t
bother him at all. Adán preferred a little meat on his
women. He then noticed that Jasmine didn’t do a double
take at Adán’s stump peeking out from under the
towel. Either the woman warned Jasmine or she was a complete
pro. Probably a combination of both. She walked to Adán
and touched his hand.
“What would you like?”
“Let’s begin with my back and then I’ll tell
you what feels good.” This was how he had started with
Claire. She eventually remembered exactly what Adán wanted.
He turned onto his stomach and Jasmine began to work on his shoulders.
Just as he started to get relaxed, she surprised him.
“How did you lose it?” Jasmine’s voice was
as soft and comforting as his mother’s once was.
Adán was even more surprised that he answered: “In
the war.”
“But how?” she persisted.
And he answered again: “Like a lot of people. Land mine.”
She rubbed deeper into his shoulders and whispered into his
ear, “Where?”
“What?”
“What city?”
“A place called Hit,” he said as he turned onto
his back to look at Jasmine. “In Western Iraq.”
Jasmine sat at the edge of the table. “I know this city.”
Adán studied her face. He could see now that she very
well could know Iraq but he was afraid to ask any questions.
But her accent, coloring, it all fit. He also realized that Jasmine
was not her real name. She touched his cheek.
“I know this city,” she said again.
When did Jasmine leave Iraq? Was America her liberator? Or was
she angry at this soldier? And did she believe he deserved his
injury? If she harbored these feelings, her face betrayed nothing.
Adán pulled her hand closer and kissed it. He then ever
so slowly moved it to his groin. Jasmine took in a long breath.
“Lie down,” she said. “Relax.”
Adán complied. He looked at the ceiling as Jasmine reached
for a bottle of Baby Oil that sat on the nightstand. She poured
some onto her hand, put the bottle down, and rubbed her hands
together. “Relax,” she said again.
Adán closed his eyes. Jasmine’s small hands felt
so good. And his mind bounced from thought to thought, image
to image. He wondered how long his mother would be allowed to
stay in the assisted living residence before her mind went altogether
and she became unmanageable. Adán had only visited three
times since he’d been home. He wondered if she even knew
that he had been there. Maybe he had never visited his mother.
He had trouble remembering getting there, being directed to her
room, chatting. Maybe she was already gone. Maybe it didn’t
matter anymore. All that mattered was this little, dim room and
Jasmine or Claire or any of the other women who worked here.
Yes. Yes. As Jasmine’s hands moved faster, Adán
now felt certain of this one true thing. There was nothing left
but this. Him and Jasmine. He had no need for anything else.
Not really.
[END]
© 2005 Daniel A. Olivas - Contributor's
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