34. October 12th
Rafael
The traffic getting to my moms’ house that evening is horrendous and gives me more time to stew in the pot my papá put me in, my thoughts alternating between him and Angie. I’m still vibrating with fear from the way I stood up to him. I know it was nothing compared to the way some people can stand up to their parents, but it was monumental for me.
How could he ignore the most important person in my life? I literally brought her up when he first got there, and instead of asking about her, he complained because I wasn’t going to drink a beer with him. And then when I did bring her up, he wounded me.
I feel slimy after our visit.
All I want to do is talk to Angie about it. But I guess that”s what my new therapist is for. Maybe Angie was right—I do lean on her too much for emotional support.
I arrive in Radnor an hour later than normal thanks to the World Series traffic, but everything is forgotten when I walk in the door and Joaquín runs at me, jumping in my arms.
“What are you doing here, baby brother?” I laugh.
“I wanted to surprise everyone,” he exclaims, then hops off me and adjusts his shirt. “Where’s—” he says, cutting himself off. I only told him and our moms about what happened last week. “Sorry. I forgot,” he says sheepishly.
“It’s okay. She said she’s coming home tomorrow so we’ll figure it out.”
“That’s good! I think,” he mutters, but gives me a raised eyebrow. “Just figuring it out?”
“I mean—”
“There you are,” Mamá beams as she walks into the foyer and gives me a quick hug. “My God, you’re skinny. Come, come. Food’s getting cold.”
When I reach the dining room with them, Mom walks into the room holding some napkins and I go in for another squeeze. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetie,” she says. “Have a seat and tell us everything.”
Taking a napkin from her, I have a seat next to my brother and across from them and say grace. But instead of telling them about Angie right away, I say, “Papá visited me today.”
The room goes silent as everyone stops what they’re doing to stare at me.
“Are you serious?” Joaquín asks. “Why was he here?”
“The game,” I say with a flat tone and a shake to my head, then serve myself some carne asada.
“The game,” Mamá repeats slowly.
“He’s been to the East Coast once in the last twenty years,” Joaquín says with narrowed eyes. “And decides the reason for his next trip will be for baseball?”
“Unbelievable,” Mom adds under her breath.
“What did you talk about?” my brother asks as he serves himself.
“Nothing really,” I shrug. “His friends, job. His many girlfriends.” Mamá scoffs as she takes a bite. But something has me itching for answers to questions I’ve never had before. “Has he always been,” I start, and then debate if I even want to ask this. “Has he always been so crude?”
“Yes,” all three say at once.
“I didn’t see it for the first few years we were together,” Mamá says. “But, yes. I thought they were jokes at first, but the more he said them, the more I realized he meant them.”
All evening I’ve been trying to replay every interaction I’ve had with him over the years, trying to piece together the man I talked with today to the man I’ve always known.
“How have I never seen that side of him?” I ask.
“Because you’ve been putting him on a pedestal your whole life,” Joaquín mutters. “I’m younger than you, how can I see this and you can’t?”
“Have I?” I ask Mamá.
She nods knowingly. “I prayed every day for a long time that you would not end up like him, mijo. He did nothing wrong in your eyes. He was your idol. Do you have any idea how many times you came home from school with art or an essay about him? I was never going to let you see the ugly side on purpose. I never wanted to speak ill of him in front of you boys, but I hoped you would see the truth for yourself a long time ago.”
“I think the infrequency of your visits made you idolize him more,” Mom adds. “You held onto those precious moments with him like they were gold.”
All of a sudden I’m painfully aware of how alike my father and I are, and it’s like the rose-colored glasses are coming off. “Am I just like him?”
“No, Rafael. No,” Mamá soothes. “You are kind and thoughtful. You think about the comfort of others. You were raised in a better environment than he was.” When I don’t say anything, she continues. “Part of that was us. Part of that was Angie.”
At the mention of my best friend, my heart swells. She never would have put up with me if I was actually like my father. She would have kicked me to the curb long ago if she even got a whiff of me mistreating partners.
Partners.
The term feels weird now. The idea of sleeping with other people feels weird. Unappealing.
All I want is my Angel. I want her laughing and dancing with me. I want her to be proud of me—proud that I’m the father of her children.
But she wants me to back off. How am I supposed to let that happen now? I’ll do it because she needs it, but it means she’ll be at a distance we’ve never experienced before—and something about that irritates me. Maybe it’s the need to protect my pregnant…friend. Friend?
We’re not just friends, and I know it deep in my bones.
The rest of dinner passes with no more mention of my dad. While helping clean up in the kitchen, Mom gently pulls on my elbow. “Come with me. I have something to show you,” she says with a slight curve to her lips.
Setting the plate down on the drying rack, I dry off my hands and follow her into her den just off the living room. The space is filled with organized clutter—everything from tax filings from ten years ago to faded childhood art projects.
“Have a seat,” she says, indicating for me to take the old leather chair as she fiddles with the ancient TV in the corner—the kind with a DVD player built right in. When she turns it on, she then takes a seat right next to me on a folding chair and looks at me. “I found this the other day cleaning out the basement.”
She pushes play on the remote and a teenage Angie pops up wearing a red swimsuit, pushing a hunk of PVC pipe and cords into an indoor swimming pool.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “Is this us practicing with our underwater robot?”
“It is,” Mom says, but I can’t tell what her expression is because I can’t tear my eyes off the grainy digital image. “And look, there’s you.”
I’m standing at the edge of the pool wearing plaid swim trunks with a controller in my hands. “Am I picking it up?” I ask teenage Angie, my voice echoing off the walls of the pool room.
“No, come in closer,” she replies, showing me with her hands how close I am. “That’s it… You got the ring!” she beams.
“I forgot all about this day.”
“You two were so invested in this team.”
I chuckle. “The whole team consisted of her and me.”
Then the video cuts to a new location—a larger indoor pool with people filling bleachers and a judges table. Our tournament. Mamá’s voice comes in and her hand is pointing to Angie and myself, both wearing a white T-shirt with the words Nauti Nautilus in big blue letters. We’re near the pool’s edge watching a TV monitor. Angie’s driving the controller and I’m pointing to the screen, directing her.
I have no idea what I’m saying to her, but I watch the two of us work side by side. We’re completely engrossed in our mission. Teenage me shouts and cheers as Angie drives. Then I’m lowering myself to the pool’s edge to meet our robot and grab the object from it before it sinks back down.
I can’t help but marvel at the team we make. How, given the opportunity, we’ll always choose each other as teammates. We’ll always work like a well-oiled machine.
“Do you remember how you placed?”
I have to smile at that. “Pretty close to last I think.”
“Yeah,” she smiles back. “That’s true. But did it feel like it?”
There were dozens of competing teams from all over the state at this competition, but somehow, we didn’t care that we took last place. We didn’t care that our robot was clunky and made mostly out of PVC and zip-ties. We didn’t care that we only completed half of the mission before the buzzer went off. We didn’t care about winning. But did it feel like we lost?
“No,” I sigh with a smile. We may have worked our tails off getting ready for the tournament, but we didn’t lose. I walked away with pride in my heart because every moment spent with her feels like winning.
I’m going to win her back,I think to myself.
I don’t want to be just friends. I don’t want to be a co-parent. I want all of her. I want to take care of her, wake up next to her, and love her. I want to love her. Love her beyond a friendship. Love her like she deserves to be loved. Love her like I was always meant to.
I’m in love with Angela Zofia Johanssen and I’m going to make her mine.