After the Hurricane(17)

Looking around, her task seems impossible. He has become a hoarder, Santiago, and his home is a rat’s nest of objects. You could just go ask Gloria, ask around, she tells herself, you aren’t going to find him here in this mess, but she ignores that thought. She is not ready yet to go into the world looking for her father, despite the fact that this is what she is here to do. She has Gloria she could be asking, she has some family on the island still, two of her aunts live in Bayamon, even if her uncles have moved on, one in Florida, one in the Dominican Republic. She could call them, Rosalind had their last known contact information. She could go to Bayamon, she has addresses, she could ask questions, she could begin.

Instead, she cleans. Coward. Three hours later, she is covered in grime and dust, her forehead beaded with sweat, her shirt soaked. She has made it to the back of the closet in the bedroom that was hers once, clearing a path for herself. She has started with the obvious trash, the newspapers, the plastic bags, the broken things, the appliances and pots and plastic plant containers with dead plants shedding in them. Those have gone into garbage bags, sitting in the foyer. In the light of day she can see that her father has put up shelves in this room, or at least, shelving units, and in the closet as well, and they are filled, filled, with things. A pair of Coke-bottle glasses, 20 photo albums, books ranging from high school textbooks from the 1960s to political science tomes from the 1970s to law books of the 1980s and 1990s, all the academic periods of her father’s life. He was the first member of his family to go to college, he would tell anyone who listened. It was one of the only things she knew about his past. Why is my father such a mystery? she thinks, angry.

She looks along the shelves in the closet, revealed when she pulled off the torn sheets that had been covering them. Had her father thought to protect these things? This trash, his treasures?

She notes a group of books, histories of the island, of the larger area. She sees a copy of History Will Absolve Me, Castro’s oft-referenced speech, and a book about CIA involvement in South America, and the gruesomely titled A Short Account of the Destruction of the Indies. For all her study of history she has always avoided the world of Spanish and Portuguese conquest. Perhaps she felt that was the realm of her father, who himself had studied it in college. She picks up the book on destruction, telling herself she could use some light reading material.

In between three greenish glass bottles advertising a local pharmacy in 1889, and a mug that has a map of the island printed in cheerful yellow and red paint, she sees a rosary, wooden, with blocky beads, hung on a Santeria candle. She picks it up, examining it, tired from her labors. It is inscribed, she realizes: Para mi hijo para su primera comunión en la Iglesia San Sebastiánn Mártir.

For my son. This must have come from her abuelo, or her abuela. Elena didn’t know that her father had taken Communion.

She pulls out her phone and looks up the church. It is in a town called San Sebastián, almost a hundred miles from Old San Juan. When her family came to visit the island, they always came to San Juan, and to Bayamon, nearby. She has never been to this town, never heard of it. Her father has never mentioned it to her. Is this some place that is important to him?

Next to the Santeria candle is a map, a driving map of the island. In this age of digital navigation, her father still uses maps, Elena supposes. She opens it, noting routes messily highlighted in red pen, marks along cities like Rincón, Cabo Rojo, Ponce, San Sebastián itself. When did he do this? Is this recent? Is this a clue? The map is dated May 2016. Not so long ago, then, but does it mean anything? Does any of this have meaning, this flea market of a home, or is all of it equally worthless? Can it lead her to her father, or is it just a junk shop, an indicator of his brain, filled with cluttered things and broken objects that don’t fit together?

There is a big star on Rincón and a name, Diego. Who is Diego? Is Diego important? She has never heard her father say this name before. The things she has never heard him say are endless.

She takes out her phone, and before she can stop herself, she calls her mother. Rosalind picks up after the second ring, her voice panicked.

“What happened? Did you find him, is he—”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me anything about Papi’s past?” Elena blurts out.

Silence.

“Did you—”

“No, Mom, I haven’t found him. I barely know where to start. Because I don’t actually know anything about him.”

More silence. What else does she expect?

“He didn’t want you to know where he came from, Elena. I had to respect that.”

“Why?” Elena asks. She has asked this question so many times, but she has never meant it this way. She has always wondered why he didn’t want her to know. Now she wants to know why Rosalind agreed. Why both her parents surgically removed her father’s past. Why Rosalind assisted, and keeps handing him the scalpel, even though he is no longer there to make the cut.

“He wanted to—”

“Why are you still doing this?” Coward. What Elena wants to ask, really ask, is why is she even here? Why are either of them still beholden to him? Why do either of them still care? Why doesn’t love ever let go of you?

“What would it change?” Rosalind asks, her voice bitter. Elena doesn’t know how to answer her. She doesn’t know how to tell her mother how lost she feels, knowing so little of her father, of where he, and she, came from. Because telling Rosalind will mean that what Rosalind has given her, with both hands always open, isn’t enough. That Elena’s worst fear is that she is only half a person. Not enough of anything to be someone.