After the Hurricane(66)
“He never . . . I didn’t know he had a friend here. We used to visit, but we never saw you here,” Elena says.
“I wasn’t here.” Diego smiles. “I moved to California after law school, never left the West Coast. I’ve only been here a few years. I moved back here after I retired from the bench.”
“You became a judge?”
“I was a lawyer for twenty years, then I became a judge. First civil, then family court, out in Washington State. Family court was absolutely brutal. Worst years of my life. That’s what motivated my retirement, I couldn’t take it anymore,” Diego says, frankly, sipping his drink, a beer. Elena nervously takes a sip of her rum and it burns her down the back of her throat. She coughs.
“Why did you move to Washington?” Elena asks, not sure why she cares. Diego’s eyes flicker.
“I wanted to get out of California. I needed, well, a fresh start.”
“Bad breakup?” Elena quips.
“Something like that,” Diego says, staring out at the sea.
“Why wouldn’t he have told me about you? It sounds like you were close.” Elena struggles to keep her voice something outside of pathetic. Diego looks at her again, smiling sadly.
“Your father is very good at leaving things behind that hurt him,” he says. “That’s something he learned early, and never unlearned. He wasn’t one for unlearning, not like me.”
“Do you . . . are you in touch now?”
“When I moved back here, I went to San Juan to meet him. Made him see me. Had some drinks, told him I wasn’t going anywhere and he had to get used to it. He’s stubborn, as I’m sure you know, but so am I. Now I see him whenever I go to San Juan. Whether he wants to or not.”
Elena does not know what to say.
“How does he seem? When you see him, how is he? And when did you last see him and how was he then and have you seen him lately and, and, I don’t know what else to ask. He’s missing, I’ve never met anyone from his past before who isn’t family. I wish . . . I don’t know.” The questions tumble out of Elena. Diego looks at her, as if he is deciding what to say. “Please, tell me the truth. Tell me anything,” Elena begs. “I know so little. It doesn’t seem right to know so little about a person who is . . . who is still alive. Still connected to me. Related to me. Half of me. Someone with my face.”
Diego looks at her with love and pity and it makes her skin crawl.
“Look, I haven’t seen him in a while. Maybe two months ago, after the storm, just wanted to make sure everyone I know in San Juan was okay. I’ve noticed the past few times that he might be forgetting things. We all do, as we age, of course. But your father, it’s like he’s letting things go. He’s always been one of the sharpest people I’ve ever spoken to. In his manic periods he is sharp and frantic, but in his depressive periods he’s, well . . . faded. And his memory is going, faster than mine, at least. It seems like he is dulling, his intellect, his brain, it’s dulling,” Diego says, his voice apologetic.
Elena feels nothing but relief to hear a truth spoken, known. To hear what she knows to be true. This is real, she tells herself, this is what is happening. A dulling. He goes up and down and around and around but every looping cycle chips a little something off of him, like old paint, like cloth fading in the sun.
“But surely you’ve seen him? I figured he would have come with you. I’m looking for him.” Elena quickly lays it out for Diego, the confusion after the storm, the confirmation that her father was fine, and this more recent panic. She had not planned to include the questions about the house, a will. She does not want to seem grasping, even if that is what she is. She tells him about Gloria, and her aunt Maria, and the albums. Once she starts all that, though, it is difficult for her to stop and it all pours out of her, the house, his promises, her confusion, Fernando, the drive here. Diego leans back, looking at her with assessing eyes, when she is done. He does not seem surprised, really, which makes her sad, but who is really surprised at this, honestly? No one she has met so far, so why start now?
“I’m sorry. That was a lot.” Elena is self-conscious, her throat dry.
“Let me get you another drink.” She hands him her glass.
“I must sound insane,” Elena says, half to herself, then winces. “Not insane. But . . . unhinged, I guess.”
“Ah. Well, that’s the island for you. Islands dislocate people from their sense of reality. It’s all the water. We’re all alone on an island, and our brains start to imagine other realities, because our eyes can’t see any habitable ones anymore. You go on the mainland, you want to be somewhere else, you can just go there. Get in the car and drive. But here, there is a limit to how far your body can go. At some point, your mind just has to take over.” He pours her a large rum, and drops ice cubes into it, and turns off the grill. She had completely forgotten about the food, which now smells burnt. “You aren’t driving anywhere tonight, are you?” he asks, hesitating before handing her the glass.
She has not thought this through. How is she going to get back to San Juan? It is afternoon now, and she had made a plan for Fernando to pick her up on his way back from Aguadilla, but there is no lunch in Aguadilla, and she has sent Fernando away. She takes the drink.
“Maybe you could recommend a hotel or something nearby? I was going to go back to San Juan today, but I think now that won’t be possible. Unless I can get a cab to take me.” Diego shakes his head.