I'm Fine and Neither Are You(57)

“Busy. Anita and I threw a graduation party for Luis last weekend.”

Anita was his girlfriend and Luis was her son. I was pretty sure my father secretly preferred Luis to me and Nick. But maybe that was because Luis didn’t expect anything from him. Anita was the one who expected things, but she loved him and he adored her. My father deserved that after so many years of being alone. Still, sometimes it hurt to hear how he bent over backward for them.

“How are you doing, ni?a ?” He sounded older than usual. Or maybe he, like me, was just tired.

“Things have been hard lately,” I confessed. “One of my good friends died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. When?”

I hung my bag on the hook near the door and kicked off my shoes. “Thank you. It was six weeks ago.”

“Sorry,” he said again.

This was more than I had expected—yet I wished he would have said something else, like, “Six weeks! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Even “How did it happen?” would have been a start. Nick claimed that our father didn’t know how to relate to us because his own parents had alternated between abuse and neglect, and our mother had not stuck around to help him figure it out. My brother felt it was enough that our father had not followed in our grandparents’ footsteps.

I wasn’t looking for a perfect parent, though. All I wanted was effort. After thirty-nine years I was aware I’d be more likely to wish my way into winning a million dollars, but this didn’t stop me from hoping for the impossible.

“How are the kids?” my father asked. “And what about you and Sanjay?”

I told him about how Miles had stopped wetting the bed, and how Stevie was reading chapter books above her grade level. And I said things between Sanjay and me were great—everything was fine.

It was only after my father responded that I understood why I had stuck to my standard, sanitized response rather than admitting that we had been struggling.

“Good. You two are lucky. A strong marriage is a gift,” he said.

How had I never noticed this before? My marriage was easily the thing he most praised me for, and his compliment had filled me with pride, maybe even a feeling of victory. Because with a few words, he was assuring me I had met my heart’s purest goal—I had avoided turning into my parents, and in the process avoided turning my children into me.

“Thank you,” I said. “Dad, Nick said you were having some health problems. What’s going on?”

He tsked. “It’s nothing. I was having a little stomach pain, so the doctor ran a few tests.”

“And?”

“Eh,” he said.

“Eh?”

“Eh,” he said again.

“Then something is wrong.”

“Maybe. I’m having surgery next month.”

I felt queasy. “Surgery? For what?”

“I have a little cancer,” he said.

My father had only spoken Spanish until his family moved from Puerto Rico to Baltimore when he was seven. Even all these years later, he sometimes mangled English phrases or used the wrong word. But I had a strong feeling his command of our common language had nothing to do with the way he’d described his health problem. “A little cancer? In your stomach?”

“That’s what they say. They caught it early, though. Don’t worry about me—the doctor says I’m going to be just fine.”

I wanted to weep. “Then what? You’ll have chemo?”

“Probably so.”

“How can we help?” I said. “Do you want to come here for a second opinion? The university has one of the top oncology centers in the country. I’m sure I could help you get an appointment.”

“No, no, I’m happy where I am. Anita will take care of me,” he said.

Of course she would. I didn’t say anything.

“I should probably get going. I just wanted you to know. Penelope?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

I swallowed hard. “Thanks, Dad. Please keep me posted about your health, okay?”

“Love you,” he said by way of an answer. Then he was gone.

I was still staring at the phone when the front door opened and my family’s voices rang through the air. It might have been the most joyful clamor I’d ever heard, but I still felt myself sinking back into the dark space where I’d been spending so much time lately. My father may have been a lousy parent, but he was the only parent I had. He couldn’t die.

Sanjay walked into the kitchen, took one look at me, and said, “What happened?”

“My father just called to say he has stomach cancer. He’s having surgery next month.”

“Oh, Pen, I’m sorry,” he said. “When is it scheduled?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know what stage his cancer is?”

I shook my head. “You know my dad—when it comes to personal info, less is more.”

Sanjay’s expression had quicksilvered from concern to what looked an awful lot like anger. “He thinks this is only about him.”

“Yes, but I’m not going to be the one to point out that it’s not. I can’t force him to share things with me.”