Chapter 2
Pen
I wait until I'm halfway back to my office to take the call.
"Papá, hola. What's up?"
I flick a lamp on before sitting in one of my client armchairs. We all have a couple cushioned ones in our small offices, which were donated by one famous football player. He said he wanted to help make the hard conversations a tiny bit better. Any tiny bit helps.
"Hola, hija. Do you have a minute?"
Something about his voice makes me slow down. Just like that, I'm immediately alert. I may be trying to leave the stress of work in this office, but his tone is making me acquire a whole new set of worries.
I straighten on my chair. "What's going on?"
"I don't want to upset you."
"What happened?"
My palms turn sweaty. My heart speeds up, but I try to keep my attention on my father's voice.
He sighs. "You made me promise I would tell you when anything changed with my health."
My dad has a chronic, degenerative kidney condition.
It's been managed well enough that progression has slowed down, but there's always room for things to go bad quickly.
One of the hard things about living six hours away from my parents is that we're forced to talk about these things over the phone.
"What happened?" I insist. This time my voice comes out tight.
"Your mom made me ask my doctor for a full checkup just in case. One thing led to another and I'm going to need a few extra tests. We're looking into it, and I'll tell you everything as soon as I know more."
"Papá. What extra tests?"
A chilling breeze moves through me. It takes over my limbs, and steals all the warmth from my blood. My dad lives with PKD and, though he takes good care of himself, he's awful at telling me the whole truth. It's one of the ways he protects me, he says. In reality, all it does is scare me.
"Did they find anything?" I ask.
"It's going to be okay, hija. It's just an aneurysm. We're looking into our options. There's a surgery. It's high risk and, well…"
"Well, what?!"
"I could choose to do nothing— these things are unpredictable, and the aneurysm may never do anything. No need to worry yet."
"Papá." My throat constricts.
"It's all right. Your mom and I are doing everything we can. And we have a chance. The surgery will give us a chance."
"I hate when you talk like this." I bite my lip not to cry.
My dad has always been an optimist, but this is too much. He's trying to hide how things could go wrong… very wrong.
My throat clogs. The cold inside intensifies, until my chest turns to ice.
"Papá."
I crumble in my chair. Blood rushes in my ears. Despite my best intentions, a tear runs down my face.
I minored in psychology and I can explain what's happening. Burnout and stress have left me under-resourced, so I dysregulate faster, especially when facing the news that my dad may be going through uncharted medical territory. This break can't come soon enough.
"Everything okay?" Bear asks from right outside my office.
A frown appears on his brow. He comes in, closes the door behind him, and kneels in front of me.
"What's going on?" His pupils dilate as he takes me in.
"Papá, I'm putting you on speaker. Bear is here."
"Hola, tío," my friend says.
Like any good Chilean family, my parents have insisted Bear calls them tío and tía. It's an affectionate title people back home use for anyone older but not old enough to be a grandparent. It's a way to show respect and care for people around you, especially friends' parents.
As soon as Bear moved in next door and we became joined at the hip, my parents welcomed him and invited him into the family with little gestures like that. It's always meant a lot to him. I'm pretty sure Bear loves them nearly as much as I do. This news will hurt him, too.
My dad's voice breaks slightly. "I'm going to need you to give my daughter a hug, okay?"
"Of course." Bear's voice turns deep and serious. "What happened?"
"You're like a son to me," my dad adds. "You can help me reassure Pen. Everything is going to be okay."
Bear frowns harder. He stares at me seeking answers. He knows my dad gets emotional easily and it's hard to get info out of him sometimes.
"He has an aneurysm," I say with a shaky voice.
"It may never do anything," Dad insists on the phone. "We're running tests… there's a surgery."
Bear hasn't stopped studying me.
"We're coming," he says into the phone.
"What?" I ask.
My dad echoes me.
"Your bags are in the back of my car already," Bear explains. "Right next to mine. We can skip the campground. We can drive home instead."
Growing up, Leon spent a lot of time with us.
A few afternoons and evenings a week turned to more when, during our last year of high school, Bear's parents went back to Norway for work.
My friend stayed with us to finish his senior year, and for the summer before going to college on a football scholarship.
When he says home, he doesn't mean the house next door where he used to live.
That's why he makes this offer. Bear wants to be there to help, to get the full truth, and to do anything he can to make things better.
If he can't, he'll try to be there to hold us.
He knows I'd want to see my parents, hug them, and ask what's next while I look into their eyes.
He's making it happen. He's willing to sacrifice a trip he planned and paid for to make it happen.
"We're going to be there late into the night," Bear adds. "It's going to take us a few hours, but we can be home tonight."
Warmth seeps through my skin as if Leon was already holding me close. It fights off that cold feeling taking over just a few minutes ago because, no matter what, I won't have to go through this alone. I'll have him right next to me.
Gina was right. I'm one lucky lady.
I hope he can see the gratitude in my eyes. For good measure, I'll tell him all about it later tonight.
"I can use my keys to let ourselves in," I say to my dad, my eyes on my friend. "You don't have to wait for us."
"We can talk tomorrow during breakfast." Bear is big enough that we're the same height with him on his knees and me on the chair. Face to face, he gazes right back at me.
A tiny smile appears on his lips again. With a confident move of his hand, he puts a strand of my long hair behind my ear.
"We'll wait," my dad says. Emotion coats his voice.
"No, you need to rest," I say. "The campground is on the way. We'll stay there tonight then make it in time for brunch with you guys."
"All right," Dad says. "I'll tell your mom."
We say goodbye. Bear's gaze is steady on me. His hand is still on my face. A thumb makes an arch on my cheek, and tenderness settles light on my chest.
"Thank you," I say.
We leave my office with thoughts of vacation forgotten for a while.