And I saw the life go out of him and he was motionless and his eyes, which had been so alive, went blank and so far away. And I rocked him in my arms, rocked and rocked him, and I knew I was crying out—but it felt like it was someone else. “No. No. No, no, no, no, no. Dad. Dad. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. No, Dad! Dad!”
Thirty-Two
I DON’T REMEMBER MY MOTHER as she walked into the house and got down on her knees to kiss my father one last time. I don’t remember her making the sign of the cross on his forehead. I don’t remember her gently prying my arms away from my father. I don’t remember that she took him in her arms and whispered, “Amor, adios. Adios, amor de mi vida.” I don’t remember the coroner arriving and pronouncing my father dead. And I don’t remember the hearse from the funeral home taking my father’s body out of the house on a stretcher as I stood by my mother on the front porch and watched them drive away. I do remember thinking that the world had ended and wondering why I was still here, on this earth, in this world that had ended. I don’t remember falling. I don’t remember everything going dark. My mother recounted all of these things to me later. And she said, “Your father died in your arms. And the weight of it was too much to carry. And your body reacted by just shutting down.”
* * *
What I remember is waking up on my bed and a man who seemed like he was a doctor was examining me, taking my vitals, a doctor I later found out was the son of one of the Catholic Daughters. Everything is connected. And everyone seemed to be connected through the women who were members of the Catholic Daughters. He had a kind voice and he said, “You’ll be okay. You fainted. Or you passed out. We call it syncope—it happens when your brain isn’t getting enough oxygen. A trauma can cause that. For a moment, you simply couldn’t breathe. Your father died in your arms. Your body will be fine.” He tapped my heart. “But your heart is another matter.”
“Did you know my father?”
“Yes. He used to take your older brother and me fishing.”
“You were my brother’s friend?”
“When we were small. It was just before your father joined the military. Your brother was nice. And then he could be very mean.”
“But—but what happened?”
“I’m not sure exactly, but I think your brother had some pain inside him that he took out on other people. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
He nodded. He looked at his watch.
“I know you have to go. You didn’t have to come.”
“Well, your mother called my mother. She didn’t really know if you should be taken to the hospital. And she called me—you know how it goes with those women.”
We were both smiling. “Yeah, I know.”
“They’re maddening and annoying and wonderful. I took a break just to check on you.”
“So you’re a doctor?”
“Not yet. I’m doing an internship.”
“What’s your name?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Jaime.”
“That was my father’s name.”
“I know. It’s a great name, isn’t it?” He laughed. He was kind. He was so kind. I knew that I felt vulnerable, like all of my emotions were jumping out of my skin. And somehow, I didn’t even care. I just let the tears fall from my face.
He had that same look my mother had, that look that seemed to see your pain and respect it. He smiled. “But I gotta say you have the greatest name of them all. Aristotle. Are you as wise as your name?”
“Oh, hell no.”
“Someday you will be, I think.” He shook my hand. He got up to go. And then he said, “Your father may not exist as a man anymore, but he didn’t die, Ari.”
“You mean he went to heaven?”
“Oh, I don’t know if he did or he didn’t. I’m not a believer in the traditional sense. I was raised Catholic like you. But I call God the Great Creator. Science tells us that we are all energy and that we are all connected. And once energy is present in the universe, it doesn’t just disappear. Life moves from one form of energy to another. Your father is still very much a part of the universe.”
I thought of what Emma had told us in her gallery. You matter more to the universe than you will ever know.
“Thank you, Jaime. You’re a good man. And you’re going to make a fucking great doctor.”
He laughed. “I love that word.”
We nodded at each other. As he walked out the door, I couldn’t help but feel that the universe had brought him to me. Because I’d needed to hear what he’d said.
* * *
As soon as Jaime walked out of the room, Dante appeared at the doorway—standing there like some kind of angel. I had always thought he was part angel. His signature tears were running down his face as if my pain was his. And I fell into his arms and I went from being almost calm to being a mess in less than a second. I wanted to tell him to make it all go away. But the only thing I could say through my tears was, “My dad. My dad.”
And I felt his body, how strong it was, and how soft his voice was when he said, “If I could bring him back for you, I would. If I could be anybody right now, I’d be Jesus Christ and bring him back to life.”
It was such a beautiful thing to say that it sent my tears away.
“Mom? How’s Mom?”
“She’s in the kitchen with my mom and dad.”
I kissed Dante on the cheek. I was so numb. And there was so much chaos in my mind. Everywhere, there was chaos.
* * *
Mom and Mrs. Quintana were sitting at the kitchen table, and Mr. Quintana was rocking Sophocles in his arms. I looked at my mother and said, “I don’t remember you walking into the house. When I was holding Dad, there was a look of panic, and then he was so calm. He was calm, Mom, like he knew and didn’t mind letting go. And he looked at me and he whispered my name. And then he almost had this smile on his face. It was a smile—and he whispered, ‘Liliana.’ And then he whispered your name one more time—‘Liliana.’ He wasn’t afraid. He let go. But I didn’t. I didn’t—and I still can’t.”
“I don’t know how to thank you for that, Ari. To know he left this world in peace. To know he wasn’t afraid when he died, to know he died in his son’s arms, a son whom he loved with all his wounded heart, to know he died with a smile and my name on his lips.
“He was the only man I ever loved. And I was the only woman he ever wanted to love. I have always felt that our marriage was a miracle—maybe because it felt like a miracle, at least to me.”
My mother had always had a sense of dignity about her. And though she carried that dignity with her always, it seemed at the moment to be the largest presence in the room. Her tears were quiet, and there was an absence of drama, an absence of self-pity, no asking the question Why? Why did he die so young? He was fifty-seven. Four years older than my mother—though my mother seemed ageless. War had aged my father, even as it left my mother untouched. But my mother’s dignity could not erase the fact that grief would live in our house for a long time to come.