Blood Calls. Caridad Pineiro
look before he left.
One look too much, he realized, when he saw that she had curled up into a ball and was crying. Her tears tugged at his heart, but before he did something he would truly regret, Diego surged off the roof, the sight of her crying driving him away, since all he could do was bring her yet more tears.
* * *
Ramona dashed the tears from her face, chastising herself for her weakness. She should never have given in to the remnants of the dream—one filled with her and Diego making love.
But she had let her need guide her, and the physical satisfaction she had given herself had been gratifying at first. Then the realization had come of how empty it was. Much like her life. Much the way her life would end.
Empty and alone.
She had spent her early teen years struggling to survive in the barrio, joining a small street gang for protection and company. With her dad gone and her mother slowly losing her mind, there hadn’t been anyone else to turn to.
A bad mistake. Their petty thievery and rivalry with another gang had landed Ramona in juvie for a few difficult months. It wasn’t the time in the detention center that had been hard, it was worrying whether her mother was coping alone. Luckily, a caring counselor had helped her out and provided her mother with a visiting nurse.
That and an art class during her incarceration had set Ramona on the path to a college scholarship. After, she had devoted much of her later teen years and early twenties to her art, perfecting it at the cost of a social life. Any time not in the studio was spent caring for her mother at home, until the Alzheimer’s worsened and her mom had to be institutionalized.
Ramona had dated now and again during the last few years, but had found no man she could imagine spending the rest of her life with. No man as attractive as Diego, who had become her patron shortly after her graduation from college.
Now thirty was just a stone’s throw away, only she wasn’t sure she would reach that age. She had been battling the anemia robbing her of life for almost three years, since the diagnosis that had rocked her world.
Dying didn’t bother her as much as the thought of dying alone and unsatisfied. Of dying without ever knowing the kind of love she had seen her parents share before her father’s own untimely death and her mother’s illness.
Diego, she knew, was capable of a love like that. She had known of his devotion to Esperanza and had seen his pain after his lover had passed.
What would it be like to love or be loved like that?
Sadness filled Ramona as she realized she could never explore her attraction to Diego. It wouldn’t be fair to him, because of her illness. Not to mention that they were from such different worlds, his one of wealth and hers of the streets.
Had she stayed in the old neighborhood, stealing would have been part of her life. A life possibly meant to end quickly by gang violence.
Her art had helped her escape the streets, but not her fate—a life cut short, and tainted now by the fact that her skills had helped someone steal from others.
She should have realized something had been odd about van Winter’s request and refused it, but she had been desperate for the money for her mother’s care.
But maybe Ramona hadn’t been deceived. Maybe there was some rational explanation for why her paintings had been on display.
As she settled back against the pillows, she knew she had to find out and make things right.
Her stint in juvie had hurt her mother and dishonored her father’s name. She didn’t plan to die with people thinking that she was thief.
The facility Ramona had chosen for her mother supposedly provided the best care for patients with Alzheimer’s disease. But what had cinched the selection had been the wonderfully manicured grounds and almost parklike settings around the buildings.
Her mom loved the outdoors, and Ramona knew the lush gardens and lawns would give her joy even when she could no longer understand anything else.
It was the reason Ramona didn’t mind the long ride out on the railroad to the institution, although she regretted that her own illness had cut back on her visits. Lately there were days when she didn’t even have the strength to get out of bed, much less spend several hours on the train. Beyond the physical demands was also the emotional drain of seeing her once loving and caring mother fade before her eyes. It was sometimes more than Ramona could bear.
She had been feeling physically stronger today and needed to visit, to talk with her mami about all that had happened. If it was a good day, her mother might actually be able to understand bits and pieces, and listen and nod. Ramona imagined those nods to be answers and not just twitches.
On a bad day, her mom would stare at her vacantly, as if she didn’t even know she was there, much less recognize her.
As the train chugged along, making stop after stop, Ramona prayed today would be a good day.
She arrived at the facility nearly two hours later, and was greeted by the receptionist.
“Ms. Escobar. So good to see you again. Dr. Cavanaugh wanted to speak with you if you have a moment,” the woman said as she handed Ramona a visitor’s badge.
“Of course, Mabel.” The older black lady had always been pleasant and helpful during her many visits. “I’d like to see my mother first, though.”
With an efficient bob of her head, Mabel called down for an orderly to escort her to her room.
“I’ll let Dr. Cavanaugh know that you’re here.”
Ramona nodded and followed the attendant down the hall to the first-floor room with a view of the grounds. He opened the door for her and she walked in.
Her mother was in a comfortable rocker by the windows facing the gardens, her back to the door. A nurse was at her side, patting her mom on the shoulder as she said, “That’s wonderful, Anita. Wonderful.”
As the woman saw Ramona, she forced a smile, patted her again and said, “You have a visitor, Anita. Ramona is here.”
It was a bad day, Ramona realized immediately.
She walked to her mother’s side and pulled up a chair. As she met the nurse’s gaze, she noted the kindness and concern there and mouthed a thank-you.
The woman nodded and left her alone with the shell of what had once been her lively and vivacious mother. Ramona slipped her hand over Anita’s where it rested on the arm of the rocker. Nothing hinted that she even sensed her touch.
Anita just stared straight ahead at the gardens, a blank, distant look on her face.
Tears threatened and Ramona’s throat choked up from the emotion she suppressed. She wouldn’t allow sadness to intrude on their time together, so instead, she sat by the rocker and told her mother all about the new paintings she had done and the show Diego had arranged. She skipped possibly being part of an art fraud, and instead focused on her plans for the gallery opening in barely a week.
She even allowed herself to fantasize for a moment, describing what she might wear and how Diego would notice her, how he’d spend the night at her side and maybe even take her for a celebratory drink after. And then who knew?
Ramona talked until she was almost hoarse, but she doubted her mother even heard a word.
When she looked at her watch, she realized she had been there for nearly two hours, and Dr. Cavanaugh might be waiting for her. Rising, she dropped a kiss on her mother’s cheek. The skin was familiar against her lips, and her mami’s smell that of her youth. Ramona had made a point of getting her mother’s favorite cologne and had requested the nurses use it as a way to try and keep her mind focused on familiar things.
It was the reason that many of the items that had once been in their Spanish Harlem apartment were now in her mother’s room. Her parents’ wedding pictures. School photos of Ramona at various