I check my phone for missed messages. None. Isaac’s officially late, so I don’t feel bad following Leo to a secluded booth in the back. We shoot the shit a few more minutes, then he heads back to the kitchen. It doesn’t take long before all the tables around me are full, and the buzz of conversation and jovial energy hums around the room.
My gaze darts between the entry and the screen of my cell. Each time the door opens, my gut clenches with expectation, then releases a moment later with a tinge of disappointment. After another twenty minutes, that turns to worry.
“Sure I can’t get you something to drink while you wait? A pitcher of our sangria or maybe a frozen margarita?” the server asks kindly, as she has six other times.
I check the time on my phone again. “You know, a frozen margarita sounds great.”
“Salt?”
“Yes, please. And . . .” I hold up my finger before she rushes off. I intended to wait for Isaac, but my stomach can’t take it. “Can I get an order of chips and guac?”
“Of course. I’ll have it out in just a few minutes.”
Ordering without him unleashes a thread of anger, but I try to stay rational. He probably has a perfectly good reason for being this late. It’s not like he forgot. We confirmed the time and place this morning. I’m sure he’ll walk through the doors any second, or call at the very least.
Part of me wants to send him a text, but something holds me back. It’s the instinctive piece of my soul that’s worn armor for so long, it’s second nature to protect myself from further humiliation. I refuse to beg for any man’s attention. If he can’t be bothered to contact me, then I’ll walk away and won’t look back. Besides, I’ve met a lot of men and Isaac isn’t like the rest. He wouldn’t stand me up. He won’t. I’m sure of it.
Thirteen
Isaac
“Where the hell is she?” I grumble under my breath, hoping David doesn’t hear. He’s preoccupied playing with his race cars, and I have nothing to do but check the door, then dial Marlena’s number for what feels like the hundredth time. I’m going to be late. My stomach fills with dread at the realization. There’s no way I can get across town in time, even with the help of Mom’s old Corolla, which I intend to borrow the moment my sister pulls into the complex. No doubt Marlena’s cranked the sound system as loud as it goes and can’t hear her phone ringing.
Damn it. She better get here soon.
My pacing is pointless and only skyrockets my already frazzled nerves, so I set my phone on the counter and fill the sink. Grabbing the sponge and soap, I scrub the pan I used to make David’s dinner. My hands are wet and soapy when my phone lights up, ringing with an incoming call. I pick it up. “Hey, how close are you?”
“Isaac.” There’s a crack in her voice when she says my name. Shit. Something’s wrong.
“What happened?”
“Don’t worry, okay? Everything’s gonna be fine.” My sister’s tone is probably meant to soothe, but does the opposite.
Blood rushes in my ears and my hands shake. “Lena,” I bite out. Fear fills my chest and I can’t breathe. “Tell me. Now.”
“It’s Papá.”
Our father. No. My stomach lurches, free-falling off a cliff and into a pool of darkness.
“He had a stroke. But don’t worry. Mamá was with him when it happened, and they called the paramedics right away.” Her words fly so quickly, my brain can hardly process them. Papá. Had a stroke. No. Not this.
Visions from my teenage years, of my grandfather coming to live with us after his stroke. Abuelo struggling to feed himself, use the restroom, and walk only to die from a second stroke six months later play like a bad dream in my mind. Only it’s not some nightmare I can wake up from. It’s the reality that forever changed our family not even ten years ago.
“We’re at the hospital now. Rebecca drove Mamá over and I came straight from work as soon as I heard.”
“When? How?” I gulp back the questions that fire like bullets inside my head. “What hospital? I’ll come down now.”
“Isaac, Papá’s fine. It isn’t like Abuelo. It’s nothing like before.” Before. The word hangs in the space between us, my fears subsiding with the normalization of my pulse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“He’s really going to be okay? There’s no damage?”
She laughs wryly. “He’s already complaining, pulling off his heart monitor, and demanding to go home.”
I picture him swearing and throwing a fit at all the fuss. That’s my old man. “Is that really a good idea?”
“No. Which is why they’re making him stay the night. Mamá convinced him to listen to the doctors. Rebecca’s gonna drive her home soon. I’ll stay with Papá.”
I should be there. Guilt floods my thoughts, knowing I should be the one dealing with our father, not my sisters. Only, I can’t drop everything and leave like they can. “Give me a few minutes to pack up David’s stuff. We’ll head over.”
“Don’t.” Her sternness catches me off guard. Her sigh is heavy. Resolved, but weary. “Isaac, I appreciate the offer, but there’s barely enough space in the room as it is. Papá will only be more stressed if you haul David down here this late. I promise he’s fine. I wouldn’t lie about this.”
“I know. I just—” Feel horrible I can’t help. Feel guilty for not being there.
“I know. He loves you. We all do. Take care of David and I’ll call if anything changes. Papá needs his rest. Come by the house tomorrow for dinner. Mamá and Papá will both appreciate that.”
“You’re sure?”
“There’s no reason to bring David here.” Is she implying he can’t handle leaving the house? David’s refusal or inability to speak isn’t something we discuss often. Would her concern be the same if he acted like any other three-year-old? Or is she implying I don’t know what’s best for my own son?
Protectiveness fills my chest, and I want to ask, but now isn’t the time to hash this out. She’s dealing with Papá and that’s enough. “Call if you need me. If you need anything. Promise?”
“I will. Papá will be fine. Don’t worry.” Only that’s an impossible request, and I can’t tell if her reassurance is meant more for me or to combat her own fears. She was home the day Abuelo had his second stroke.
I say good-bye and set down the phone, reeling from the conversation as the information settles. Jesus. Hasn’t our family been through enough? After Abuelo’s death, Mamá convinced Papá to see a doctor. His blood pressure was through the roof. They said if he hadn’t come in, he would’ve met a fate similar to his late father. They put him on medication, and with my mother’s dedication to his diet, he lost twenty pounds.
I assumed Papá was still eating better. Exercising. He’s been good such a long time now. We were out of the woods and his medication was working, or so I thought. My father is the toughest man I know. But suddenly the foundation I thought secure blasts to dust right before my eyes.