Chapter 2
Nick
Recently, my daughter’s favorite Friday-afternoon activity has been going to the playground at Buena Vista Park. She’s spent hours on the swings, making new friends and imagining new worlds. Sometimes I’ll play with her, and sometimes I’ll sit on one of the benches with a book.
By now, I’ve gotten used to the looks I get when I’m at the park with Abigail. More than once, I’ve been approached by someone’s nanny or a single mom in noble attempts at flirting.
Once they figure out I’m gay (I try to announce it quickly, to spare their feelings), a few predictable things happen.
First, the attempted flirter looks confused—maybe even asks if that is my daughter over there. Yes, she is, I tell them.
Then, it’s obvious that the stymied flirter wants to ask how and why I, a thirty-year-old gay man with no ring on his finger, have a daughter, but usually something about my face tells them they’d better not ask the question.
Sometimes, a third thing happens. “Oh, I have a [brother/cousin/friend/ex-boyfriend] who’s gay! You should meet him.”
No, thanks.
Sometimes, I think about asking the sister/cousin/friend/ex-girlfriend if her brother/cousin/friend/ex-boyfriend enjoys being tied up with ropes, or having his cock locked in a chastity cage, or getting spanked with paddles.
Because then, maybe, I’d like to have his number, but I know that question would never go over well. Not even in San Francisco, a gloriously kink-friendly city.
So far today, no one has approached me to flirt or to offer to introduce me to a male relative.
Abigail is climbing on the playground with another girl, and I have a Freida McFadden book open in my hand.
It’s a beautiful September day, warm and not very humid, with clouds scuttling along the blue-gray sky.
“Daddy!” Abigail calls. “Watch this!” I watch, genuinely joyful, as she executes a terrible cartwheel.
Abigail is, without a doubt, the best thing that has ever happened to me. She was also one of the biggest surprises in my life.
I’ve known that I’m gay since I was in my late teens, though I didn’t come out until I was twenty-two.
In college, I had a short-lived relationship with a girl named Raquel.
My heart wasn’t in it, and when Raquel told me she was pregnant, I was shocked and didn’t know what to do.
I told Raquel the truth about me and said I’d co-parent with her, but I couldn’t honestly marry her.
After Raquel gave birth, she decided that motherhood wasn’t for her, and I became Abigail’s sole parent.
I’ve been a single father for almost ten years now.
Raquel isn’t in Abigail’s life, and she isn’t in mine.
We don’t keep in touch. There’s no real ill will between us, though almost every day I feel sorry for her.
She’s missed out on the greatest gift she could’ve had: knowing Abigail.
“Again, Daddy!” Abigail cries, and I watch my girl do another absolutely terrible cartwheel. Bless her wonderful heart.
I’m still busy watching Abigail when I hear it:
“Help! Somebody, please, help! He’s choking!”
Instantly, I’m alert. I’ve been a firefighter-paramedic for five years, and my senses are finely tuned to hear someone in distress.
Around the park, other parents or babysitters snap to attention, keeping an eye on their kids. There’s something about hearing someone call for help that sends everyone into high alert.
My eyelids shutter quickly, taking in the scene around me, scanning for danger.
There are the two moms who were chatting on a bench moments ago, now reaching for their kids.
The young man walking his dog, listening to something in his headphones.
Abigail, still doing cartwheels. A young woman crouched on the grass over a boy, who is holding his throat and kicking his feet.
There.
I drop my book, shout, “Abigail, wait there!” and sprint towards the young woman and the boy. I’m there in seconds.
I skid to a stop by her, dropping to my knees in front of the boy. He’s maybe ten years old, a couple of years older than Abigail, and his cheeks are bright red. “Ma’am,” I say, “I’m a paramedic. May I help your son?”
“Please!” she cries.
“Call 911!”
She looks panicked and clearly hasn’t thought of that yet. She fumbles for her phone while I get to work.
The boy is conscious, which is important.
That means I still have time to clear his airway before this gets serious.
I prop the boy up, bracing him in my arms, and deliver five quick, sharp blows between his shoulder blades with the heel of my hand.
He coughs, wheezes, and then he’s spitting, his throat clear.
Tears stream down his cheeks. His mother is still babbling into the phone, her face also red and wet with tears.
“Can you breathe?” I ask the boy.
He wheezes several more times and then nods frantically. His little voice is hoarse when he says, “Thank you.”
I squeeze his shoulders. “You’re gonna be okay.”
“He’s okay,” his mother cries into the phone. “He’s okay. A man in the park helped him. He’s okay.”
“I’d recommend an ambulance still comes,” I say, and I stand, dusting my pants off.
Abigail runs over. “Daddy!” she shouts. “What happened?”
I blink and notice that a small crowd has gathered. People watching owlishly at the scene before them. Not one of them is any help. I hold back a scowl at the bystanders. If I hadn’t been here, what would’ve happened? Would one of them have jumped in and helped save the boy?
The mother is on her feet, reaching for me. I recognize the shock that she’s in, the need for comfort she has, and I let her collapse into my arms.
“Thank you,” she babbles over and over again.
“Daddy saved him, didn’t he?” Abigail asked, tugging on my sleeve.
“Your daddy’s a hero,” the woman says through her tears, smiling down at Abigail. I gently remove myself from the hug. It’s gone on for long enough.
“Let’s go, Abbie,” I say, squeezing my daughter’s hand gently. She beams up at me. I’m her hero, I know.
I’m proud of it, proud that she has someone to look up to and admire, but the truth is that I’m fucking terrified, too.
It’s not a safe job, being a firefighter-paramedic.
Whenever I go to work, I risk my life. Sometimes I wonder if it’s fair to her.
If I will one day leave her without a father or a mother.
But I can’t think like that. My job is important.
Deeply important. I don’t know if I believe in the concept of callings, but if I do, I have two: one, being Abigail’s father; and two, saving lives.
Balancing those two is hard sometimes, but it’s what I’m meant to do.
I’ve always found a way, and I always will.
“Can we get ice cream before we go to Abuela’s?” Abigail asks.
I ruffle her dark hair. “Of course, honey. Of course, we can.”
Anything for her.