Have You Seen Luis Velez?(46)

Raymond sat on the very edge of her bed.

“But that wasn’t really the question, though. Not so much if you felt hungry or felt like eating. I was asking if you would eat. If I fixed something and brought it in here, if you would at least try to get some of it down the way you did this morning. Because people need food to live. And the food doesn’t care if you really wanted it or not. It nourishes you either way.”

They sat in silence for a minute or two.

Then she said, “I feel like I’m letting you down, Raymond. Like I’m holding you back from the way you deserve to live.”

For some reason it made his face tingle. Almost a fear response. Or maybe embarrassment.

“I’m not sure why you would say that.”

“You want me to be okay. To get up and feel better. And go on.”

“Yeah,” he said. “And you want me to make the world a place where nobody would shoot Luis, because their gun would still be in their purse when they found out he was only trying to return their wallet. But I’m not taking it on that I can’t do that for you. I’m not seeing that as any personal failure on my part.”

“Good point, my friend. Good point.”

Another silent minute or two.

“Maybe a scrambled egg,” she said.

“Coming right up.”

“I feel bad having you wait on me hand and foot like this.”

“Don’t,” he said. “It’s no trouble.”

“What did I do to deserve such a good friend as you, Raymond?”

It might have been a lightly tossed-off comment. Raymond wasn’t sure. But he decided to approach it as a genuine question.

“I think you’re the first person I’ve ever known . . . I might not say it right. We’ll see . . . who really sees me. And I mean the whole thing of me, not just the part that fits with how they want to see me. And it seems weird to me, because the first person I met who really sees me for all of who I am . . . you know . . . can’t see.”

“When it comes to seeing what is important about a person,” she said, “I think it’s possible that what our eyes tell us is only a distraction. Not that I wouldn’t take them back if I could. Oh, I would. I miss seeing. But I also like the things I’ve learned to see without them.”

“What if I made you two scrambled eggs?” he asked, sensing a slight lift in the mood. Both of their moods. “Would you try to eat two?”

“Yes. For Raymond, at least I will try.”



When he arrived back at his own apartment, he closed himself into his room and opened his laptop. He found what he had hoped to find: an email from Isabel.

Dear Raymond, it said.

I think it’s hitting us all hard, those of us who knew him well. But this is new information for her, so be patient. It’s nice that you’re worried about her, but people take time to process bad news. I’m not even going to try to tell you that worry is not appropriate. Maybe it is. I’m only going to remind you of something you likely already know: that there’s not a whole lot you can do to help her with this. You’re making sure she has her basic needs met, and that’s a lot.

I’ll come by with the kids on Saturday, while you’re away at your father’s.

Should I think about running to the store for her, or will you be making sure she has enough in the house to eat before you go?

Thanks for everything. You’re a very sweet boy.

Sincerely,





Isabel Velez

Raymond sat a minute, feeling the way his face burned whenever someone said a thing like that to him. Even in writing. Even when they were nowhere around.

Then he hit “Reply.”

Isabel, he typed.

I’ll go through her cupboards this week and make sure she’s stocked up on everything. It’s hard to get her to eat much, but there have to be enough groceries in the house that I can push her to eat a little, which is what I’ve been doing. You might try getting her to eat something while you’re there. If it works, I’ll appreciate it. Or even if it doesn’t, thank you for trying.

—Raymond

No sooner had he hit “Send” than the door to his room flew open, and his mother’s voice bellowed in.

“Get off the line with your girlfriend and come eat dinner,” she said. “I can’t believe I had to call you twice.”



His father’s wife opened the apartment door. His stepmother, he should probably have called her. But she was less than ten years older than Raymond, so it felt too weird.

He tended to call her by her first name, despite having no idea if she objected to that or not.

“Hi, Neesha,” he said.

It was Friday afternoon, and he had no choice but to show up at this door. It was the way his life had been planned out for him. He had no way of influencing the situation. Not that he minded seeing his father; that was generally good. But it was uncomfortable to have to show up on Friday before the man was even home.

“Raymond,” she said in reply.

That’s all. Just “Raymond.” Not “Hello.” Not “How are you?” or even “Come in.” Just a statement of his name, a random fact. A bit of trivia she probably felt she was doing well enough by remembering.

He stood in silence in the hallway, looking down at her through the open apartment door. His canvas duffel bag rested on one shoulder. It was beginning to feel heavy.