Three Light-Years: A Novel Read Online Free

At first, being unable or unwilling to ask about the specific times of her shifts, my father would arrive at the café around a quarter to two. If Cecilia was working the afternoon shift, she would already be there munching a sandwich; if she was coming off the morning shift, she would arrive half an hour later. They never stayed more than twenty minutes, sitting at the table behind the column. Regularity was important, eating at regular hours, even just a bite, but unhurriedly, chatting about relaxing topics. Maybe Cecilia simply had to get used to wanting a connection again, friendship or something more, accepting it a little more each day, just as her son was getting used to eating again. And my father’s situation, though his divorce went back more than ten years, wasn’t all that different.
    Incredible that the woman came back day after day to the same café knowing that he, too, would be there. He’d heard from Antonio that Cecilia was separated or practically divorced, or maybe actually divorced. The news hadn’t surprised him, in fact he’d mumbled, “Yes, I know,” all the while aware that he hadn’t known it at all, no one could have told him. He reflected on the lie for an entire evening, and the next day, when he saw Cecilia again, he wondered what could have heightened his scant intuitive capacities. He wasn’t good at reading people, particularly their feelings; he specifically couldn’t tell if they were married or engaged or committed in some way. Maybe intuition had nothing to do with it, maybe it was only wishful thinking. She simply had to be free. She was free. Actually, now that he knew for sure, he didn’t feel any better. Now came the difficult part, his homeopathic plan to make her fall in love with him.
    And he liked her more and more. He liked it when she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, how it revealed that small, perfect pink conch. He liked it when they were eating and she touched her lips with two fingers, searching for a nonexistent crumb or indicating that she couldn’t speak at that moment, her mouth was full. He liked the way her eyes widened an instant before she laughed. She had a mole in the hollow at the base of her neck. She had a very lovely neck. She had a green spot in the iris of her right eye (did she know?).
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    They talked a lot about work. My father complained about having to spend a lot of his time chasing after his patients’ children, who were always and forever trying to put off the day of their elderly parent’s discharge. Daughters who hadn’t slept for weeks because their nonagenarian mothers cried out for help all night had them hospitalized for dubious bronchial asthmas and then claimed they couldn’t take them back home and couldn’t afford caregivers to look after them (sisters or brothers refused to contribute to the cost of assistance because the sibling in question lived in the parent’s house without paying rent). The greater the number of children and grandchildren, the greater the likelihood that no one wanted to take care of the elderly family member. At the other extreme, an unmarried son, an only child, living with his parent was dependable—until he became a threat: this was around the time my father had been accused of negligence by a seventy-two-year-old man following the death of his ninety-seven-year-old mother. Dear Doctor, the son had written in very large letters that slanted precariously forward, as though the words were about to drop off the right edge of the paper at any moment, you killed my mother . I will never forget the grief you caused me. When I admitted my mother to the hospital I placed her in your hands and you did not take care of her. My mother entered the hospital to die and for this I will never forgive you. And on and on for four pages. His six hours a week in the endocrinology outpatient clinic were an oasis of peace.
    Cecilia described the strangest, most convoluted cases, both dramatic and