“I’m sorry. It must have been hard growing up without both your parents.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Both my parents are still alive. At least I’m sure one is.” My brows furrowed, utterly perplexed and he went on, “My mother walked out on us when I was a baby. This room is in the exact same condition she left it in. Nothing has been moved or touched. Sometimes my father comes in here, sits for hours talking to her as if she were still here. This house is sort of a shrine, and this room is his holy place. He wants to hold on to everything of hers, and refuses to accept that she’s gone.”
That was sad. I wanted to say something comforting but I had no idea what.
Glancing around, I spotted a picture of a couple on the nightstand. I reached for it but Ezra clenched my wrist before my hands touched the wooden frame.
“Don’t touch anything. He’ll know if something is moved.”
“You told me she died,” I whispered afraid of being heard. After what he told me, I imagined his mother’s spirit hovering the room.
“It’s what I tell everyone. It’s easier than saying: I don’t know where she is.” He blew out a breath. “When I was younger, I used to make up all sorts of excuses when my friends asked about her. When I was fifteen, I stopped making excuses and decided to kill her off.” My eyes grew large. “Figuratively of course.”
I crouched to get a better look at the picture. I’d always thought Ezra and Vinnie had quite a resemblance and from the picture I saw why. His father and Vinnie looked almost like twins. Although his father was younger in the picture, their eyes were the same deep, brown shade. Their noses were both sharp and their angular bone structure very similar. The woman next to him with long, dark hair was unmistakably Latina. They were both smiling in the picture and hugging like a regular, happy couple. It was a tragic story but I didn’t understand why he’d brought me here.
“C’mon let’s go downstairs,” Ezra said, “this place gives me the chills.”
He took my hand—and there was that tranquility I felt whenever he touched me—leading me down the stairs, towards an open-plan kitchen and living space.
Everything was outdated. The kitchen cupboards were light-colored wood and some were without doors. The refrigerator was white and one look at it revealed it was an old model. In the living room, more wallpaper. It was like an obsession. The leather of the black couches was peeling and the rug was worn out.
He helped me settle on a chair and went to the fridge. At least it was working.
“I have nothing good here,” he spoke with his head stuck inside the fridge. “Just soda.”
“If there’s water in the tap, I’ll take it.” He shut the fridge door, reached for a glass and filled it with water.
“Did this glass belong to your mother?” I eyed it nervously.
“Yes, it did. One of the few still left.”
Afraid to touch the glass, not wanting to ruin any piece of this museum, I simply stared at the water.
“Where’s your father?”
“Some medical conference in Europe.”
By the counter, I spotted a pad and without asking permission, I reached for it. “Are these your famous sketches?”
“No.” He chuckled. “They’re drawings that magically appear wherever I go.”
Ignoring his sarcastic remark, I flipped through the pages. Most of the drawings were of landscapes. Everything was done in pencil, the shades he created around the trees, waves and mountains gave life to the pictures. They were vivid like they were leaping out of the page.
I closed the book, returned it and clasped my hands. “Ezra, why am I here?”
“Because I wanted you to see that everyone’s a little cra—” He stopped and corrected himself. “A little off. We all have issues. You’re not the only one going through shit in life and you shouldn’t be embarrassed by it.”
I rolled my eyes. “So you decided to play therapist and show me your mommy issues? So what? I could open up to you?”
He chuckled. “No, that’s not it. I was raised by Vinnie and his wife; they’re like parents to me. I only moved back here in my late teenage years for, um, privacy.”
“Daddy issues then?” He laughed again. “I don’t have issues, Christina. I had a great childhood.”
I stopped guessing and waited for clarification.
“When you don’t deal with stuff this ...” He motioned around the room. “Is how you end up, minus the cats. My father’s life is on pause, he can’t move forward because he is stuck on the day she left. He walks, talks, goes to work but if you look at him—he’s a robot. He has no life in him. I think he’s hoping one day she’ll return, and they can pick up things right from where they left off. I understand he loved her, but she’s gone.”
Ezra spoke with such ease about the subject as if it didn’t affect him. Calm like a mere spectator to all of this.
“Why did she leave?” I wrapped my hand around the water glass but was unable to lift it.
“My parents met when they were young. She was seventeen. An immigrant trying to make it as a dancer and then one thing led to another. Apparently, a year later she got pregnant and it all became too much for her. She decided that it wasn’t the life she wanted for herself. From what I was told, she moved back to Mexico to pursue her dreams. No one has heard from her since.”
“Don’t you resent or miss her?”
“You can’t miss what you never had and I don’t remember her. If it wasn’t for the picture in their room, I’d have no idea what she even looked like.” He smiled tightly. “When I was younger, I hated her, not for abandoning me, but for hurting my father.” He winced at the thought. I noticed the subject bothered him more than what he let on. “With the help of Vinnie and my aunt, I was able to let go of the rage I carried. I realized that my anger didn’t solve or change anything.”
“What if she comes back?”
He snickered. “I’ve thought about it, even hoped for it once but not anymore. If she did come back, I might not even recognize her.” He moved my hair off my shoulder, grazing his fingertips on my skin. “Let’s get out of here. This house is depressing.”
We headed out, straight into his car. He switched on the engine and before reversing out of the driveway, he turned on the radio. Stan by Eminem came on and I sang along.
“You like this?” He asked and turned up the volume while I continued to rap, probably not well.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and sunlight streamed through the window, catching his face. Words left me and I couldn’t remember the lyrics any longer.
Have you ever seen brown eyes in the sun? As the rays illuminated his face, brown no longer adequately described them. They melted into golden waves, circling an eclipse.
He leaned back to fasten his seat belt, away from the light, and his irises turned into a sunset. Dark and beautiful.
With his brows slightly pinched, he asked, “What? Don’t remember the rest of the lyrics?”
I blinked and gazed straight ahead. “Of course, I do.” The lyrics came back to me. Out of tune, I belted out the chorus.
We drove for hours along the Pacific Coast Highway, listening to his playlist when one of my favorite songs came on.