Cleopatra and Frankenstein(81)

The discussion was led by Dominique, a smiling Jamaican American who wore fuchsia lipstick and dresses made of swaths of bright, diaphanous fabrics. When she moved, her long braids swung across her back like ropes of twisted pastry. Santiago thought she was beautiful and would have liked to ask her out, but after being weighed in front of her, he’d lost his nerve. Dominique herself had lost over one hundred pounds thanks to the program and was a testament to the fact it was possible to not only shed weight but—hardest of all—keep it off. She was still not a small woman, but, as she told the group, she could reach down to tie her own shoelaces now, and that was priceless.

It had been a hard week for the group. One woman had been given a birthday cake at work she could not eat, another’s daughter was complaining that she no longer had bagels in the house, one man had been on a date during which the only thing on the menu he could order was a large plate of broccoli, resulting in some untimely flatulence. Santiago had also been challenged. He was in the midst of opening his second restaurant, as well as a pop-up in LA, and between the menu tastings and photoshoots and outpouring of money—he had shakily written a deposit check for more than he’d earned in his entire twenties that week—it had been hard not to “self-soothe,” as the group called it, with a binge. Sometimes Santiago envied recovering alcoholics and drug addicts; at least they could abstain altogether. Food addicts still had to eat.

But he had not binged, and now, in addition to the satisfaction of being able to buckle his belt on the tightest hole for the first time in years, he’d been rewarded with a yellow tote bag inscribed with the words “Slimmer of the Week!” in bubbly cursive. He was proudly carrying this prize down to the restaurant when Frank called.

It took Santiago several moments to understand what Frank was saying, in part because an ambulance siren was wailing in the background, but mostly because he kept using the word accident to describe what had happened to Cleo. Cleo’s had an accident. Images of bike crashes, kitchen fires, and hit-and-runs flooded Santiago’s mind, but eventually he pieced together that what had happened to Cleo was not an accident at all, but something achingly deliberate. Frank’s voice caught as he went over the details.

“Thirty stitches,” he was saying. “In her arm. Apparently, they have to hold patients in the psychiatric unit for at least seventy-two hours if they, um—” Here, Santiago could hear Frank struggling to find the right words. “Do what she did,” he settled on.

“Ay, dios mío.” Santiago shook his head softly. “I’m so sorry, man.”

“But the paperwork took forever.” Frank’s voice hardened. “So they left her on a gurney in the emergency room hallway all night. The fucking hallway! She was pretty out of it on pain meds, but it was … Well, you can imagine the shit that goes down in an emergency room at night. It was rough, man. They finally transferred her up to psych yesterday.”

“Is she okay there?”

“I just left,” Frank continued. “And visiting hours don’t open again until 2 p.m. But I have to go back to work. We have this huge client meeting I just can’t miss. Basically, I was wondering if you could go sit with her at two? I’d ask one of her friends, but they’re so—”

“Of course, brother,” said Santiago. “I’ll be there. Can I bring anything?”

“No, no. I dropped off her clothes this morning. Just bring yourself.”

“And how are you doing with all this? Are you okay?”

Frank gave a dry, scraped laugh down the phone.

“To be honest, I could use a drink. But I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s Cleo I’m worried about.”

“Remember to take care of yourself too,” said Santiago, repeating something Dominique had told him. “You owe yourself the same care you give to others.”

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” said Frank suddenly. “About Cleo? It was a mistake, and I don’t want anyone thinking … the wrong thing about her.”

“I would never say anything that hurt you or Cleo.”

“I know, man. Thank you. You’re a good friend.”

Santiago had unwittingly stopped walking; as he hung up, he suddenly became aware of the people streaming around him, nudging his girth with their elbows and bags. He was sick of taking up so much space. He stepped into the bike lane to avoid them and checked his phone again. It was midday, a couple of hours before visiting hours started. The thought of going to the restaurant to talk about barstool designs and table arrangements was incomprehensible. He would have liked to eat something, but he had already had his muesli breakfast and allotted morning snack that day, a single apple with a tablespoon of almond butter. Just across the street was the tantalizing orange and pink of a Dunkin’ Donuts. He imagined biting into soft, warm dough, the powdered sugar coating his mouth, quieting his mind. He looked down at his yellow tote bag. He couldn’t throw this week’s progress away, not when Dominique had said she was proud of him.

If he couldn’t eat, he could at least cook. He went home to make something for Cleo. He decided to prepare his favorite comfort food, arroz con leche, or Spanish rice pudding. It was what his grandmother made for him back in Lima when he’d had a hard day at school, “to sweeten your grief,” she would say. He boiled the rice in milk and added a cinnamon stick, watching the thick, creamy mixture swirl against the wooden spoon. His grandmother told him that his ancestors in Babylon had made this same dish thousands of years ago, sweetening the mixture with honey and dates. Today, he would make it the way she had taught him, with vanilla and orange peel. He added the condensed milk and inhaled the cloud of sweet steam that enveloped him.