CHAPTER 8

Let the record show that I tried. I really did. I went on three dates with Adrian, who was interesting and attentive, took me to wonderful places, and could wear the hell out of an Armani suit. At the end of the third date he invited me back to his condo at The Setai, one of the most exclusive high-rise residences in South Beach. His sea view was spectacular and he mixed a mean pitcher of margaritas, so I was primed to seal the deal when he pulled me down onto his soft-as-butter white leather couch and started kissing me with lustful intent. If he had just kept quiet!

But no, Adrian is one of those guys who likes to talk during the act, telling you how much you turn him on and all the naughty things he’s going to do to you. Normally, I’m not opposed to a little dirty talk, but when every word the man on top of you utters makes you feel like you’re getting busy with Mickey Mouse, it’s a huge ladyboner killer. That’s when I knew there was no future for us and I bailed.

So, now I’m back at square one. Still broke, still single, and possibly losing a little bit more of my sexual allure with every day that I come closer to my thirtieth. But I’ve never been a quitter, which is why I’m about to crack open Nate’s binder once again. Hopefully, Bachelor Number Two will be a keeper.

I begin by perusing the stats of a Kip Thornton, who’s a big deal in commodities (his firm focuses on the energy market). Since I don’t know what commodities are and I’m equally clueless about the energy market (are we talking about all those drinks that promise to give you a five-hour boost because they’ve got so much caffeine and sugar in them?), I pull out my phone to do a Google search. I’m in the middle of that when Joe Jonas informs me I’ve got an incoming call.

Pilar. Oh, geez. I hope she doesn’t need me to babysit again, because I’m still recovering from my last foray into childcare. I had another nightmare about Gabi spewing chunks when I was taking a nap earlier this afternoon!

Tapping the “Accept” button on the phone screen, I say, “¿Que bolá?” which is “What’s up?” in Cuban-speak.

“Hey, Izzy. I’m here at Ana’s, and we’ve got Mamá on the phone.”

Dammit! This is an ambush! I never would have answered the phone if I’d known our mother was on the other end of the line. I’ve been doing my best to avoid her calls lately because I haven’t been in the mood for her histrionics, or one of her critiques on my career (Modeling bathing suits is not something a respectable girl does!), my clothes (I should leave something to the imagination. Men don’t like women who dress like putas!), or my love life (When am I going to find a nice man, preferably a Latino, and settle down like my sisters? If I don’t do it soon, I won’t have any eggs left, then I won’t be able to give my husband children. He’ll have to hire a surrogate to carry our baby, and she’ll probably be a psycho who’ll seduce my man, then frame me for murdering our gardener, a crime she committed because he’s the real father of her child—And yes, my mother does watch too many telenovelas!)

“Sí, this is the only way I get to have any contact with my daughters—on the phone, because none of you can spare a moment to come and see me.”

Straight to the guilt trip then. I roll my eyes, but say nothing because I don’t have to. My sisters are going to fall all over themselves trying to placate her like they always do.

“That’s not true, Mamá. We all got together to celebrate your wedding anniversary recently, remember?”

“And we gave you a professionally-shot picture of all your grandkids in that gorgeous Baccarat Red Eye frame, which was my idea.”

“The frame was Pilar’s idea,” I interject because I can’t stand the way Ana always tries to take credit for everything.

“It was a joint effort,” Ana retorts in a waspish tone. “Emphasis on the word ‘effort’ because Pilar and I actually put some time and thought into what we got Mamá and Papá unlike you who picked up a cheap bottle of red wine at a gas station on the way to the party.”

“It wasn’t cheap!” If a wine costs more than ten bucks, it qualifies for fancy status as far as I’m concerned. “And that Merlot was totally on-theme since it was their fortieth anniversary, which calls for a ruby gift. Ha! See, I did put some thought into it.”

“Why are we even talking about our anniversary?” Mamá wonders. “That was three weeks ago! Three weeks since I’ve set eyes on any of you. Three weeks I’ve been forgotten and neglected.”

“You were on a cruise for one of those weeks,” I remind her.

“And did I return to a ‘Welcome Home’ party from mis niñas? No,” she pouts. “It was as though none of you even cared that I was back.”

Well . . .

“Of course, we care, Mamá,” Pilar says in her soothing therapist voice. “It’s just that we all have such busy lives—”

“I understand. I am low on everyone’s priority list, but you’ll regret not spending more time with your mamá when I’m gone.”

“Gone? Where exactly are you going? Is Papá finally going to retire so that the two of you can travel the world like you’re always talking about?” Please, please, please.

“I meant ‘gone’ as in muerta. I won’t be around forever, you know, especially with my heart condition.”

“You have not been diagnosed with a heart condition,” Pilar corrects Mamá.

“But I will be when I see the cardiologist later this week. Dr. Bakshi is the best. He saved Mayor Regalado’s life last year when he performed that emergency triple bypass on him after his heart attack, and I’m sure he’ll take my palpitations—the ones you all keep dismissing—seriously.”

Bakshi? That name sounds familiar. Wasn’t there a heart doctor in Nate’s binder? I quickly flip through the profiles until I find the one I’m thinking of. Okay. Not bad. Kind of reminds me of the actor from those Harold & Kumar movies.

“What’s this Dr. Bakshi’s first name, Mamá?”

“Arjun.”

Ding ding ding. We have a winner! Arjun Bakshi is the doctor in my binder. For once in my life, my mother’s hypochondria is going to work to my advantage.

“As I said, he’s one of the top cardiologists in Miami,” Mamá continues, “which is why it’s taken me three months to get in to see him. I’m going to need one of you to drive me and act as my patient advocate at this appointment on Thursday. My friend, Lola, always takes her daughter with her to doctors’ appointments. She says it’s important that you have a family member with you, someone who can keep a level head and ask the right questions when you’re too stressed to do it.”

“Sorry, Mamá, but I can’t. Theo’s class is taking a field trip to the Seaquarium on Thursday and I’m room mother, so I have to be there.”

“And I’ve got patients all day. I guess I could try and reschedule a couple of them, although I hate to do that at the last minute. What time did you say your appointment was?”

“You don’t have to reschedule anything. I’ll take Mamá to see the cardiologist.” I’m already standing in front of my closet, trying to decide what I can wear that will be appropriate. I can’t go full vixen in a doctor’s office, especially with my mother there, but I still need to get Dr. Heart Fixer’s attention.

“You will?” Both of my sisters sound incredulous, which is a little offensive. It’s not like I don’t ever volunteer to help our mother. Oh, wait, yes, it is.

“Sure. I don’t have anything else going on Thursday.”

“You’re not working? What a surprise!” Ana’s words drip sarcasm.

“Modeling’s not a nine-to-five job.”

“It’s not really a job at all if you ask me,” she snipes.

“No one did! So, keep your narrow-minded opinions to yourself. You can weigh in if the conversation turns to subjects you actually know something about like mom jeans or the best way to get rid of a female ‘stache.”

She gasps in outrage. “You are such a bitch!”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Okay, let’s just hit the pause button for a minute here,” Pilar, ever the voice of reason in our family, suggests, “and take a deep, cleansing breath before things devolve any—”

“She started it!” Ana and I both yell petulantly.

“Ay, I can’t take all this fighting. I’m having palpitations!” Mamá claims.

“Good thing we’re going to see Dr. Bakshi day after tomorrow then. What time do you want me to pick you up?”

* * *

“Yuck.” I make a face at the anatomical plastic heart that’s sitting on the counter next to the sink in the doctor’s exam room. “You don’t think this is the actual size of what’s in our chests, do you?” I pick up the heart and hold it up above my left breast. “And what are these big purple and red things?” I point to the fat, cylinder-shaped protrusions at the top of the heart.

“Probably valves of some kind,” my mother murmurs distractedly as she picks up another pamphlet from the pile of medical literature she collected while we were out in the waiting room. This one is entitled The Heart Truth for Latinas. “Did you know that heart disease is the number one killer of Latinas in this country?” is the first factoid she gleans from the pamphlet.

I shrug. “That’s not what I’d call shocking news. The Cuban diet isn’t exactly low-fat.” Returning the heart to its stand, I wander over to a heart healthy foods poster on the wall, which I study for a few minutes. “Case in point, I only eat eight of the thirty foods on this list. Pretty cool that popcorn’s considered to be good for your heart. Of course, if you top it with as much butter and salt as I do, that probably negates its benefits.”

“I eat Honey Sriracha Cheddar popcorn by the gallon-sized tin, so I’m in no position to judge,” says an amiable, male voice (in the baritone range—¡Gracias a Dios!) coming from the doorway of the exam room and I turn to see a white lab coat-wearing man, with a stethoscope draped around his neck.

He’s not my usual beefed up alpha male type, but he’s cute! In a charmingly rumpled way. His black hair is tousled as though he’s been running his fingers through it and his green button-down is wrinkled, with a bit of his white undershirt peeking out at the top where he’s got two buttons undone. He has kind eyes, and I like his smile, which he’s now directing at Mamá.

“Mrs. Alvarez.” Extending his hand, he takes several steps toward the exam table, where she’s perched. “I’m Dr. Bakshi.”

She shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you. That,” she waves at me, “is my daughter, Isidora.”

“Izzy,” I give him my nickname, which my mother knows I prefer.

“Izzy.” He nods at me. “It’s always nice to see a patient’s family taking an interest in their healthcare. Why don’t you have a seat while I examine your mother?” He gestures at the chair against the wall, a few feet away.

I would be very happy to take a seat, because that means I’ll be giving the good doctor an enticing eyeful of my bare back. This multi-colored, deco diamond-print maxi dress I decided to wear today is relatively demure in the front, but it dips way down low in the back where it’s laced up like a corset. Every guy who’s ever seen me in this dress has declared it “hot,” and I’m hoping it will elicit the same response from Dr. Bakshi.

When I turn back toward him so that I can lower my body to the chair, I see that he’s staring at me, his eyes glazed and his mouth hanging open. So, I’m pretty sure I’ve got him right where I want him. Good thing I had that big cross tattoo on my shoulder blade lasered off a while back because that would have probably repelled a Hindu like Dr. Bakshi, or is it Buddhism that people of Indian descent practice? Whatever. He’s definitely not Catholic like my family, which suits me just fine since I’ve never been religious. My mother would pull out her rosary and start praying if she knew I’d just thought that! And if I marry a man outside our religion, she’ll probably call in a priest to exorcise the demon that she’ll be convinced has possessed me.

I cross my legs and smile at Dr. Bakshi, and he gives his head a little jiggle as if he’s trying to shake off the effects of a spell—the desire-stoking naked flesh spell, a specialty of mine!

“So, doctor, do you think these palpitations my mother’s been experiencing are anything serious? We’re all very concerned about her.”

“Uh, yes, well . . .” He looks down at her chart and flips through a few pages. “The labs her GP ran all came back normal, her cholesterol and blood pressure are right where they need to be, her weight is good—”

“My weight is five pounds less than the average for a woman of my age and height,” Mamá interrupts him to toot her own horn.

“Which is commendable. I’m sure you work very hard to maintain your trim figure, Mrs. Alvarez, and you look terrific for a woman of—”

“Ay!” She holds up a hand to stop him from revealing her age. “There’s no need to say that number out loud.”

“She might spontaneously combust if you do,” I snark under my breath.

When a frowning Dr. Bakshi looks back over his shoulder at me, I say in a syrupy sweet voice, “I’m blessed to have come from such a great gene pool. Hopefully, I’ll age as gracefully as my mother.” I hold my hand up in the air and cross my fingers.

P.S. Mamá’s “trim figure” has nothing to do with diet or exercise; she’s addicted to CoolSculpting, which freezes off any fat that dares to appear on her body.

“Now, I’m just going to listen to your heart and lungs,” Dr. Bakshi tells my mother as he puts the black plastic tips of the stethoscope in his ears.

I zone out thinking about how I read on the Internet that the bride usually wears red at an Indian wedding. I would rock a red wedding sari so hard! Especially if it exposed some of my flat, tanned belly. I’ll need to get myself one of those jewel-encrusted headpieces, too. I think I’ll take a pass on the henna body art since it can stain the skin for up to three weeks, which is something a model can’t afford—Oops, I forgot! If I’m marrying one of Miami’s premier cardiologists, I won’t have to worry about being fit for modeling jobs anymore. I’ll just be Mrs. Dr. Bakshi, a wealthy woman of leisure who’s either hanging out with Miami’s first couple (because Arjun must be besties with the mayor after yanking him out of the Grim Reaper’s clutches!) or hosting charity fundraisers for the hospital (my future husband is on staff at South Miami where he’s one of the only doctors who can perform some complicated, new surgery on patients with a congenital heart defect, which I forget the name of because medical stuff bores me).

“All of the data, as well as my findings today, suggest that your palpitations are stress and/or anxiety-related, Mrs. Alvarez, but I’ll order an electrocardiogram just to be on the safe side.”

“Is that the test where you have to run on a treadmill?” I ask, because the thought of my mother, the woman who would sooner die than shed a single drop of sweat, having to huff and puff her way through a strenuous test like that, really tickles me.

“No, that would be a cardiac stress test, which I don’t think is called for at this juncture. We’ll start with the ECG, then go from there if any abnormalities are detected. Let me walk you up to the front desk and we’ll get that test scheduled for you, Mrs. Alvarez.” He offers my mother his hand to help her off the exam table.

“Please, call me Luisa.” Her red-glossed lips curl up at the corners, and she bats her lash extensions at him before taking his hand and stepping down from the table. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your thoroughness in investigating these episodes of mine. I’ve been complaining about them for years, but Dr. García just kept brushing my concerns aside. I’m so glad I finally insisted on a referral to a specialist.”

And I’m sure Dr. García is thrilled that Mamá is someone else’s problem for the time being. The poor man has been dealing with my mother and her claims that she’s suffering from some life-threatening malady or other for years. He usually humors her and runs tests, which always contradict her predictions of an untimely demise. There is never anything wrong with her; she’s just a big drama queen who’s only happy when she’s standing squarely in the spotlight and everyone’s fussing over her.

She continues to cling to Dr. Bakshi’s arm as he leads us to his office’s checkout area while I trail behind wondering how I’m going to parlay this initial meeting into a date. I only have this one shot with him because he won’t be present at Mamá’s ECG and I’d be willing to bet good money (if I had any) that a follow-up visit won’t be required.

We reach the front desk and Dr. Bakshi hands my mother’s file over to a blonde wearing nurse’s scrubs in a kicky tropical print (turquoise background with black palm trees and yellow sunglasses—I like this girl’s style!).

“Leeanne will take care of you. And we’ll speak again soon, Luisa. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Gracias.”

“Yes, thank you so much for your time and your very comforting bedside manner, Dr. Bakshi.” I take his hand as if to shake it, but instead I pull him away from my mother who doesn’t notice because she’s now conversing with Leeanne about setting up her test.

Leaning into him, I murmur, “I was wondering if there was any way for me to contact you outside of office hours in case there are any new developments in my mother’s condition, or if I have a question about something . . . heart-related?”

Hard to tell because he’s dark-complected, but I think I see his cheeks pinken a bit.

“Of course,” he says, trying to sound professional, but unable to keep the lilt of excitement out of his voice. “I’m available to my patients, and their lovely family members,” he dips his head at me, “twenty-four/seven.” Reaching a hand out to the side, he plucks a business card out of a holder, then pulls an ink pen from the pocket of his lab coat and quickly scribbles something on the back of it. “That’s my private number.” He offers me the card. “Feel free to call or text as the need arises.”

“I will definitely do that.” My fingertips brush against his as I take the card, and I smile, feeling very confident about where this is going.