Tuesday, February 20
(Franco)
I showered first this morning.
While I'm brushing my teeth, Gem wanders in, undresses, and gets in the shower.
I can see her through the glass door. It's the kind of company I could get used to every morning.
"Why do you shave your head, Franco?" Gemma asks as I apply shaving cream to my skull.
I glance at her and tease, "You don't like the bald look?"
"With a face like yours and those insanely intense eyes you could wear your hair any way you like and it would look handsome. I'm just curious what made you decide to shave it in the first place?"
I've shaved my head so long that I kind of forgot that I have the option to stop and let it grow out again. "I had a close friend who had cancer. She went through chemo and lost her hair." I shrug, I always avoid this story because people's reaction is usually to tell me what a good guy I am for the act. It wasn't about being a good guy, it was about supporting someone who was self-conscious about losing her hair. It was about her, not me. "She never complained but I knew losing her hair bothered her. I didn't want her to be alone in it."
Gem's quiet. No, You're a great guy. No, That was nice of you. And when she asks, "How is she now?" I want to hug her because she gets it. It was about my friend, not me.
"She fought like hell. Twice. We lost her a year ago. She would've loved you." Guaranteed she would've.
"Cancer is a bloody fucking bastard. It always comes for the good ones first." She's lost so many, she knows.
"Yup," I agree as I run the razor down the center of my head, and that's where we leave it.
By the time she finishes in the shower, my head and face are smooth. Sad discussion aside, everything feels normal, hopeful. There are some people in life that you can vent to, or pour out sadness to, or voice frustration to, and they readily and willingly absorb it for the sole purpose of ridding you of it. They're the same people who can immediately replace that negativity with their light. Their presence gives you the power to purge the bad and embrace the good. It's rare. I've only known a few people in my life who are that way.
Now I know one more.
Coffee and bagels and we're out the door for another San Diego adventure.
The beach is first. The weather is much the same as yesterday. The walk and conversation are too. I know this is only the second day she's been here. The second day we've done this. But I'm going to miss her when she goes home.
Second stop is Balboa Park. There are many museums, but the reason I brought her here is to show her the Japanese Garden because it's one of my favorite places. Every time I walk through the gate to enter, it has the same effect on me. Calm. It's not that I'm a high-strung person, I'm fairly laid-back—but this place, it's healing. All the negative drains out of me as I walk through and I always leave feeling like a better version of myself. I know she'll relate.
Gemma is mesmerized by the koi pond. She's never seen koi apart from photos or on TV. The level of curiosity she shows to things she's interested in is fascinating. She analyzes and asks questions with deep thought behind them. Nothing superficial—the how, what, where, and whys are in depth. I love that, because it shows she's paying attention. Life's too short not to. Some people skim life and some people read so closely they see the things others don't. That's where the beauty lies, in between the lines, in the details. The story within the story. She sees it. She gets it.
Third stop is my parent's house for an early dinner. Pulling in their driveway, I offer a pre-emptive apology, "I'm sorry ahead of time for the embarrassing shit my mom no doubt is going to say and do. Just be thankful my dad is out of town at a convention and you're only getting one-on-one treatment instead of a tag team of the dynamic duo."
She laughs.
"You think I'm kidding? God bless you," I add sarcastically.
My mom greets us on the front step. "Hola, mijo," she says while she hugs me. She hugs with the strength of ten grizzlies. She's not a big woman, I don't know where it comes from.
"Hola, Mamá. Qué pasa?"
She releases me before she can answer and goes straight for Gemma with laser focus.
When I hear the air audibly forced out of Gem, in the form of a surprised and impressively loud wheeze, I remind my mom, "Easy on the lovin', Mamá. Don't break mi amiga, please."
She releases her in a flourish, because she goes big with everything. Passion is her middle name, her life force. "It's so nice to meet you, Gemma. I'm Maria. Franco's told me so much about you."
I haven't. I told my mom I had a friend visiting from out of town and I'd like to bring her over for homemade tamales because they're the best. That's it. I like to keep it vague with her because it's fun when she makes assumptions. Phishing for information is a game, a past time that she believes herself to be slyly, and exceedingly, skilled at. She thinks she's sneaky. In actuality, she's boldly obvious. And completely harmless. It's hilarious.
Gemma subtly straightens her shirt and collects a deep, lung-inflating breath, before answering. "It's nice to meet you as well, Maria."
My mom physically startles at Gem's accent and a huge smile breaks out across her face as she ushers us into the house. "Are you from England?"
Gemma takes off her jacket, and I hang it on a hook by the front door. "Yeah, I'm from a small town in northern England."
Mom looks at me and nods shrewdly. That means she approves, the nod is her stamp of approval. I'm convinced she thinks she's so sneaky that no one except the person she directs the nod at can see it. In actuality, it was so bold, because she can't temper her passion, that the neighbor down the street saw it. She cracks me up.
My parents live in the same house they bought when they married. It's a small, humble, three-bedroom ranch. It's dated—they don't believe in updating—but they're the heavyweight fucking champs of maintenance. They have a love affair with home repair, it's an obsession more than a necessity. My dad fixes stuff long before it breaks. Same goes for cleanliness. It's paramount. Sacred. The house has always been neat as a pin, nothing out of place. Even when all five kids lived at home. Looking back now, I realize how miraculous that was. Back then we just knew Mom would give us a verbal ass lashing if we didn't comply.
Dinner consists of the tastiest tamales in SoCal and a peppering of questions from my mom: "What do you do? How long are you in the states? How did you meet Franco? How old are you? Tell me about your family? Where did you go to college? What are your hobbies? What do you think of my son's music? How often do you floss?" (My dad's a dentist, teeth are kinda our thing.) "Do you own a home?" (She's a realtor, houses are kinda her thing.)
Gemma Hendricks is a goddamn saint. She answers every question in detail, like she's enjoying the grilling she's receiving.
The approving nods Mom's directing at me are even accompanied by the rare widened eyes under arched eyebrows combo. In summary, it means, Did you hear that, Franco? Holy mother of macaroni, she's perfect! Stop fucking around, take a goddamn knee, and propose already. I want this girl to be my daughter-in-law and have my grandbabies. Like yesterday. Of course, she wouldn't use those words but that's the gist of it. She's constantly and lovingly reminding me that I'm not getting any younger and that I should be married by now. Don't get me wrong, my mom thinks the world of me and brags endlessly about how proud she is of the man I am, and the band, but marriage is a touchy, old school subject for her. My two older sisters are married. My younger sister is engaged. And my older brother, Julian, is divorced but has two kids, so the grandkids appease her.
At my mom's request, which is a demand in the form of a polite question with por favor tacked on the end, I do the dishes when we're done eating, so she can show Gemma the family photos in the hallway. The hallway is a shrine and the photos are a pictorial history of the Genovese clan. Baby photos through present. All of the embarrassing stages captured and preserved for prosperity.
When Gemma returns to the kitchen the smile on her face is hiding blackmail. And my mom's smile says, Mamá knows best. I love this girl, son. Fucking marry her or I'm disowning you. She never would, but she's fantastic with passive threats.
It's my signal to leave.
I kiss Mom on the cheek. "Gracias, Mamá. The tamales were killer."
"De nada." She returns a kiss to my cheek and says in her version of a whisper, "I like this one, mijo," which is a normal speaking voice to anyone else.
I smile to acknowledge her, hoping it won't provoke her to expand further on her comment.
She winks and pats my cheek like I'm still six years old.
After she wraps Gemma in another rib cracking hug, and hands me a grocery sack full of foil wrapped tamales, I'm rushing us to my truck to make a getaway.
Gemma's smirking at me from the passenger seat when we back out of the driveway.
I shake my head. "I'm scared to ask what that look means."
The smirk stretches into her giant grin. "Wee Franco in the tub with his brother was adorable."
When we were little my parents always made the boys take a bath together and the girls take a bath together. There are photos on the wall to memorialize it. "Did Mom tell you the story about the dinosaur in my hand in the photo?"
"She did. She said you called him Pedro and carried him everywhere you went."
I know I'm probably blushing, which is stupid. "She tells everyone that story."
"Because it's cute."
"Not when you're twenty-six," I say under my breath. "What did you think about the awkward thirteen-year-old punk rock Franco with braces and Ramones t-shirt class photo?"
"Hot. Awkward fifteen-year-old Gemma with braces and a Harry Potter t-shirt would've crushed on you hard."
I laugh. "God, we would've been a pair even back in the day."
"Totes. Your parents' wedding photo was lovely. Very traditional."
"My parents were married in an old Spanish Mission here in San Diego. From the stories we've heard," I glance at her, "and believe me we've heard them all," eyes back on the road, "it was a day long spectacle. My mom's grandparents, parents, and nine siblings and their families came from Mexico for it. My dad's family was local so they were all there. The Catholic ceremony was long, half in English, half in Spanish, to accommodate both sides of the family. The reception went on late into the night. Mi abuela," I glance at her to clarify, "my grandma," she nods and I continue, "and aunts made tons of homemade food. My dad's best friend was in a band and they played. I'm sure the photo album and stories don't do it justice, it was an epic celebration."
The smile she's wearing is sentimental, I'm sure she's thinking about her own parents. "That's beautiful, a blending of cultures and families. They make a striking couple, the contrast made for some stunning children."
"We're a melting pot, that's for sure." We are. Five kids and some of us don't look related. Some tall like my dad. Some short like my mom. Dark hair. Blond hair. Brown eyes. Blue eyes. Fair skin. Dark skin. We have it all.
"I can see now where you get your good looks. Your dad's height, facial structure, and crystal blue eyes and your mom's dark wavy hair, perfect full lips, and intense stare."
"I got my dad's fairer skin too, but I tan easily thanks to my mom's genes, I think. I'm always outside, so I've had a perpetual tan for about twenty-five years."
"You look different with hair too." When I look at her she raises her eyebrows to show her approval.
"You like me with hair?"
"I like you either way. You have envy worthy hair is all I'm saying." She definitely likes me with hair.
"Maybe I'll let it grow out. Shaving it every day gets old sometimes." It's decided, today's the last day I shave my head. "Think I should grow a beard too?"
"Mmm..." She's looking at me closely, thinking it over. "Nah, clean shaven is better. Your chiseled cheekbones and strong jawline are ridiculous. It would be a crime against humanity to hide them."
"Goddamn, you're good for my ego, Gem. Only Gus tells me I'm pretty," I tease.
"Do you really doubt your looks?" she asks seriously.
"I wouldn't say I doubt them. I just don't give them much thought, I guess." I shrug, because I don't. "I've always been pretty funny; I figured girls were always into my personality more than my looks. Which is fine, because at the end of the day, that's what matters."
"The whole package is wildly attractive." She's not flirting, it's matter of fact.
"Wildly? I like that." Now I'm flirting for the both of us. "And right back at ya. Everything you've got going on is wildly attractive too."
I catch her smile out of the corner of my eye. It's the kind of smile that means my compliment found its target and made an impact.
When we get home everything slows down. It's still early, but it's our last night together.
"Is there anything else you want to see or do?" I ask before we get out of my truck in front of my house.
She shakes her head and sentimentality settles into her smile. "No. I've had the best time, Franco. Thank you for showing me around your hometown and introducing me to your mum and Scout. I feel like I know you better than I know most people back home I've been around my whole life. I didn't think it was possible to adore you more than I already did. I was wrong."
"I told you I'm good at this whole friendship thing." I wink.
She leans across the seat and kisses me softly on the lips. "You are. You're the best." And then she's out the door.
Inside, I kick off my Vans and Gemma heads for the bathroom. I'm not sure why I'm so tired, but I am. I head straight for the couch.
I'm sitting slouched down, eyes closed, trying not to think but instead to just be present, when I hear her walk in the room. Her socked feet are quiet, barely giving away her movement.
I fight the urge to open my eyes because I'm afraid it will kill the moment. Sometimes connection demands to be felt inside and out without the added stimulation of sight.
I feel her hands on my shoulders first, they're warm through the material of my t-shirt. Her thumbs caress my collarbone, but I feel it everywhere—her warmth spreading.
The impression of her against the outside of my right thigh.
Followed by the impression of her against the outside of my left.
And finally my lap welcomes the weight of her.
Hands skim down my chest, around my ribcage, and settle in under my back.
Her head on my shoulder.
Warm breath on my neck.
My hands meet her hips, one dragging fabric as it works its way to the nape of her neck. The other comes to rest on the small of her back, fingertips tucked under the waistband of her panties.
When I still and hold her, her entire being relaxes into me.
No words.
No movement, other than breathing.
I've never been at one with another human being like this.
Shit, I'm going to miss her so fucking much.