Of all the worries weighing on my mind, I didn’t even realize this should be one. Is that why Papá had a stroke? Had we all grown complacent to the doctor’s strict orders? Was he even taking his medication? Money is tight, it’s always been that way, but Papá’s hours were cut early this year. All too easily, I picture him saving a few bucks by not refilling his prescriptions.
I slam my eyes shut and grip the counter, emotion cresting like a tidal wave I don’t see coming. This hospital stay isn’t going to be covered. Nor the ambulance ride, and I feel fucking useless. I can’t help with anything because I can barely take care of my own damn bills. Tears prick my eyes, but I refuse to cry. Fuck. Why can’t anything ever be easy? I slam my palm onto the counter.
Shit.
The surface rattles just enough to tip my phone over the edge. It hurdles toward the sink of dirty soapy water. “Fuck!” I reach out, but my reaction is a half second too late. The phone lands with a soft splash. Retrieving it quickly, I wipe it with a damp dish towel. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Maybe it’s not broken.
The urge to channel my anger into something, anything, overwhelms me and I can’t decide whether I want to send my fist through the wall or curl on the floor and cry.
A soft shuffle tears my attention from the phone.
David’s wide eyes stare with apprehension. He doesn’t step forward or tug on my shirt. I hold out my arms, but he stays still. So still he almost doesn’t look real.
Damn it. I’ve scared him.
“Hey, buddy.” I desert my phone on the counter and drop to my knees. Pushing what’s left of my frustration out with an exhale, I offer my son a smile with open arms. “Papá’s having a bad day, but I love you, okay? Everything’s good. I’m sorry I yelled and used bad words. That was wrong. I won’t do it again.”
David stares, but his wary expression softens. He points to the living room.
“You playing cars?”
He blinks.
“Can I play too?”
He steps forward, grabbing my hand and giving a little tug. Right there my heart melts and all is right in the world—if only for this moment. My son grounds me in ways I never knew existed. He’s the best thing to happen to me. He may not speak, but his silence roars louder than any shouts ever could. My brave boy. I may stumble, but I refuse to throw away the opportunity to be a good father. No matter what.
Waiting for me to stand, David leads us to where he set up the cars in a new pattern. A piece of artwork, really. It’s sometimes the only insight I get into his mind. He’s a smart, beautiful boy. My boy.
I take a seat on the floor. “This is really cool, bud.”
He doesn’t smile, and maybe I imagine it, but I swear his chest rises with a burst of pride. He points to the yellow truck. The new one Mamá got him last week.
“Kinda looks like Abuelito’s truck, doesn’t it?” Add a bit of rust and replace the yellow with blue. I chuckle to myself, but with thoughts of my father comes another pang of guilt for not being at the hospital. The thought threatens to steal the joy of this moment, but I shove it aside. My papá would be the first to tell me I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
David points again.
“Yeah, I see. Is that your favorite?”
He stares at me a moment, then takes my hand and reaches us both forward so we touch the truck. His brows knit with frustration, and I wish he could just tell me what he wants.
“It’s a truck.” I nod.
His brow furrows further as he stares between me and the toy car. I feel helpless. Stupid, even. I should know what my son wants. What he needs. He slams my hand down on the truck, hard this time. Ouch.
“Hey, now. Be gentle.” I move his hand off mine and wrap my fingers around the truck to pick it up.
His annoyance is clear in his features. He stares at the truck a long moment.
I think we’re good.
We’re not.
A gurgled yell pitches from his mouth and then he’s swatting the toys, shoving them and sending a few sailing across the room with his tantrum. I grab him before he slams his head back. He thrashes against me, hard and unruly.
“It’s okay, mijo. It’s okay. Papá’s got you. I’m here.” I whisper the words over and over again, cocoon him in my arms as I hold him tight and rock us back and forth. Soon enough, he stops kicking and pushing. We rock until he’s all worn out. I don’t know what I did or didn’t do. Sometimes, I think he’s just so frustrated at not being able to communicate and it builds and builds until he bursts—the energy needing to go somewhere.
Dear God, why won’t he talk? I need answers. It’s my job as his father to find them, to figure out what’s holding him back. I’ve done a poor job navigating answers. I could blame the health care system. My lack of resources. But part of the reason is I’ve just been existing in survival mode. That, and a little piece of me is fearful of the unknown. What if this is permanent? What if he never speaks? What kind of future can I provide him?
It’s not until David’s exhausted himself and fallen sleep that I lay him in bed.
I remember my broken phone. Fuck.
Dragging my ass back to the kitchen, I glare at my cell. I tap on the screen, but it doesn’t unlock. Shit. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remember my sisters arguing about what to do the time Becca dropped hers in the toilet. I power it off and remove the case. Pulling out a clean towel from the cabinet I lay out all the pieces far away from the sink and remove the battery too. Hopefully it’ll dry out and work; otherwise, tomorrow I’m back to my old flip phone.
I make a pit stop in the bathroom to strip down to my boxer briefs and brush my teeth before heading to the bedroom. It takes me a few minutes to dig around in the closet, but I find my old phone and a charger. Plugging it in, I pray the thing still works and offer up a silent plea that Papá really is okay and no one tries to call me tonight. Shit. There’s nothing I can do about it now.
Worn out and ready for this day to end, I lay next to David, relaxing as his body burrows into my chest. I close my eyes. Exhale. Drift. Teeter on the edge of conscience thought.
My eyes snap open. My date with Cora!
Fuck. She must be pissed. Hurt. Disappointed. Damn it! Add it to my list of monumental fuck ups and ways this day’s gone to shit. It’s hours past the time we were supposed to meet. I can’t text or call because my old phone has no service. Fuck. Wouldn’t matter anyway. I don’t have her number programmed into this phone. Fucking hell.
Sleep evades me as I envision her sitting in the trendy restaurant. Waiting. Realizing I’m not gonna show, that I don’t even have the decency to cancel. I’m such a fuck-up. As I stare at the rise and fall of David’s chest, I take a little bit of comfort in his steady rhythm. He’s the only thing good I’ve done in this world. Even still, I’m barely holding on. It was silly to think I could have anything else. Especially someone like Cora.
Fourteen
Cora
He stood me up. I can’t believe it, and maybe that stings even more. Why did I expect more from him? Why did I allow myself to think he was really into me?
I should have never let my guard down. Lesson learned.