Unsuitable Obsession - Part One (2 page)

The next letter was a combination, one for her
mother and her sister, asking them to take care of her children. To
make sure that Valentina—her four year-old—knew what it was like to
become a lady, a woman in this world. To show her pictures now and
then so that she wouldn’t forget her mother and to make sure that
Victor still remembered he had a son, Adrian, who was in junior
high and would need a strong male influence after she was gone and
then finally, to Eduardo, a farewell to him, a finale of sorts. A
heart-felt love-letter to the man who stole her heart the day she
had met him.

It was a complex relationship, their clandestine
affair. Watching him from afar, holding back from not wanting to
wrap her arms around him and never letting go. It had been a
constant battle at family gatherings, keeping up the charade.
Sister-in-law
slash
brother-in-law
first and
foremost. Pretending to be attracted to her husband, continuing to
have intercourse with him while fantasizing he was really Eduardo.
Trying to figure out what lacked in her marriage, trying to figure
out what went wrong and what happed to them when Victor was such a
great guy! It had all been so fatiguing—strenuous to extreme—having
to continue to be the guiltless girl, the deserving girl of
incomparable love. Fifteen years of rationalizing; give and take
and bending over backwards, it was all so laborious, she wanted to
be unrestricted, no longer thinking of how to attack her feelings;
she wanted to surrender to them.

Good Lord, what did she do? How did she let it go on
for so long? Her dutiful husband never having a clue, and her
kids...
oh God
...it was so difficult to have them, her
daughter, Valentina, with her face so round and pudgy and
beautiful, and her son, Adrian, all grown up, such a young man!
Would they miss their Mommy? Oh God, they would…and Eduardo…Oh God,
Eduardo...would he miss her as well? Would he? Good Lord,
she...loved...him...so much!

Amber slowly submerged herself in a tub of hot
water; it was soothing on the contrary—but not gratifying enough.
She eyed the sharp razor, so shiny, small and quick. All she had to
do now was to slash her wrist, it would be immediate, quick, and
then it will be all over—done with. No scandal in the family and
nothing to verify, no more having to watch Leticia and Eduardo hug,
no more Christmas’ with The Family, or Thanksgiving dinners,
birthdays, weddings. No more family gatherings and no more hurting
and deceiving Victor.

Amber reached for the razor blade. Shiny, small and
quick.

Through her weeping, she grasped the razor and
raised her left wrist.

Quick...Quick...I can never leave Victor...Eduardo
doesn’t love me enough to leave her...Doesn’t want me enough to
show me…I don’t wanna do anything but go away…run away…Please God,
oh please let it be fast, Oh God, I don’t even wanna
breathe!…Eduardo doesn’t want me…Oh God, why doesn’t he want me?
Why doesn’t he love me enough to show me? Oh God, Eduardo doesn’t
want me…Daddy never wanted me either...Oh God…

Fifteen Years Earlier

As long as I could remember, I always knew something
special was going to happen to me. When I was ten, I would cling
onto that small hope that no matter how bad a day I was having,
there was still something gigantic to expect just around the
corner.

I’m still waiting...

Where do I begin? I’ll be eighteen in a couple of
months having just started my senior year in high school. I’m one
of those kids who started school late. No, not because my Mom was
some kind of idiot, but because my birthday happened to fall late
in the year (born in December and you had to be born before
November) my bad luck in order to start kindergarten. I was tossed
in with other kids much younger than me, but since I was so shy, I
always wondered who would be my friend for the day. I was
oftentimes intimidated and became a good artist by the age of
seven. I’d rather hide in a corner with my crayons and drawing
pencils than conjure up any effort to find someone to play
with.

I grew up in the San Fernando Valley, a small humble
neighborhood in Southern California. I have an older sister, Molly,
and I love her to death. Molly graduated last year and I miss her
companionship. Molly was a song leader and I thought since being
associated with her friends, all her popular connections would
befriend me, but not true. I’m oftentimes alone, walking around
with my head down, anticipating a friendly hello and I suddenly
find myself grouped among the other Caucasian kids who aren’t
considered fashionable because we can’t afford trendy clothes.
Recently, I’ve heard that word “stoner” whispered behind me in the
hallways, but I’m not a stoner, I’m just insecure and I’ve never
even tried drugs, well, OK, yes, I have tried marijuana, once in
fact, and got really sick afterwards. But just because I’m not some
stylish chic-chick, I’m considered a stoner? I’m more like someone
who is stuck in the 1970’s, but I’m labeled a nobody in the mass
hysteria of this New Wave.

Did I mention clothes? I can never keep up with the
trends. High heels, miniskirts, ruffled shirts, flashy jackets,
rows and rows of bangles on my arms—who can afford all that? My
mother takes my sister and me to the swap meet (sometimes rummage
sales) to buy our clothes. My mother isn’t able to afford retail or
mall type clothing; it’s second hand jeans, sweaters, tennis shoes
and T-shirts for the two of us. I’m oftentimes embarrassed or
ashamed even envious I don’t own any of those shiny high-heeled
pumps the popular girls are wearing today in the 1980’s. Although I
try to fit in, I never do. Girls my age tease their hair—the
wilder, the better—have perms; I wear mine straight and long passed
my shoulders. Young women today wear a lot of make-up: eye shadows
of purple, turquoise, magenta, cinnamon, I choose none. I’m a plain
simple girl, wearing plain simple clothes still anticipating the
day for my something special to happen.

I’m also very tall. I tower over those petite fem.
fatales strutting around campus with their elevated footgear. I’m
also a jock
ette
. A girl who loves to play sports, get dirty,
feel the thrill of throwing a runner out at first base.
Yeah,
baby.
I’m the catcher on the girls’ softball team and I love to
wear that mask over my face, eyeing the spectators in the stands
unable to see my eye contact. I stand erect and high behind that
plate, all five foot eleven of my sturdy frame. I consider myself
lean and fit, with strong tone legs and in my sport, I’m a force to
consider, and although I reign on that diamond, I unravel the
moment I take off that uniform. Those short mini-skirts are far too
intimidating and my self-esteem withdraws immediately.

Trailer Trash
.

If you want to really hurt someone deep, call
him/her Trailer Trash—Caucasian with little or no money, that
remark definitely lingered like garlic, and through life I was led
to believe that being broke
was
Trailer Trash. Although my
Dad gave my Mom the house when they divorced, my Mom is always
struggling with the house payment and we girls oftentimes suffer
for it. Or maybe it was low self-esteem. Yah, I have to admit I
have low self-esteem. Boys just want to use me and I’ve never had a
best friend.

Boys...let’s talk about them; I hate them, all of
them. They should all be locked up in cages—Smelly Apes that they
are. No, just kidding, I don’t hate guys; I’m rather fond of males.
Since my Dad left me at such an early age, I’ve always felt the
need for comfort, for some big strong man to wrap his arms around
me and chase all the nightmares away. Sad to say, I’ve had my share
of promiscuous loser boyfriends. Being passed around, not really
getting to know any of the guys I’ve happened to kiss. I lost my
virginity to a senior at sixteen, a one-night stand and an
unplanned pregnancy I’ll always regret. Low self-esteem will do
that to a girl; not having a Father Figure will do you in as well.
I guess I’ll always feel like that little girl searching for a
capable influence to guide me into solace and keep me safe and
warm. I tilt from one juvenile slack to the next never really able
to hang on long enough to keep a mature relationship.

Those Smelly Apes only want one thing from me and
that’s to unhook my bra. Did I mention I have a nice rack? My
Assets seemed to form at an early age. By fifth grade, I was
already into a C-cup. By junior high, “My Assets” (that’s what I
call them because that’s really all I’ve got going on for me)
formed into a nice pair of D-cups. Naked, I bet I could measure up
to someone who had breast implants. Playboy, watch out. Mine are
just as plump, just as perky, nipples just as high. I’m proud of my
breasts; so much in fact, I know I can always count on them to be
my channel in taking away some Smelly Ape’s concentration.
Neighborhood primates always seem to stare at them before noticing
my face. Kissing Smelly Apes would never stop short of my mouth;
they always seem to want to tear down my bra. What is the
fascination anyhow? Don’t they want to know how the game went that
day? Those silly monkeys, don’t they want to know what I’m thinking
or how I’m feeling? Those boring, single-minded chimps, watching
them gawk at me, as they seem to talk down to my chest, trip or
bump into something, never taking their eyes off My Assets,
inspecting them as I walk by, hearing them shout obscenities
because of my figure. At the beach, sun bathing near a pool, at the
supermarket, any public place. I know men stare at them; Smelly
Apes, males, all men, even all my Father Figures! Feeling their
eyes lowering to my sweater, T-shirt, softball uniform; noticing
all my Father Figures watching me walk away, checking out my
bottom, such parental inspiration!
What creeps! I’m your
step-daughter for crying out loud!

Did I mention that I’m still waiting?

I’m a romantic, in love with love, always with my
head in the clouds, determined to meet my sweetheart whether right
or wrong. In love with old movies where the men were admired,
fought for what they believed in and swept his lady off her feet. I
believe my soul mate is walking this very earth right now and is
searching for me as well, and when we see each other, I expect to
see shooting stars, hear the sweet sound of violins and savor
electricity dart through my veins. I’m not partial to any one
physique really, but I do require that my arms wrap around his body
and meet. He has to have a persuasive personality and be stern
enough to calm me. Bring me home. Console me when times are rough,
and believe me, times have been pretty stormy.

And I’m still waiting…Waiting to be swept away (or
blown away) whichever comes first.

Careful What You Wish For

“What the hell—” Amber expressed with utter
objection. Amber was in the dark room processing negatives into
pictures when a beam of light penetrated through the darkness.

“Oh man, I’m sorry; I didn’t realize anyone was in
here,” Victor apologetically gives to her.

“Well,
I am
,
now close the
darn door!” Amber shouted back at him. Battling through courses,
Amber took Photography 101 as an elective to help bring her grades
up her senior year.

“Sorry, so sorry...I just need to get some film from
the shelf really quick, I won’t be in your way, I promise,” Victor
replied, reaching around her and pushing her body unintentionally
into the chemicals.

Amber rolled her eyes, he smelled good, the air in
the little room suddenly filled with Old Spice.

Victor walked over to her side and sneaked a peek at
what she was doing. Transforming through the chemicals was an image
of a guitar player on stage, his head back in the waves of ecstasy
performing a solo on his electric guitar. Victor looked in closer,
couldn’t believe his eyes, Eddie Van Halen? “Awesome! How’d you get
that?” He quipped in awe.

Amber doesn’t look at him, “It’s mine—I took it.”
She then tapped the picture against the edge of the bucket and
gently clipped the photo above her on a nearby string of other
photographs of the same rock star. “And don’t go telling Mr.
Whitman that I’ve been using the school’s chemicals for my own
gain.”

“Are you kidding me? Van Halen is my all-time
favorite band! Can you make me a duplicate of that?” He asked her,
squinting and focusing trying to figure out what she looked like in
the dark.

Amber leaned over and turned on the light. Victor
strained, tried to focus. Amber tried as well, and when she did,
there was a boy, no taller than her staring back. He was Mexican,
she realized, and cute with dark brown wavy shoulder-length hair,
brown curious eyes with subtle shades of an introductory mustache
just above his lips. His outfit resembled hers; puka shells around
his neck, Levi 501’s, and Good Lord! That wonderful insignia of the
letters
VH
on his T-shirt! “VH” of course (for any hard core
fan of the group) meant
Van Halen.

Victor’s mouth dropped open wide, fell in love with
her at first sight. “Victor Sanchez,” he pronounced, extending out
his hand.

“Amber Fitzgerald.”

Victor couldn’t help but gawk. He’d seen her in
class from afar, but Amber Fitzgerald always seemed to be
unapproachable walking around with her head down all the time. He
never imagined she’d look this stunning up close. Long jet-black
hair that shined brightly even in the dim light, a smooth
complexion enhancing incredible oblique eyes, Mexican? No, American
Indian, he realized. Radiant those eyes, hazel almost, suntanned
skin, and her smile, such straight white teeth; her smile could
melt a tortilla chip! “Did you see them the last time they were
here in L.A.? Did you take those at the concert?”