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Everyday P ositive  
Thinking Experience Y our Good Now! (book-with-CD)  
A Gar den of Thoughts: My Aﬃr mation Jour nal 
Gratitude: A W ay of Life  (Louise & F riends)  
Heal Y our Body  
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Inner W isdom  
Letters to L ouise  
Life! R eﬂections on Y our Jour ney 
Love Y our Body  
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Meditations to Heal Y our Life  (also available in a gif t edition)  
Moder n-Day Miracles  
The P ower Is W ithin Y ou 
Power Thoughts  
The P resent Moment  
The T imes of Our Lives  (Louise & F riends)  
You Can Cr eate an Ex ceptional Life  (with Cheryl Richar dson)  
You Can Heal Y our Life (also available in a gif t edition)  
You Can Heal Y our Life Companion Book
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The A dventur es of L ulu 
I Think, I Am! (with Kristina T racy)  
Lulu and the Ant: A Message of L ove Lulu and the Dark: Conquering F ears 
Lulu and W illy the Duck: L earning Mir ror Work
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THE L OUISE L. HA Y BOOK COLLECTION  
 (comprising the gif t versions of Meditations to Heal Y our
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Can Heal Y our Life,  and You Can Heal Y our Life Companion
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OceanofPDF .comOceanofPDF .comCopyright © 2012 by L ouise L. Hay
Published and distributed in the United States by:
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distributed in Australia by:  Hay House Australia Pty . Ltd.:
www.hayhouse.com.au  • Published and distributed in
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Cover design:  Mario San Miguel • Interior design:  Tricia
Breidenthal
All rights r eserved. No part of this book may be
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may it be stor ed in a r etrieval system, transmitted, or
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or prescribe the use of any technique as a for m of tr eatment
for physical, emotional, or medical pr oblems without the
advice of a physician, either dir ectly or indir ectly. The intent
of the authors is only to oﬀer infor mation of a general
natur e to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual
well-being. In the event you use any of the infor mation in
this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the
authors and the publisher assume no r esponsibility for your
actions. This is a work of ﬁction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents ar e the pr oduct of the authors’ imagination or ar eused ﬁctitiously . Any r esemblance to actual events or
locales, or persons living or deceased, is strictly
coincidental. Library of Congress Control Number:  2011937385
Tradepaper ISBN:  978-1-4019-3781-2  
Digital ISBN:  978-1-4019-3782-9
15  14  13  12    4  3  2  1  
1st edition, F ebruary 2012
Printed in the United States of America
OceanofPDF .comTable of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
About the Authors
OceanofPDF .comCHAPTER 1
This is a story of love and hope—and how two strangers
saved each other at what seemed lik e the last possible
moment. It was another scor ching July mor ning in San F rancisco’s
Mission District, a neighbor hood wher e everything gr een
and lovely had seemingly disappear ed. The sweet chestnuts
and pepper mint willows of the past wer e gone, and the
lawns paved over with asphalt black as licorice. Lupe, r oller-skating in an apartment courtyar d, seemed
the e xception. Ther e was something fr esh and new about
her. At 11, she was loose limbed, with long dark hair drawn
back in a ponytail. In certain light, she had a timeless
beauty older than her years—the look of a saint in an Italian
fresco. But when she smiled, her face r evealed an impish
dimpled grin—and she was a girl again. Weaving ar ound the cir cular driveway of the courtyar d,
she sang a song under her br eath. “The use of love mak es
me feel good. It is an e xpression of my inner joy .”
She stopped to admir e an old-fashioned r ose that had
twined ar ound a chain-link fence to pr oduce a burst of
apricot-color ed ﬂowers. She look ed up to a second-ﬂoor apartment window,
wher e, as if by magic, an elderly woman’s face appear ed,brown as a nut and deeply lined. “Grandma, look!”
“Sí, sí. ¡Muy bonita! Watch out for thor ns,” the old
woman called, but her wor ds wer e lost in a splash of salsa
music that had been tur ned up inside. Lupe would not have heeded her anyway; she focused
only on beauty . This did not bother Juana Saldana—it was what she had
taught her granddaughter . It was how they all survived. The grandmother tur ned back into their second-ﬂoor
apartment, ﬁlled with moving bo xes and the sound of
persistent pounding. The apartment was shabby, with old
appliances and wor n carpets. An older man silently
wander ed in with a lar ge potted plant and placed it in the
living r oom, then r etreated again. The hammering was soon joined by another sound, a
buzzing in the apartment ne xt door, 206. A harsh male voice called out over the din, “I hear you, I
hear you!” and pushed an inter com in r esponse. The door swung open to r eveal the long, furious face of a
tall man in his 50s—Jonathan Langley . With ﬂowing salt-and-
pepper hair, he look ed both distinguished and dissipated, a
prince who had fallen on har d times. His face was slender,
with high cheekbones and gener ous lips. He was wearing an
expensive linen shirt stained with tomato sauce, and wir e-
rim glasses with dark lenses. In his right hand he gripped a
ﬁstful of dollars. He peer ed out his window into the courtyar d. “Are you in
yet?” he called. The inter com continued buzzing. “I buzzed you in alr eady, for God’s sak e!”
He stor med back to the inter com and pushed it again. The voice of a deliveryman blasted out. “Y o! I’ve got a
delivery for—”
Jonathan inter rupted; he was unaccountably angry . Everything seemed to mak e him furious these days. Just thisweek he’d blown up at the meter r eader, the Chinese-food
deliveryman, and the man who cut his hair once a month. Why? Because he hated being stuck in his crummy
apartment, r eliant on others. “Yo, yourself . I’m buzzing you in one mor e time. When
you hear it, open the door . It’s that lar ge metal object right
in front of your face.”
He cursed as he hit the buzzer again. The deliveryman
ﬁnally opened the door and enter ed. Lupe stopped sk ating and stood in the courtyar d,
watching with fascination as Jonathan pok ed his head in and
out of the window . The persistent pounding coming fr om the apartment ne xt
door gr ew even louder . “Will you stop that rack et?” Jonathan yelled, dr opping
some of his money on the ﬂoor . “Goddamn it!” He got down
on his hands and knees and felt ar ound. The deliveryman r eached the top of the landing and
found Langley sear ching the ﬂoor . “I got a pack age for Mr . Langley .”
“I know my name, thank you very much,” Langley said,
still gr oping ar ound the ﬂoor until he found the last dollar . He struggled up and handed the money to the deliveryman. “Here—it’s e xact.”
Below them was the sound of sk ating. L upe, who had
enter ed the lobby, now stood at the bottom of the stairs,
looking up. “And ther e’s no sk ating in this building!” Langley called
down. “ Go sk ate in the str eet, why don’t you? It’s mor e
danger ous.”
As the deliveryman took the money and followed him
into the apartment, he ﬁnally got a look at Langley’s face. “Hey—oh, damn, man, I didn’t r ealize. Y ou blind.”
Jonathan scowled and tur ned away . “Put that pack age on
the table, and pick up the other one. It’s r eady to be sent. And be car eful.”“Yo. I know my job.”
“Yo isn’t a wor d,” Langley said primly and walk ed away . As the deliveryman tur ned to leave, he mutter ed, “W ell,
prick  is.”
The deliveryman thunder ed down the stairs and
encounter ed Lupe as he lef t. He gave her a look of
exasperation and camaraderie. “Man, what a monster .”
“He’s just confused.”
“You know him?”
“No,” she said, and hesitated. “Not yet.”
Lupe was living with her grandpar ents, but she of ten
thought about her par ents, who’d moved back to Me xico. In
the last year, they’d both lost their jobs in the States: her
father in construction, her mother as a housek eeper in a
nursing home. Since they wer e undocumented, they
couldn’t r eceive unemployment, and no matter how they
tried, they wer e unable to ﬁnd other work. Lupe had watched as they came home each evening,
avoiding her eye, and talk ed in hushed, wor ried tones. She
noticed how they counted the wor n dollars they stashed at
the bottom of her mother’s drawer . She had seen her
father’s nor mally cheerful face gr ow gaunt and lined,
noticed that her mother had found new ways to pr epare rice
and beans every night. These last months, when the bottom had fallen out of
their lives, the family had had to mak e a har d choice about
who would go and who would stay in America. In the end, it
was decided that L upe would r emain with her grandpar ents,
and her par ents would r eturn. Lupe r emember ed—with a
pang—that ter rible conversation, when her mother had
called her into the living r oom with her special, for mal voice.“Daddy and I ar e going back. That’s the way it has to be
for now .”
When L upe had cried, her mother took her into her ar ms.
“It won’t be for ever, mi amor,” she said, ﬁghting her own
tears. “It’s for the best, you understand.”
The fact that the move was a ﬁnancial necessity didn’t
make it any easier . Lupe missed having her father sit with her as she studied
her history lessons and help her with math; she missed her
mother’s laugh in the mor ning and the way her smile
brightened the day . She even missed Ax ochiapan, the Me xican village she
was fr om, which was lush, beautiful, and e xtremely poor . When her par ents had lived with her, she’d rar ely thought
about their village; but now that they wer e so far away, she
dreamed about the bougainvillea, the nearby lagoon, and
the war m feeling that over came her when neighbors
mingled together in back yards af ter dinner to cool oﬀ fr om
the day . She r emember ed how her best friend, Maria, would
come over, and they’d play in the dusty back yard. Lupe
would always be the teacher or the nurse, and Maria would
be the student or patient. They both planned on having
careers when they gr ew up, unlik e their mothers. They
dreamed about going to college, having their own bik es, and
being able to go to the gr ocery stor e on their own to pick
out whatever items they desir ed. Lupe year ned to at least visit her par ents and friends, but
her grandmother told her it wasn’t possible. Ther e was no
money for such an e xtravagance. Plus, what if they didn’t
allow L upe back into the country? Her grandmother r eminded her that P oppy’s heart
couldn’t stand much mor e upheaval and unhappiness. But
Lupe didn’t have to be r eminded of that. She loved her grandfather, with his wor n face, bleary
eyes, and snaillik e gait. R aul Saldana had once been vital
and str ong, a man who built homes and cut down tr ees.Lupe didn’t r emember this time—befor e emphysema and
heart disease took away his str ength—but ther e wer e
photos str ewn ar ound the apartment that pr oved it. They
also showed her grandmother in another incar nation, when
she was a dark-eyed beauty who wor e camellias in her hair . They posed in fancy clothes—her grandfather in a wide-
brimmed hat and embr oider ed shirt, her grandmother in a
wide-skirted dr ess with ruﬄes and ﬂounces. They look ed lik e
the most vital people in the world, as if they would be young
forever. For Lupe, these people lived right alongside the
ancient people her grandpar ents had become. She could
almost see them some nights, superimposed on their weary
counterparts in the dim glow of the television. OceanofPDF .comCHAPTER 2
When Jonathan felt a br eeze fr om the stairwell, he
realized that the deliveryman had failed to shut his door,
and he stalk ed over to slam it. On the way, he ran into the
pungent lime af tershave that announced the pr esence of Mr . Antunucci, the landlor d. Since he’d become blind, Jonathan
had discover ed that each person had a distinctive scent that
preceded and sur rounded him, lik e an aura; sometimes
subtle colors also appear ed in his mind. He had never told
anyone this. Mr . Antunucci possessed not only a citrus scent
but a r osy cloud. “What’s all the rack et ne xt door?”
“Hello, Mr . Langley,” Antunucci said in a voice that
suggested he’d long been the r ecipient of Mr . Langley’s complaints. “I’m putting railings on the tub in
here.”
“Why do the L ees need railings?”
“The L ees moved out last month; an elderly couple’s
subletting now . The Saldanas.”
“They must be plenty old if they need railings.”
“You’ll be old one day, too .”
Jonathan mutter ed, “I doubt it.”
“They’r e just r enting for a couple of months. One of them
is getting tr eatments acr oss the str eet at the hospital.”
“That dump? T ell them they’ll pick up a nice case of
staph.”
“Try to be friendly .”An old man, slowly pulling an o xygen cart, emer ged fr om
the bedr oom and made his way into the hall. “Mor ning, Mr . Saldana,” Antunucci said. “Mor ning,” the old man managed, then e xploded into a
long, phlegmy cough. Behind him in the apartment, salsa
music was tur ned up. Jonathan shook his head as he moved back into his
apartment. “ God help me.”
Antunucci mutter ed, “Y ou need it.”
Lupe, who had been lurking just inside the Saldanas’
apartment, sk ated out and peer ed at the name tag on
Jonathan’s door . “That’s Jonathan Langley, the unhappiest man in the
world,” Mr . Antunucci said. Jonathan hadn’t always been a fractious blind man,
railing at neighbors and deliverymen. Ther e was a time
when he was the talk of the town, a successful artist, part of
a coterie of attractive, chic young men. He’d had shows in
New Y ork and L os Angeles and the capitals of Eur ope. His
photograph seemed always to be in The New Y ork T imes
Style section—smiling at this party or that opening, always
dapper and handsome, always in the fr ont row. He’d been
proﬁled in the LA Times  and the Chicago T ribune;  he was so
used to being interviewed on television that, in the end, it
didn’t even mak e him nervous anymor e.
The prints and r eproductions of his most famous
painting, The Dancing V agabond,  had made him wealthy
and famous. He’d tried not to be seduced by the attention
and accolades, but it got under his skin. He became used to
it, then he felt lik e he deserved it. He spent the money as
quickly as he ear ned it. He bought a silver Jaguar and an
apartment on Madison A venue, dove-gray cashmer e
sweaters, and fur -lined coats.He was estranged fr om his par ents and sister—ther e had
been wor ds between them that could never be tak en back. He had no other close r elatives, so he had for med a family
of his friends and fellow artists. They’d had Thanksgivings in
Aspen and Christmases in the Caribbean; they’d ﬂown to
Hawaii so of ten that Jonathan ﬁnally bought a house in Maui,
right on the beach, one of thr ee he owned at the height of
his wealth and power . All this, he had assumed, would continue for ever. His old
money would mak e new money; his holdings would
increase, as would his friendships. His looks could always be
augmented by a little nip and tuck. But then, one fateful year, it all began to change. Eventually, everything collapsed. His friends got sick and then died one af ter another fr om
a virus that no one was able to name or understand. It seemed that as fast as Jonathan could paint his friends
—those handsome young men with sculpted cheeks and
thick pale hair—they gr ew wan and ghostlik e. They enter ed
hospitals and never emer ged again. Instead of parties, he
went to funeral homes, ghastly places that smelled of lilies. He stood in the back and watched families fr om other places
—Kentuck y and Mississippi—appr oach their lost sons with
wails that would br eak the hearts of the most har dened
people. These wer e the artistic boys who’d lef t home to
become singers and actors. Now they wer e gone and so was
the life that Jonathan had thought would always last. Then Jonathan himself was strick en with a degenerative
disease that stole his eyesight within a matter of months. First, he couldn’t r ead newspapers; then it was the menus at
restaurants. Ne xt, he found himself avoiding painting, not
because he didn’t have ideas, but because he had diﬃculty
making out his own lines. When his agent r ealized that he
wasn’t able to pr oduce anymor e, all the attention stopped
as wor d swept the art world.He was blind! W orse than dead, in his opinion, especially
for a visual artist. He was r educed to an invisible,
handicapped status. Over night, he became a lonely man in
rented r ooms who needed assistance with nearly every
aspect of his life. The bitter ness that had begun ﬂooding Jonathan during
that dying season never r etreated. Ever since, his mouth
had felt full of acrid bile. Everything bother ed him. Unsolicited phone calls, TV advertisements, how har d it was
to open a bottle of pills. Some nights in bed he had to will
himself to r emember that he’d ever had another life, since
there wer e so few witnesses to that time. How had he ended up her e, in this noisy thir d-rate
building, populated with illegal aliens and drug lor ds? He
thought of what his friends would say if they could see him
now, r educed to paying deliverymen to bring cheap Chinese
meals. He could bar ely get himself to leave the apartment
anymor e, except to sit on the chair outside his door and
smok e his little imported cigars—one of his few r emaining
pleasur es. His daily life had been r educed to bed, bathr oom, chair,
and daily cigar . What’s the point of living lik e this? he ask ed
himself . And what wor ried him most was that he no longer had an
adequate answer . Lupe thought it was luck y that she loved old people,
since they wer e the ones with whom she spent most of her
time now . Her grandpar ents wer e her most constant
companions. She played hearts with her grandfather af ter
dinner and listened to her grandmother’s stories late into
the night.She knew them all. Ther e was the story of how her
grandpar ents met on a blind date at a village dance. Her
grandfather had walk ed in, dusty fr om a long day of r oad
work, and her grandmother wouldn’t speak to him until he
went home, changed his clothes, and washed his hair . There was the story about how L upe’s mother had been
born breech, and her labor had tak en all one day and night,
nearly wearing out her grandmother, who called for the
priest and begged to be tak en to heaven. Ther e wer e stories
of husbands who strayed but r eturned home again; when
they didn’t, they underwent ter rible punishments (fr om God,
her grandmother said), losing a leg or a fortune or going
bald over night. L upe couldn’t get enough of these stories
and their plots full of conﬂict and honor . The good always
triumphed, eventually, in her grandmother’s stories. None of
them ever died, e xcept for oﬀ-scr een, post-story . Lupe lik ed
being lef t with the uplif ting moral. It made her feel better, as
her grandmother knew it would. Her grandpar ents’ friends wer e her friends—old mar oon-
haired Mrs. Gonzalez who tapped over on two canes fr om
apartment 102 to bring them fr esh tortillas and
neighbor hood gossip; Mr . Santana fr om 109, who had
recently lost his wife and came over at br eakfast to silently
weep into his café con leche. That was the hour he missed
her most, he said. Her grandpar ents had an open-door
policy, and L upe was of ten the one who escorted in these
seniors. She loved their frank manner and wrinkled faces
and the way they told the truth. But that didn’t mean she didn’t pine for friends her own
age. Especially in school, wher e she hadn’t yet found a
group that would include her . The Hispanic girls in her school seemed older than L upe,
who still k ept a stuﬀed animal in her lock er and had yet to
wear a bra. These girls tr eated her with contempt when they
noticed her at all.“Lupe’s still a baby . Aren’t you, L upe?” ask ed one of the
sassiest, a girl named Rita, when L upe walk ed by the gr oup
as they stood, snapping gum in the hall. “No,” L upe said simply and tried to get past them as
quickly as possible, so they wouldn’t notice her frayed
dress, washed and ir oned by her grandmother, but still with
a small hole in the back, or her out- of-style shoes, bought
from the thrif t stor e.
But L upe was fascinated by the pr oud, pale-hair ed girls
who pr edominated at her school, wealthy daughters of the
town’s doctors and dentists, who look ed lik e princesses to
her. These girls had equally beautiful mothers who dr ove their
SUVs right up to the curb, r eleasing their daughters in
clouds of perfumed entitlement. One, named Brie, was so
ether eal, so self -assur ed and beautiful, that L upe couldn’t
help imagining being her friend. Brie was the epitome of
social success; in the cafeteria, girls saved a spot for her at
the head of a special table. She set the style for the year’s
cool clothes—this year it was short black ruﬄed skirts and
tight midriﬀ-clinging T -shirts—as well as the movies, books,
and television shows that wer e favor ed. She never look ed
tired or discouraged. Her oval face was always slightly
blushing, and her blue eyes wer e accented with just enough
makeup. L upe had never seen Brie br eak out in
embar rassing rashes, as she herself sometimes did. One af ternoon L upe gather ed her courage and said to
Brie, “I love the color of your shirt.” It was a pale blue that
reminded L upe of the sk y over her village in Me xico. But
Brie look ed at her as if she had just said the stupidest thing
in the world. Lupe was humiliated, but she managed not to burst out
crying. She just r emember ed her grandmother’s advice about
adversity and the power of positive thinking, and sheadjusted her face and smiled at Brie in spite of the girl’s
dark and sk eptical look. “What is she smiling  at?” Brie ask ed a friend who was
standing ne xt to her, and the two of them laughed as they
sashayed oﬀ together . OceanofPDF .comCHAPTER 3
After school one day, L upe coasted downhill on her bik e,
the wind fanning her hair out behind her . It was br oiling hot
and humid with the temperatur e in the high 90s, but L upe
hummed a song that the wind snatched away . She stopped her bik e in fr ont of a squat brick building
that housed one of the local libraries. She enter ed the
computer r oom, sat down in fr ont of a monitor, and typed in
Jonathan’s name. She couldn’t believe it when a younger
version of his face ﬂashed on scr een. It was him, but a
happier -looking, dark er-haired version, with a fuller face and
laughter crinkling his eyes. Ther e wer e pages of material
about his art and life. L upe r ead it all, spellbound. “Celebrated as a painter, Jonathan Langley is also a
master printmak er, who has, over the course of mor e than
20 years, pushed the boundaries of traditional printmaking
in extraor dinary ways. “Renowned for his saturated colors, bold style, and
realistic depictions, Langley’s most famous painting, The
Dancing V agabond,  has r emained a best-selling print since it
ﬁrst appear ed.”
Lupe click ed onto the image of the painting. It showed a
man standing on a lonesome str eet cor ner at night. He was
long limbed lik e Jonathan and had his angular face and
gener ous mouth. The man raised one ar m in the air in a
dancer’s gestur e. The painting was beautiful and evocative.Lupe k ept clicking and r eading. “T ragically, Langley’s
prodigious pr oduction was inter rupted by a degenerative
illness that struck in his 40s. Now completely blind . . . living
somewher e in the San F rancisco Bay Ar ea . . . he has
produced no new art since the onset of his illness.”
Someone pointedly coughed behind her, and L upe tur ned
to ﬁnd Brie with a supr emely impatient look on her face. She
was wearing her black skirt and tight top today, along with
ropes of shiny necklaces. “W ould you mind telling me how
much longer you’r e going to be? I’ve got a paper due for
social studies.”
Lupe look ed ar ound; all the computers wer e occupied by
people who had alr eady been working when she ar rived. Why didn’t Brie appr oach them? But she shook her head to
dislodge the thought and smiled at Brie instead. “I’ll ﬁnish up—I’m almost done. Sor ry you had to wait.”
She printed the article about Jonathan and then hastily
gather ed her books so Brie could tak e her place. Brie did so
without a thank- you or a second glance. Lupe hesitated a moment as if still e xpecting some wor d,
but all Brie oﬀer ed was a ﬂip of her long golden hair . Standing behind her, L upe watched as Brie signed onto
Facebook. Brie saw L upe watching and gave her a tight little smirk. When L upe ar rived at home, she found Jonathan sitting in
a straight chair outside his doorway, smoking a small cigar . “Who’s ther e?”
Lupe didn’t speak for a moment, studying him, as if
comparing him with the painting she’d look ed at earlier in
the day . “You shouldn’t smok e,” she said. “Who says?”
“Lupe.”“Well, Lupe, mind your own business,” he said, blowing a
dark ring dir ectly towar d her face. “The air belongs to everyone,” L upe said. “Oh, spar e me. What ar e you doing her e anyway? Do you
live her e? I think I’ve noticed you befor e. Do you wear
perfume that smells lik e roses?”
“No!” said L upe, as if this wer e an aﬀr ont. “I don’t wear
perfume at all.”
“Maybe it’s shampoo . Or maybe it’s just you.” He didn’t
say that he also saw a silver -tinted light when he discer ned
this scent in the air . “I’m staying with my grandpar ents,” L upe infor med him. “They live ne xt door .”
Jonathan inhaled deeply . “Well, that must be fascinating. Are you training to be a nurse?”
“A nurse?”
“Never mind.” He tapped his cigar on an ashtray . “By the
way, whatever crap your grandmother fried last night
smelled up my apartment all evening.”
Under her br eath, L upe sang a little tune. “What’s that?”
“My grandmother says I should sing that whenever
anyone swears.”
Jonathan bark ed a laugh. “ Crap is har dly a swearwor d. If
you want to hear swearwor ds—”
Lupe quickly sang the ditty again. “Stop it!” Jonathan said. “What kind of nasty cigar is that, anyway?”
“It’s an e xpensive kind, that’s what.”
“Please stop. My grandfather can bar ely br eathe as it is.”
“That’s his pr oblem.”
“But your smoking will damage our friendship.”
“Friendship?” He laughed. “ How old ar e you, anyhow?”
“Eleven.”
“Well, you’r e a little young for me, dear .”
“How old ar e you?”“Two hundr ed and twelve.”
“Well, that’s too old to be smoking. But since we’r e
friends, I’ll help you.”
Lupe calmly r emoved the cigar fr om Jonathan’s hand and
began walking down the stairs. “Hey! What ar e you doing? Give me that!”
He reached ar ound, snatching at air . “I’m blind—I can’t
see you.”
“I know,” L upe said, still descending. “You little brat! Give that back!”
“It’s ok ay; you can yell all you want. W e’ll still be friends. I’ve envisioned good things for you.”
“What ar e you talking about?”
“Say good-bye nasty cigar .”
“You little shit, what ar e you talking about?”
But L upe was downstairs, singing under her br eath and
taking the cigar far into the alley, wher e she crushed it
under her heel. Lupe’s grandmother was her special conﬁdante and
adviser, the one who guided and inspir ed her . She had
advice for every one of life’s pr oblems, most of it with a
pointed personal story attached. When a girl at school called L upe a name, her
grandmother told a story of a boy who had been called
names and gr ew up to become a successful lawyer, able to
ﬁght for defendants who couldn’t stand up for themselves. Once when L upe got into a ﬁght because a boy tried to
steal her purse, her grandmother taught her a wrist-twisting
technique that made him dr op her purse ne xt time with a
yelp of pain and surprise. “Y ou can also use it if you want to
get away fast,” her grandmother said. There was evidently nothing anyone had ever
experienced that her grandmother didn’t know about.She taught L upe songs to sing whenever she
encounter ed negativity, a for ce that she spok e of as
powerful and contagious, one that must be combated
immediately, befor e it had the chance to seep into one’s
soul. L upe’s favorite began:
Deep at the center of my being, ther e is an inﬁnite well of
love. I now allow this love to ﬂow to the surface. It ﬁlls my
heart, my body, my mind, my consciousness, my very
being, and radiates out fr om me in all dir ections and r eturns
to me multiplied. The mor e love I use and give, the mor e I
have to give; the supply is endless. Lupe had sung this so many times that she knew it by
heart. “Remember, ther e is an eye in your mind, and when you
use it to see what you want, you bring it into your life,”
Lupe’s grandmother taught her . “The wor ds you use have
strong power . Never use negative or swearwor ds, only
positive wor ds full of light.”
“Spanish or English wor ds?” L upe ask ed. Her grandmother laughed and put her ar ms ar ound her . “It doesn’t matter, my little petunia. Any wor ds. Just mak e
sure they ar e positive in your mouth and in your mind. See
your life the way you want it to be; see the lives of those
you love full of blessing and light. This is the secr et of life . . . something everyone knows, but most everyone for gets.”
Her grandmother’s hug smelled lik e sweat and talcum
powder . Whenever L upe got scar ed at night, she wrapped
her ar ms ar ound her grandmother’s neck and squeezed her
tight. OceanofPDF .comCHAPTER 4
Another hot, oppr essive day . Lupe sat under an umbr ella with a pitcher of lemonade,
under a sign that r ead best lemonade in town. She had
ridden her bik e all the way to Shop T own, even though her
grandmother said that they over charged poor people. She
bought lemons, a pound bag of sugar, and ﬁlter ed water . She stood in the kitchen while her grandmother gave her
advice on how to mak e the best lemonade. “Back home we drink agua de limón  room temperatur e,
but in America, people lik e everything cold. Y ou have to add
plenty of ice cubes and k eep adding them, or no one will
buy.”
After a half hour, L upe sat with only a few quarters in the
jar beside her . She smiled as a businessman, scowling into a cell phone,
rushed by; he didn’t even look her way . Nor did those who
followed—a teenage jogger, a woman wearing a Bluetooth
headset who seemed to be ar guing with herself, a middle-
aged woman in a tight white dr ess. An SUV full of high-school boys stopped nearby at a light,
and one of them look ed over at L upe derisively . “Hey, chiquita! ” someone called out, as if it wer e a curse. The sun shif ted; the day str etched on. L upe’s
grandmother look ed at her fr om the upper window—she
seemed r eady to call down, but then stopped herself .A squar e of sweat for med on L upe’s for ehead and ran in
rivulets down the side of her face, but still she smiled. Another sign, ﬂat on the table, with her ar m covering it,
read for a good cause. Lupe closed her eyes and mur mured, “I only attract
loving people in my world, for they ar e a mir ror of what I
am.”
She opened her eyes wide and look ed ar ound; now the
sidewalk was completely empty e xcept for a black dog who
stopped for a moment to smell her shoe and then listlessly
moved on. Then, just as L upe was thinking of giving up for the day,
customers started ar riving. A lar ge family, stuﬀed in a hot
car, stopped and or dered a glass each. “Our air conditioner just went on the fritz,” the father
said. Several boys pulled up on their bik es, as well as an
assortment of childr en who wander ed up, hot and thirsty, to
empty their pock ets of nick els and dimes. By the time L upe ran out of lemonade, the sun was low in
the sk y, and her jar was nearly full. Lupe climbed the stairs to the second-ﬂoor landing, with
her disassembled stand, to ﬁnd Jonathan. He sat outside his
door, almost ﬁnished with another cigar . “Hi again, Mr . Jonathan.”
He jumped. “ God, don’t sneak up on me lik e that.” He
pulled his cigar close to his chest. “ And don’t think about
taking this away .”
“I won’t.”
“I’m done anyhow .” He stubbed it out in a planter . “See? Y ou quit, just lik e I said.”
“I didn’t quit, you little—” He stopped himself befor e
Lupe could r espond. “ And I don’t want to hear that stupidsong again.”
“So you’r e swearing less, too!”
“You’re a pest, you know that? And a menace. I’m going
to infor m your grandpar ents. What ar e their names again?”
“Juana and R aul Saldana. S-A-L-D-A-N-A.”
“What an awful name. T oo many A’s.”
Lupe ignor ed him and pulled out a bag of coins. “I just
ﬁnished selling lemonade. I made $28.25.”
“From lemonade?”
“Well, fr om tips, too .” She moved closer to him, as if to
share a secr et. “I need money for something very special. My quinceañera .”
Jonathan made a face. “What’s that? Some of your
smelly food?”
“It’s a big celebration, when I’m 15, that means I’m a
woman. A band ser enades you and everything, and I get to
wear a gown and car ry a bouquet of ﬂowers.”
“I thought you said you wer e only 11.”
“I am, but I’m almost 12. And I have to start saving right
now, so I can have the pr ettiest dr ess. I do e xtra jobs. Maybe I can work for you.”
“Doing what? Annoying me? But you alr eady do that for
free.”
“Seriously,” L upe said, with a grave look, “ you need
help.”
Jonathan winced as if these wor ds had pier ced him. “Some blind people have dogs,” she said. “You want to be my seeing-eye dog?”
“No, your seeing-eye L upe.”
“I don’t need you.”
“I alr eady helped. I changed your lightbulb this mor ning,
and I br ought in a pack age that was sitting outside, and
yester day I br ought in your mail and newspaper .”
Jonathan r eplied, “W ell, I didn’t ask you to do any of
that.”“I know . I wanted to .” She went to her apartment door
and opened it. “I want to see you happy .” She shut the door . Jonathan r emained in his chair . “Happy?” He shook his
head, and a look of pain cr ossed his face. Lupe had inter rupted one of Jonathan’s r everies, the
reliving of a trip he and his partner, Geor gie, had tak en to
Venice for Geor gie’s 25th birthday . It was a golden trip, one
of their ﬁrst together, when he had the distinct pleasur e of
introducing Geor gie, a boy fr om Indiana, to a place that he
consider ed one of the wonders of the world. They studied
the art at the Doges P alace, drank wine in St. Mark’s Squar e,
and r ead fr om The Mer chant of V enice  as they slipped along
quiet canals in a gondola. Jonathan thought Geor gie might faint when he ﬁrst saw
the Grand Canal. “Do you know how ancient this is?” Geor gie ask ed, his
face r osy with e xcitement and his tawny hair ﬂopped into
his eyes. Born in the Midwest, he had never traveled anywher e
besides Califor nia. Jonathan had taught him everything he
knew, schooling him on how to choose wine for dinner, how
to pronounce Rilke, and what Chopin sounded lik e compar ed
to Mozart. It was gratif ying, the way Geor gie appr eciated it
all. “I wouldn’t know anything without you!” he of ten said,
turning to Jonathan adoringly with his pale eyes full of
respect and love. Really, he was the most adorable young man Jonathan
had ever seen. Sometimes he could not believe his good
luck. Still, it was on that trip that Jonathan had the ﬂeeting
sense that this r elationship couldn’t possibly endur e forever. Twenty years his junior, wouldn’t Geor gie eventually getbored and ﬁnd someone younger, mor e handsome? The
thought that Geor gie might die befor e him had never
enter ed his mind; still, the pessimistic side of him was
always half waiting for the other shoe to dr op. This was a legacy fr om his mother, whom Jonathan called
the most negative woman in the world. Belle Langley was a
person bor n at the wr ong time in the wr ong place, as far as
he was concer ned. A smart woman who never went to
college, she was stuck in a suburban ranch house, bor ed out
of her mind with two childr en who r efused to adher e to her
notion of nor malcy . First ther e was Jonathan, with his overly
meticulous tastes, his abhor rence of sports, and love of
design and fabric. Then ther e was his sister, Carla, with a
body that developed early, and who r ebelled as soon as she
was able. While Jonathan stayed home and played on the
sewing machine, Carla was out every night sleeping with
any boy she could seduce. He had once found a steno pad
wher e she’d annotated her conquests, and he stopped
reading at 41. Belle took her daughter’s pr omiscuity personally, as an
indictment of her child r earing and a slap in the face of her
Catholic morals. Ther e wer e scr eaming matches,
embar rassing in their intensity and volume. Once, the
screaming had br ought a police oﬃcer to their door . Their father, Henry, was diﬀer ent—mor e tolerant, sof ter
and for giving—but he’d been lock ed up in his own prison at
the real-estate oﬃce wher e he’d work ed his life away trying
to mak e enough money to support this unholy cast of
characters. Meanwhile, Jonathan sat at the sewing machine or dr ew
on the back of wallpaper r olls and developed serial crushes
on his shop teacher, the mailman, and the clerk at the 7-
Eleven. He couldn’t wait to leave home, and his mother
didn’t pr etend she was going to miss him. His eﬀeminate
side embar rassed her .“I don’t need any mor e café curtains. Why ar en’t you
playing ball? Go outside and get dirty, for Christ’s sak e.”
She helped ar range early admission to college in his
senior year of high school. Ther e was one spectacular ﬁght
when she found incriminating magazines under his bed, but
that was the only time his se xual pr eferences wer e ever
mentioned. Still, that had been bad enough. “Y ou’re a little
freak—I always knew it. I’m humiliated to be your mother!”
“Not as humiliated as I am by you,” Jonathan said,
slamming the door in her face. Still, he had never been able to leave his mother
completely . Sometimes he even hear d her voice issuing
from his own mouth. When he put someone down or made a
tart or cutting r emark, ther e she was again. Belle . . . why
had he thought he could ever be fr ee of her? After their ﬁght, he vowed to never call her again, and he
hadn’t. He consider ed it once, af ter he’d gone blind and lost
nearly everyone in his life. But then he thought better of it. If he hadn’t k ept in touch when he was happy, why would he
do it when he was sad? And ther e was no way to get near
his father without going thr ough her . Ther e wer e a few brief
phone calls over the years, when an aunt or cousin died, but
other than that, they wer e nearly strangers. As for his sister, the last he’d hear d, she was in Seattle
doing something with an or ganic far m. He found this har d to
envision, but it sounded better than her pr evious activities. Frankly, he had always been bor ed by her . So much for family . In a way, he was glad L upe had inter rupted his r everie. OceanofPDF .comCHAPTER 5
Later that week, L upe was in Jonathan’s apartment again,
this time dusting knickknacks while he sat at his desk
signing prints. She found his apartment fascinating, with its
rows of books, artifacts, and dozens of paintings, many
cover ed with fabric. Her pr ogress was slow because she studied each item
and couldn’t r esist asking Jonathan about many of them. “This egg, is it made out of pur e marble?”
“I’m paying you to dust.”
“Just tell me.”
“Yes. I got it in Gr eece.”
“Greece,” L upe r epeated, in a voice that suggested she
wasn’t sur e wher e this was. “Yes, Gr eece, the cradle of civilization. I used to go to
Aegina, a small island in the Mediter ranean, southwest of
Athens. What do you lear n in geography? How to get to L A
?”
“We don’t lear n geography,” she r eplied. “No kidding.”
“And this nak ed lady with no ar ms?”
“That’s the Venus de Milo,  one of the most famous
statues in the world.”
Lupe silently studied it. “I like this one with wings that go back.”
“That’s Winged V ictory, ” Jonathan said as he continued
signing. “Ther e’s a world art book on my shelf at the end.Why don’t you tak e it home and look at it if you’r e so
interested? But ﬁrst do the goddamn job I’m paying you for . And no singing!”
“Really? Y ou’d let me do that?”
“What good do books do me now?”
Lupe found the book and held it for a minute, hesitating. He raised his head, as if trying to discer n wher e she was. “Lupe?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you can handle these print or ders for me? Every two weeks I get a big shipment of them to sign. Some
of them ar e pretty big.”
“Yes, I can handle it. I’m str ong.”
“What’s your schedule lik e?”
“Well, I’m in school.”
“Can you dr op out? This is mor e important.” L upe
laughed. “I’ll come her e right af ter. I promise.”
“What school is it, anyway?”
“Our Lady of Mer cy.”
“Who teaches you? Nuns?”
“Mm-hmmm.”
“I ﬁnd nuns ter rifying.”
“Not me. I lik e them.”
“You lik e them? W ell, we’ll work on that.”
A few minutes later, L upe ﬁnished dusting, and Jonathan
handed her some money . “Go read your book.”
The ne xt day, L upe opened the apartment door to the
sound of Jonathan yelling into the phone. She enter ed quietly . Jonathan was wearing a r obe and pacing furiously,
holding an unlit cigar .“Settling is out of the question. My work cannot  be used
without my per mission. Absolutely not!”
Lupe lef t the r oom and began cleaning the bathr oom. “Well, to hell with that. I say no!”
As Lupe scour ed the sink, she hummed one of her songs. Suddenly her hand slowed. She walk ed into the living r oom
as Jonathan continued his rant. “I don’t car e if it’s a hospital! They char ge for their
services; I char ge for mine!”
Lupe nudged Jonathan. “ Do you have any P ost-it notes?”
she whisper ed. Annoyed at her inter ruption, he cover ed the r eceiver . “Over on the desk. Don’t inter rupt me again. And don’t
move things ar ound. I can’t ﬁnd a thing!”
Lupe got the P ost-it notes fr om the desk and wr ote, “Only
Good Lies Befor e Me.”  She placed it on the wall. Then she
began writing others. Finally, she went back and stuck a note to the middle of
Jonathan’s bathr oom mir ror. She stepped back and look ed at herself, smoothing her
unruly hair and peering into her own eyes. Jonathan was oﬀ the phone, still muttering to himself . “Mr. Jonathan?”
“What?”
“I know you’r e blind, but do you have any idea what I
look lik e?”
He tur ned towar d her for a moment. “Why do you ask?”
She blushed. “I was just wondering. My grandmother
says I’m pr etty, but she’s the only one. The girls at school,
they don’t tr eat me so good. So I was thinking, maybe it’s
because I’m ugly .”
“You’re not ugly . I can assur e you of that.”
“How do you know?”
“I know, that’s how . You have an aura ar ound you. And
it’s not ugly .”“Aura? I think I hear d my grandmother say that wor d
once.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. Come her e. Let me feel your face.”
Lupe walk ed straight up to him and let him move his long
ﬁngers over the contours of her face. “I was also a sculptor,
so I know faces very well.” He continued moving his ﬁngers,
ending up at her for ehead. “See, a face should be divided
horizontally into thr ee equal spaces. L eonar do da V inci knew
this, and even the ancient Gr eek mathematicians did. Y our
face is lik e that. It has perfect classical pr oportions. In other
words, you’r e pretty, L upe. Don’t let anyone tell you
otherwise.”
Lupe look ed up at him as if she might cry . “Thank you. I’ll go now .”
She walk ed out of the r oom, and as she closed the door,
Jonathan hear d her e xclaim, “ Classical!”
Later that week, L upe stood in the school auditorium at
choir practice with a gr oup of popular girls. As a nun led them in singing “ How Gr eat Thou Art,”
Lupe’s soprano voice rang out clear and str ong. This was a cause of general mirth for the popular girls,
especially Brie, who r olled her eyes. L upe stood alone on a
separate bleacher r ow, while the other girls cluster ed
together ar ound Brie, clearly the alpha in the gr oup,
responsible for the shunning of L upe. After the ﬁrst song was over, the nun tapped her baton. “Girls, move together . Why ar e you divided up lik e this? All the sopranos in one gr oup. L et’s go .”
The popular girls look ed to Brie, who lower ed her eyes as
they r eluctantly spr ead out on the bleachers. Lupe pr etended not to notice. She k ept a half smile of
graciousness on her face and mur mured, so no one else
could hear, “I love myself; ther efore, I behave and think in aloving way to all people, for I know that that which I give out
returns to me multiplied.”
In Jonathan’s apartment that af ternoon, L upe put away
the gr oceries she had br ought while Jonathan stood by the
window . “Mr. Jonathan?”
“Yes?”
“Ther e’s something I always wonder ed.”
“What?”
“Why ar e so many of your paintings cover ed up with
sheets so no one can see them?”
Jonathan scowled at the question. “Ne xt time you go to
the stor e, buy some duct tape so I can place it over your
mouth when you ask questions lik e that.”
“Okay.”
Jonathan sighed. “ For one thing, I can’t see them anyhow . For another, I don’t want to damage them with cigar smok e
and sunlight.”
“Those don’t sound lik e good r easons.” L upe said. She
moved to Jonathan’s desk, wher e ther e was a particularly
large cover ed canvas. “ Plus, you don’t even smok e in her e.”
“Why don’t you mind your own business?” Jonathan
began, moving towar d her . When he r ealized wher e she was
standing, he stopped short and stood for a long moment. “That one above my desk,” he said. “That’s my dog, Beau. He was the smartest, most loyal—”
“He was? He’s gone now?”
“Yes.”
“And what about the one ne xt to it, by the window?”
“My par ents.”
“They gone, too?”
“They’r e gone, but not dead. They live in Florida—
practically the same thing.”“You don’t go see them?” L upe ask ed. “No, my mother and I had a ﬁght many years ago . I
never lik ed her much, nor she me. W e’ve bar ely been in
touch for years.”
“That’s sad,” L upe said. “I wish I could see my par ents.”
Jonathan hesitated. “I never thought about you having
parents. I thought your grandpar ents took car e of you.”
“I still have par ents. Everybody has par ents.”
“So why ar e you with your grandpar ents?”
Lupe tur ned. “Maybe you need some duct tape, too .”
Jonathan chuckled. “T ouché. Do you know what that
means?”
Lupe shook her head, and then r ealized he couldn’t see
her. “No .”
“It means, You got me. ”
Jonathan tur ned away and headed towar d the kitchen. He
turned on the k ettle to mak e a cup of tea. “So what about the painting in your bedr oom?”
Jonathan tur ned oﬀ the gas and stood for a second. “That one is of my . . . wife.”
“Oh—is she gone, too?”
Jonathan nodded. “In Florida?”
“No, she died. F irst her, then our baby .”
“Your baby?”
“Beau, he was our baby . That’s how we felt about him
anyhow .”
Lupe hesitated. “Y ou mean you and your wife couldn’t
have any r eal babies? I knew a lady lik e that. She took all
these injections at the hospital, and then she had these tiny
creatur es put inside her that they made in a lab, but none of
those work ed either .”
Jonathan had a strange look on his face. He shook his
head. “Did Beau look lik e you?” L upe ask ed. “My dog, Bonita,
people said she look ed lik e me.”Jonathan’s face brightened. “I don’t think so . Nobody
ever said so anyhow . He was a bo xer, fawn color ed, and all
muscle. What happened to Bonita?”
“Nothing happened to her . She’s in Me xico.”
“Mexico?” Jonathan said. “So, that’s wher e you’r e from?”
“Yes,” L upe said curtly . For the ﬁrst time, ther e seemed to
be topics she didn’t want to talk about. “And that’s wher e your par ents ar e?”
“Yes, with Bonita. Why don’t you get another dog?” she
asked. Jonathan seemed lost in thought. “I couldn’t tak e car e of it,” he said quickly . “I can bar ely
take car e of myself .”
“That’s what Grandma says when I ask for another dog.”
“What?”
“Who’ll tak e car e of it?”
Jonathan look ed confused. “W ell, you’d  take car e of it,
wouldn’t you?”
Lupe moved out into the hallway and was suddenly gone. OceanofPDF .comCHAPTER 6
Riding home fr om school on her bik e the ne xt afternoon,
Lupe passed one of the town’s most impr essive homes, a
gabled thr ee-story V ictorian, dripping with lacy gingerbr ead
trim and painted pale yellow . Of all the houses in town, this
was L upe’s favorite. When she r ode her bik e past, she lik ed to slow down and
imagine what it would be lik e to live ther e with all the r oom
in the world, a vast emerald yar d, and a swimming pool
barely visible behind a r ow of ever greens. Thr ough the lar ge
living-r oom window, she could see a chandelier and two
giant portraits, hung ne xt to each other, of a mother and
daughter, looking almost lik e twins. Even the items they thr ew away wer e better than what
Lupe owned—perfectly good wick er chairs, slightly damaged
dolls, and once a check er game
still sealed in a bo x. Her hands itched to peek at these,
but she made herself ride on. Today as she coasted by, she saw the mother and
daughter fr om the portraits pull up the drive in a shiny black
car, music blaring fr om the ster eo. It was Brie with her mother, an older r eplica of the
daughter, both of them in sweatpants and ponytails. L upe
stared at them steadily as she coasted by . Brie’s mother said, “ Do you know her?”
“God, no,” Brie said. “She goes to my school, that’s all.”“These Hispanics, sometimes they stak e out a house so
they can come back later and br eak in.”
Brie sneer ed, matching her mother’s look. “I wouldn’t
doubt it.”
“I hope she isn’t stalking you. None of the girls lik e her,
do they?”
“Of course not. She’s a jok e.”
Lupe ar rived at Jonathan’s house with gr oceries,
packages, and postage. A r outine was being established. Jonathan lef t the door open now, so L upe didn’t even have
to knock. “I don’t know if I can aﬀor d you,” Jonathan said as he was
making out another gr ocery list to give her . “But I’m not e xpensive, and look, I can do everything—
clean and shop. I can even cook for you if you want.”
“No, thanks. That’s all I need—to be char ged with
violating child-labor laws.”
“I’m not a child!”
Jonathan tur ned his head towar d her . “Of course you’r e
not. Eleven is ancient. Do you have any idea how old I am?”
“Fifty-ﬁve.”
Surprised, Jonathan ask ed, “How’d you know that?”
“I look ed you up. On Google.”
“You did? And what else did you ﬁnd out?”
“Oh, lots. That you ar e an important man, a painter . That
you had bad luck. That you’r e blind.”
“I used  to be an important painter .”
“That doesn’t change,” L upe said. “ Plus, you’ll paint
again.”
Jonathan gave a bark of disbelieving laughter . “And how would I manage that? My world is completely
dark, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“You’re gonna mak e new paintings anyhow .”There was a knock on the door, and it swung open to
reveal her grandmother . “Lupe, we need you over her e with
Grandpa.”
Lupe headed towar d the door . “Bye, Mr . Jonathan. See you tomor row.”
Jonathan gave her a brief wave, but otherwise he did not
stir. He sat staring sightlessly at a pile of prints he was
preparing to sign. L upe’s wor ds—“Y ou’ll paint again ”—had
stunned and unnerved him. The Saldanas’ apartment couldn’t have been mor e
diﬀer ent fr om Jonathan’s. It was saturated with a smell that
was har d to place, but L upe thought it might be a
combination of mothballed clothes, melted cheese, and the
sweet lily of the valley talc her grandmother used af ter
bathing. On the living-r oom wall was a single painting, a lar ge
print of a pier ced and bleeding Jesus. It was ancient and had
been br ought fr om Me xico, someone told her once. L upe’s
room was essentially a closet, her little bed wedged in a
corner, cover ed with a hand-sewn quilt. When she got out of
bed, she enter ed the hallway; she had no other choice. Her par ents’ old r oom, just as small, had been
immediately tak en over as the household closet and was
already jammed with a vacuum cleaner, wor n suitcases, and
medical equipment. Lupe assisted her grandmother in changing the bulk y
oxygen tank that her grandfather car ried acr oss his chest. He was sitting in a wheelchair with his eyes closed, looking
gray faced and e xhausted. “Here, let me,” L upe said, as her grandmother struggled
to hook the br eathing tubes back into his nose. “Ther e, Grandpa. Now you can br eathe better . Breathe in deep,” L upe said.“Gracias,  sweetheart,” he said in a hushed, gravelly
voice. He r elaxed visibly as he took long br eaths thr ough his
nose. Lupe leaned over and kissed him. “I love you—you know
that, Grandpa? L upe loves you.”
Tears moved slowly down his leathery face. “Don’t cry . Ther e’s no r eason to cry .”
“You’re an angel, L upe,” he said. “ As soon as you wer e
born, everyone knew it!”
Lupe smiled. “That’s not what I hear d. Mama said I cried
the whole ﬁrst year!”
“Still, you ar e my angel,” he said. From the kitchen, L upe’s grandmother called, “ Lupe, why
don’t you tak e some dinner over to Mr . Jonathan? I don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything
cooking in the house.”
“He never cooks! I don’t know how he stays alive.”
Lupe car ried in an aluminum foil casser ole dish into
Jonathan’s apartment and placed it on the table. Jonathan sniﬀed the air . “What’s that?”
“Your dinner . We made it over in our kitchen. You’re not eating enough, I notice. Me xican food is tasty
and full of pr otein.”
“Really? So that’s what I’ve been smelling over on your
side of the hall. T asty pr oteins. What is it e xactly?”
“Carnitas, pork cook ed in its own fat, and chick en with
mole sauce made of chocolate, chiles, and spices. And a
little dish of ceviche: raw ﬁsh with spices.”
Jonathan made a face. “I was just planning to have some
nice crack ers with cheese, thanks.”
Lupe said nothing, but her disappointed silence was
eloquent.“Maybe I’ll try it later,” Jonathan said. “I’m not hungry
right now .”
“You’ll just put it in the garbage,” L upe said, as she took
oﬀ the foil, ﬁx ed him a plate, and placed it in fr ont of him. “Good idea.”
“I thought you wer e a big traveler who’s had food fr om
all over the world.”
“I used to be.” Jonathan took the plate and very
delicately pick ed up a piece of car nitas with his fork, as if it
were poison. He took a bite and chewed slowly, and then he
took another . “You said this was duck?”
“No. Pork. In its own fat.”
“In its own fat . . . what ar e you trying to do, give me a
heart attack? That would top oﬀ my condition.”
“Grandpa eats it all the time. And look at him.”
“Right. Exactly my point.”
“He’s seventy -one!” L upe said indignantly . “Is he? W ell, that is impr essive.” He lick ed his ﬁngers. “Not bad.”
“Try the ceviche.”
“Anything raw mak es me nervous.”
“This is diﬀer ent—it’s r eally good.”
“All right, one bite.” He took a tiny shrimp. “I lik e the
spices,” he said, chewing. “ Although I’ll pr obably be sick for
a week.”
Without a wor d, he started on the chick en with mole
sauce. “ Geor gie and I never made it to Me xico. And I’ve
always r egretted it.” He seemed to be talking to himself . In ﬁve minutes, the plate was clean. “Thank you. That was good. And inter esting.”
Lupe beamed with pride. “Now, ne xt time let me tak e you to my kind of r estaurant
—well, what used  to be my kind of r estaurant.” “Y ou don’t
have to, Mr . Jonathan.”
“I know, but I’d lik e to. I’d get per mission fr om your
grandpar ents, of course. I haven’t been ther e in ages. Whencan you go? How about F riday?”
“Okay, I’ll check with Grandmother . I don’t know if she’ll
let me.”
“Why not?”
“Friday’s my birthday .”
“Yeah? Y ou’re what? T en?”
“I’ll be twelve.”
“I can’t even r emember what twelve felt lik e.”
“They wer e going to have a little party for me, but not
until Satur day.”
“Well, that’s perfect, then. T ell her she can come, too .”
“No, she doesn’t lik e fancy places.” L upe gather ed her
things and moved to the door . “I’ll let you know .”
Friday night, Jonathan stood in the courtyar d, waiting
beside a taxi with W illiam, a local driver . He was bald and
squat with an e xpressive, friendly face. Finally L upe came clomping down the stairs. “What ar e you wearing? Horse shoes?”
“My mother’s good shoes—she lef t them her e.
They’r e too big, but I stuﬀed them with paper .”
“That’s sophisticated.”
“Hola, Lupe,” W illiam said. “Y ou look nice tonight.”
Jonathan tur ned to him. “ Does she? Describe how she
looks, W illiam.”
“Well, she’s got on a blue dr ess with white ﬂowers and a
blue bow in her hair and white shoes with many straps.”
Lupe got in the back of the cab ne xt to Jonathan. “I’m
nervous about this fancy r estaurant. I’ve never been to one befor e.”
“Use your positive thoughts!”
“Stop making fun of me!”
“See yourself enjoying it. That’s what you tell me, isn’t
it?”Lupe look ed at him. “I didn’t think you ever listened to
me.”
“Oh, I listen  to you,” Jonathan said. “I don’t want to, but I
force myself occasionally .”
He leaned forwar d and said, “ Fleur de L ys, William. W e
have a seven- o’clock r eservation. But give us the visiting-
aunt tour ﬁrst; we’r e early .”
“You got it.”
“William’s been driving me ar ound ever since I lost my
sight,” Jonathan told L upe. “That’s nice. Sometimes he drives us, too,” L upe said. “I
guess you drive everyone, right, W illiam?”
“No, not everyone. Just the cr eam of the cr op, lik e you
two.”
“William used to be an actor,” Jonathan said in a fak e
whisper . “You did? ”
“A hundr ed years ago . Befor e you wer e bor n.”
“What wer e you in?”
“TV shows. Route 66, Hawaii F ive-0. Have you ever hear d
of them?”
“Yes!” L upe said. “I’ve hear d of both.”
William laughed. “I doubt that, but you’r e cute when you
lie.”
He dr ove them using a cir cuitous r oute that ended up
taking over an hour . Jonathan sat back while L upe oohed and aahed over
Chinatown, F isher man’s Wharf, City Hall, and Nob Hill. “So many hills!” she k ept saying. The last stop was at an ocean beach. “Can we stay her e for a minute?” L upe ask ed. “Sure.”
She opened the door and got out. “What’s she doing?” Jonathan ask ed. “Just standing ther e.”“Looking out?”
“Yeah. L ooking out at the water .”
Lupe eventually got in, bringing the tang of ocean air in
with her . “I never r eally saw the ocean befor e,” she said simply . “Just on an airplane, looking down.”
Her voice sounded as if she might have been crying, but
Jonathan was r eluctant to ask. “Okay, W illiam, we’r e ready now . Let’s go eat.”
It was an evening of wonders for L upe, beginning when
the F rench chef came out and shook Jonathan’s hand and
then led them thr ough a r oom draped with sumptuous
fabric, walls decorated with moder n art, and crystal on the
tables. Lupe look ed as if she had fallen into a dr eam. “Say something,” Jonathan said, once they wer e seated
in a private alcove. “It is so nice, lik e for the pope or someone holy!” she
exclaimed, making Jonathan laugh. “This is calamari with sweet sauce,” the waiter said af ter
Jonathan had or dered from a special menu. “I never saw this befor e,” Lupe said, e xamining a piece. “Look, this has suction cups and tentacles lik e an octopus
plus a spider .”
A woman beside them with pearls ar ound her thin neck
gave them a dirty look. “It is a kind of octopus,” Jonathan said sof tly. “It’s squid.”
“Oh!” L upe said on a sinking note and audibly chewed a
piece. Jonathan wished, not for the ﬁrst time, that he could
see her face. “In the salad ar e pale gr een sof t pieces of something,”
she said later .“Give me one.”
“Open up,” L upe instructed and then put a forkful in his
mouth. “Artichok e hearts.”
“Oh, yes, this I know fr om home. They’r e pretty plants. And what is this white meat?”
“Veal.”
“From what animal?”
“Never mind. And beside that is br occoli rabe. It’s good for you.”
But while L upe seemed enthralled with the scrumptious
meal—all four courses of it—Jonathan had the distinct
feeling that she wasn’t eating it all. “Lupe, you couldn’t have eaten all those garlic r olls. Wher e are they?”
“I have a little bag. Down her e, in my purse. I’ll tak e it home—they’ll thr ow them out if we leave
them.”
“That’s not done in a place lik e this.”
“Well, I’m doing it.”
“So, do you lik e the food? Y ou haven’t said.”
“Jonathan, this is food for queens. I love it, but . . . it’s too
good for me.”
“No, it’s not. That sounds lik e something I would say .”
“It’s true!”
“No, I want you to say, ‘I’m enjoying this food because I
deserve it!’  Say it!”
She smiled. “ Okay. I am enjoying this food because I
deserve it.”
“Thatta girl. Happy birthday, L upe.”
Lupe look ed at him and laughed. “Thank you.”
OceanofPDF .comCHAPTER 7
The ne xt afternoon, L upe dusted while Jonathan put away
groceries. They moved ar ound each other lik e an old-time
couple, accustomed to being in each other’s r ealm. “I got the wheat crack ers instead of the cheese ones,”
Lupe said. “They wer e on sale, plus they ar e better for you. For the ﬁber .”
“Thanks, Mother .”
“Same with spaghetti. Whole wheat, not white.”
“When did you become a r egister ed dietitian?”
“I have a nutrition class at school,” L upe said pr oudly . “Too bad they don’t thr ow in a little geography, too .”
Lupe continued to dust and ended up by Jonathan’s desk. “I left you an invitation her e.”
“For what?”
“You’ll see—”
“I won’t  see. How do you e xpect me to r ead it?”
“Here,” Lupe said. “ Just try .”
Jonathan took the piece of paper and felt how L upe had
carefully cut out construction paper so that each letter had
a texture he could feel. “You made this for me?”
“Yes, for my choir concert.”
Jonathan’s face sof tened for a moment, then har dened
again. “W ell, number one, I don’t lik e to go out; and number
two, I hate choirs.”
“Why?”“Singers always mak e ﬁsh faces when they sing.”
“I thought you couldn’t see.”
“I remember , okay? And I don’t lik e the way conductors
make those dramatic zipper moves at the end, lik e this—”
He pinched his for eﬁngers and thumb together and
moved his hand horizontally . Lupe laughed. “W ell, you won’t be able to see that,
either .”
“I remember .”
“You can just listen to me sing. Y ou’ll lik e it.”
“I can hear you sing her e whenever I swear . Why should I
pay to sit in an auditorium?”
“You haven’t swor n in a while, Mr . Jonathan.”
“Don’t r emind me, you little sh—”
Lupe began humming one of her songs. She got the vacuum fr om the closet and tur ned it on. Jonathan cover ed his ears. “ Go somewher e else with
that. It gives me a headache.”
She moved into the bedr oom. As she vacuumed by the
cover ed canvas by Jonathan’s bed, a cor ner of the cloth got
sucked in and the bottom cor ner peeled fr om the painting,
enough for L upe to see that the painting of Jonathan’s
“wife” was of a man. Lupe stopped, and then a light went on in her head. When she’d ﬁrst come to San F rancisco, her grandmother
had e xplained about men lik e Jonathan af ter she and L upe
had sat behind a couple in the subway and watched the
younger man lean over and kiss the older one on the neck. “Love is love,” she told L upe. “This is how it is for some
people. W e cannot judge. They ar e hurting no one.”
“But, Grandma,” L upe said later, “they ar e the most
handsome ones!”
“It might seem lik e that,” her grandmother said. “ But
you’ll see. Ther e are plenty of handsome men of every kind. You’ll ﬁnd one someday .”
Lupe wasn’t so sur e about that now .She star ed at the painting a moment longer, then walk ed
back into the living r oom wher e Jonathan was at his desk,
signing prints. “Mr. Jonathan?”
“What?”
“Don’t be mad. But you know that painting of your wife?”
Jonathan stopped signing. “What about it?”
“The vacuum accidentally pulled the sheet oﬀ.”
Jonathan sat a moment longer and then stood. He
headed into the bedr oom with L upe following. He r emoved
the rest of the cover fr om the painting and sat on the bed. The painting was of a handsome young man in his 20s,
elegantly dr essed in a br ocade vest, his pale hair combed
back fr om a noble for ehead. He held a champagne ﬂute in
one hand, gesturing in a way similar to the man in The
Dancing V agabond. In the backgr ound stood the shadow of
an older man, partly tur ned away and looking out a window . The mood was enigmatic and br ooding. Lupe sat ne xt to Jonathan. “What was his name?”
“Geor ge. I called him Geor gie. He was my best friend,”
he said quietly . Lupe nodded. “ His face is nice. I lik e how he’s standing,
all fancy .”
“Well, he had a ﬂair, let’s say .”
“Do you have a ﬂair?”
Jonathan smiled. “Y es, I used to have a major ﬂair .”
“I think my uncle has a ﬂair, too .”
“Really?
_OceanofPDF.com_Painting_The_Future_-_Louise_L_Hay.txt
Summarize the following text section accurately and concisely. Maintain specific details and numerical information, and use anti-repetition mechanisms:

        OceanofPDF. comALSO B Y LOUISE L. HA Y
BOOKS
Colors & Numbers  
Empowering W omen  
Everyday P ositive  
Thinking Experience Y our Good Now. (book-with-CD)  
A Gar den of Thoughts: My Aﬃr mation Jour nal 
Gratitude: A W ay of Life  (Louise & F riends)  
Heal Y our Body  
Heal Y our Body A–Z  
Heart Thoughts  (also available in a gif t edition)  
I Can Do It® (book-with-CD)  
Inner W isdom  
Letters to L ouise  
Life. R eﬂections on Y our Jour ney 
Love Y our Body  
Love Y ourself, Heal Y our Life W orkbook  
Meditations to Heal Y our Life  (also available in a gif t edition)  
Moder n-Day Miracles  
The P ower Is W ithin Y ou 
Power Thoughts  
The P resent Moment  
The T imes of Our Lives  (Louise & F riends)  
You Can Cr eate an Ex ceptional Life  (with Cheryl Richar dson)  
You Can Heal Y our Life (also available in a gif t edition)  
You Can Heal Y our Life Companion Book
BOOKS FOR CHILDREN
The A dventur es of L ulu 
I Think, I Am. (with Kristina T racy)  
Lulu and the Ant: A Message of L ove Lulu and the Dark: Conquering F ears 
Lulu and W illy the Duck: L earning Mir ror Work
and
THE L OUISE L. HA Y BOOK COLLECTION  
 (comprising the gif t versions of Meditations to Heal Y our
Life, Y ou 
Can Heal Y our Life,  and You Can Heal Y our Life Companion
Book )
All of the above ar e available at your  
local bookstor e, or may be or dered by visiting:
Hay House US A : www. hayhouse. com® Hay House
Australia:  
www.
Not mentioned in the provided text.
What is the name of the book written by Louise L. Hay?
Her name is not mentioned in the text.
Who is Lupe's grandmother?
The name of the painting is not mentioned in the text.
What is the name of the painting that Lupe looks at in Jonathan's apartment?
The text does not mention the name of the book.
What is the name of the book that Jonathan Langley is a master of?
Mexico
What is the name of the town where L upe's parents moved back to?