After the Hurricane(103)
Elena drives into the center of the little town, following the directions on her phone. It is early, of course, but bars open early here. He won’t be there, she is sure, but this is it, this is her last lead, her last piece of magic, the last spot on the map. After this there is nothing, just the knowledge that she failed, and she holds on to the chance that she might find something, might find him, for a little longer. Just a little more. There is time enough for reality later; for now, she will dream.
She knows some part of her believes in movie endings. Some part of her hopes that finding him will mean some kind of transformation. She wants to kill the parts of her that still have hope, but then what will she be left with, other than pain and anger?
She parks the car, and walks up to the door of the bar and opens it, immediately blinded by the contrast between the brilliant light outside and the shadows of the interior. When her eyes adjust, she sees that the waiters are looking at her with resentment. Clearly her presence means they have to get to work, and they are in the midst of a card game. One starts to stand, but she waves him back to his seat. He shrugs, obviously unconcerned; if she needs something, she will ask for it.
Elena looks around. There is no one here but her and the apathetic waiters. Of course there isn’t anyone else. It’s nine in the morning. It’s a random bar in a random town. It’s nothing, she has nothing, she never had anything. He’s gone, or he’s not gone, the house is hers, or it’s not hers, it doesn’t really matter anymore. Movies aren’t real, life is life, and she is, as always, alone. She sits down, weary despite the night of sleep. All of this is her fault, not the chase for him, but the belief that it might lead to anything. The thought that coming here might mean something to her. The search for graves and deeds and people like they will give her what she wants, him. Answer her questions, fill up the space he’s always left behind. Oh, they have given her things, and she will forever be grateful. Diego and Hermando and Irena and Goli, they’ve given her little bits and pieces, more than she ever had before. She is a selfish person, she knows, but she had hoped for everything, not a pittance. She had hoped to know her father, know his life. She had hoped that she would be enough for him to want to keep living it. Silly girl. She barely has a life of her own to live.
She stands up to go. She will get on the road, brave the commuter traffic, take the next step and the next and the next, unstick herself from this place and the past and make some kind of something of her future. She reaches the door, which opens without her pushing it, because it is being pulled by someone. She looks up, into a pair of eyes that are a lot like her own, dark and brown and crowned with thick eyebrows. She looks up and sees her father for the first time in years.
Nineteen
How has he become so old? Elena thinks. She thought he was old when she saw him in New York those years ago but now, now the years have worn their way into his face and an old man looks back at her. Her grandfather looks back at her through her father’s face. The bags under his slightly bloodshot eyes are pronounced, and his jaw has softened. His hair has receded, an army retreating the battlefield of his forehead, but he still has some, and what he has is grayish brown, curly, cut short. He’s clean-shaven now, although he had a beard for most of her childhood. His stomach has grown, and it strains at his belt. He wears a tropical shirt that is tight across his belly, but loose at his shoulders, which have shrunk, lack of exercise, she thinks. His eyes look surprised to see her, but only vaguely, like he was expecting her, but just in an hour or so, like she’s early to meet him. He smiles at her, and she wants him to open his arms, to draw her close, so she can wrinkle her nose at his smell of metallic sweat, so she can be held. He does not do this, and she has to clench her fists to keep from reaching out to him.
“Elenita,” he says, like he saw her yesterday, like he saw her ten minutes ago. “Hello.”
“Hello?” she asks. But is she really surprised that this is all he says? A little, and she hates herself for being so.
“How did you get here?” he asks. She stares at him. Here? To the bar? To the island? To the world?
“I drove,” she says, simply. He nods, as if it makes sense that she would drive all the way from New York. “I came to San Juan. I went to Rincón. I found a map. I rented a car. Diego helped me,” she says, hoping to jolt him, remind him that he has never mentioned Diego, hoping for some reaction.
“Oh, that’s good. Long trip?” he asks. She shakes her head. It is like a conversation with a stranger. Of course it is.
“Have you been here before?” he asks her. He should know she hasn’t. He must. “Come, let’s get a drink.” He walks past her, and takes a seat at the bar. Elena walks toward him, and sits at the bar, leaving a seat between them. She feels like she is in a dream.
“What will you have?” he asks her. She has no idea what to say. She has been chasing him for days, unsure whether he was even still alive. She has hoped and despaired and now he is here and it is nothing. It is nothing, like they met after a week apart and not years and miles and storms. She wants to drink a whole bottle of rum and then vomit for hours, purging her system like the ancient Romans.
“Water, please.” Elena’s father gives her a long look, and orders them two rums. “Where have you been, Papi?” Elena asks, struggling to keep her voice gentle, like she is talking to a skittish deer in the forest. She isn’t sure if she means recently, or ever.