Adrián
Chapter thirty-six
As I step into the batter’s box, I try to clear my head from the stress of the last week.
We lost badly yesterday, and I’m hungry for a redemptive win.
I struck out my first at bat and was walked on my second, so I’m impatient for a solid hit.
Mentally closing the door to life outside of baseball, I bend my knees and bring the bat up into my stance.
My dad and I have had some incredible time together this week.
The camera crew loved getting footage of the two of us together, as well as an interview with my dad.
He’s been here to visit several times over the years, but it’s different this time.
I’m not just showing him a good time or a vacation—I’m showing him my life.
My life with Samantha. The friends and home I’ve found here in Kansas City.
At the same time, dread has been an ever-present companion as I’ve spent time with my dad, knowing that I need to have some serious conversations with him.
Although I’ve gone overboard pointing out everything I think he would love about living here, we haven’t openly discussed the possibility of him moving to Kansas City.
I definitely haven’t asked him the other hard questions that I know I need to ask. I’ve been putting it off, but I’ve run out of time. Dad flies home to Venezuela tomorrow, so I have to bring it up tonight.
But first, I have to hit this ball, get on base, and help us win the game.
The first pitch is a curveball to the bottom left corner of the strike zone, and I kick myself for not swinging. When the next pitch comes straight down the middle, hard and fast, I swing with everything I’ve got, rewarded by the reverberation of the bat making contact.
The ball sails high and deep over center field and into the stands.
My dad and Samantha are sitting up in the suite with Lily today since Griffin couldn’t be here, so I point their direction as I jog the bases.
Dad has had a good time getting to know Samantha, walking away from every interaction telling me not to screw it up.
Her pronunciations still need some serious work, but she’s been making every effort to pick up on the Spanish phrases and conversations I’ve been teaching her this week.
She insisted I spend the final evening alone with my dad, but she offered to ride with us to the airport tomorrow so I don’t have to be alone right after dropping him off. I picture them up in the suite together, cheering as I round the bases to home plate.
I picture them together over the future decades, an easiness between them growing as they get to know each other well.
Conversations together as Samantha picks up more Spanish and maybe my dad learns a little more English.
The two most important people in my life—my heart soars thinking about all the time the three of us could have together.
But then it dips lower as I think about the fourth person who should be included but never will be.
I know I’m not supposed to keep turning away from the sadness, that I need to face it when it comes.
But the middle of an important game is not a good time for facing the feelings, so I kick them down the road for a few more hours.
After a satisfying win this afternoon and a short dinner with Samantha, my dad and I are sitting on my back patio, enjoying our final night together. A breeze makes it feel cooler than usual for early September in Kansas, so I give my dad a sweatshirt to wear.
When there’s a natural lull in our conversation, my heart begins to pound, shooting blood through my veins with uncomfortable force.
Samantha has shared some of what she learned from occupational therapy and yoga about identifying emotions through what her body feels.
But even without the aid of her explanations, I could easily recognize what my increased heart rate and thrumming pulse mean.
It’s time to face the past, no matter how uncomfortable it’s going to be.
Leaning forward with my elbows propped on my knees, I rotate my arm to look at the words inked across my wrist. I added this tattoo as a way of remembering my mom even though I usually suppress what few memories I still have to avoid looking into the hole she left behind.
Not anymore. I’m facing it. If Samantha can face all of the pain she suffered at the hands of other people—if she can do the work to heal from those things—then I can too.
“Papá, I need to talk to you about something,” I begin. He shifts curiously, sensing the atypical serious tone in my voice. Clasping my tattooed wrist with my right hand, I say, “I want to talk about Mamá.”
Dad’s face shutters. “Why? What do you want to talk about?”
“Well, I’ve been talking with a therapist—”
“What? Why? Why do you need to see a therapist?” my dad cuts in. “There’s nothing wrong. Look at your good life here. Look at everything you’ve achieved. Why do you need a therapist?”
Rubbing my temples with one hand, I try to explain.
“Samantha has been through a lot of stuff in her past, and we’ve talked with a therapist together.
I wasn’t supporting Samantha the way she needs when she’s struggling emotionally, and I wanted to get better at it.
So I started seeing a therapist on my own.
As I’ve talked with her, I’ve been learning why I have such a hard time being around sadness or pain.
And a lot of it goes back to Mamá’s death and the fact I never really processed it. ”
Dad looks away, but not before I catch the agony in his eyes. “What is there to process?” he asks. “She’s gone. There’s nothing we can do about that. There’s no purpose in dwelling on something so painful.”
“But that’s exactly it, Papá,” I say. “There is a purpose because there are going to continue being painful things in life. And if I never face the painful things, if I always try to avoid feeling bad, then I’m not truly living life.”
I pause to think about how to translate what I’ve been talking about with my therapist—both emotionally and linguistically—in a way he’ll understand. “A full life includes relationships that might cause pain. If I’m afraid to experience the pain, I’ll miss out on experiencing the joy too. I—”
My voice breaks off as emotion cages my words. Dad turns to fully face me with hesitant concern in his eyes.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I have a hard time remembering Mamá at all. I hardly have any memories of her. I was so young when she passed, but then we never talked about her. What little I could remember slowly faded. She’s the ghost who’s always with us but we never acknowledge.
I want to acknowledge her. I want to remember more about her.
I want you to share your memories with me so I can have more of her.
I know it’s hard for you, and I know it hurts, but I need to be able to talk about her. ”
As I wipe tears from my eyes, moisture glints in my dad’s. After a few seconds of silence, he says, “I’m sorry, Adrián. I didn’t mean to hurt you by not talking about her. It’s just that she was everything to me. And then she was gone. So suddenly. I didn’t know how to live without her.”
He pauses, then says, “But I had to live. I had to be alive for you. You lost your mamá—you couldn’t lose me too.
I couldn’t talk or even think about her without falling into a dark place.
You needed me, and I couldn’t be there for you if I was in the dark place.
So I didn’t talk about her. I pushed away the thoughts of her because I was trying to survive the pain. I’m sorry I didn’t do a good job.”
“No, Papá, don’t say that. You did the best you could.
I understand that,” I say, trying to reassure him.
Especially considering the contrast between the way Samantha’s biological mother checked out after her father’s death, I definitely don’t want to make my dad feel like he didn’t do the right thing when he kept living for me.
I should have called up one of the therapists to listen on speaker to make sure I didn’t say the wrong thing here.
“You’ve done everything for me. You did show up for me.
I understand how you had to survive those years after she died.
And if you still can’t talk about her now, I’ll understand that too.
But I’m trying to stop running away from hard emotions all the time, starting with letting myself miss Mamá.
So if you ever do want to talk about her, I want to hear. That’s all.”
Dad nods slowly before staring out into the darkness.
Not knowing what else to say, I silently stare as well, questioning if I should have kept my mouth shut.
Maybe this was my pain to process on my own.
I shouldn’t have forced him to talk about it or made him feel like he did something wrong.
Ay, menso, I’ve messed up again, I think as I rub a hand over my face.
“She had such a free heart, your mamá,” Dad says quietly.
There’s a smile in his voice when he adds, “She was so creative, so full of life. Nothing could cage her spirit. Her hands worked at the hospital laundry room, but her heart was everywhere. In paintings, in poetry, in music, in the sky and the ocean, the trees and the birds. Every second was a beautiful song with her. It was so quiet without her. But she put that joyful spirit in you too.”
Tears blur my vision as I watch his face.
His expression dips from joyful remembrance to agony and back again.
He recounts the story of the first time he saw her in school, of the way she stared out the window of the classroom, engrossed in the clouds drifting through the sky, yet still managed to recite the correct answer when called on by the teacher.
“I knew I loved her at that very moment. The girl with one foot in her dreams and one foot in reality. She was special,” Dad says before his voice trails off.
Sniffing hard, I open my mouth to say something, but Dad says, “Adrián, mijo, I know what you’ve been thinking, but I don’t want to move here.”
There’s no oxygen in my lungs to respond immediately.
He looks at me, at my stalled-out expression, and explains, “I love you. I love being with you. But Venezuela is my home. I don’t want to leave.”
My thoughts kick-start back into action, and I start to argue.
“But, Papá, look at all you could have here. Everything could be so easy. You’ve worked hard your whole life, but you don’t have to keep working so hard.
Or you could work here, too, if that’s what you wanted.
You gave me everything when I was a kid, and I can give it all back to you now. ”
Dad shakes his head, and I know he’s already made up his mind.
“I love your life here. For you. I never want you to leave here. And I want to come visit you more. Who knows—maybe when I’m an old man, I’ll need to be closer to you.
Maybe things will get too hard. But for now, my home is Valencia.
My friends, my community, my memories with your mamá.
” His voice catches when he mentions my mom, but he continues, “It’s where I belong.
Just like you belong here. We’ll always belong to each other, but I can’t move here. I hope you understand.”
Sighing, I lean back in the patio chair. A few months ago, I wouldn’t have understood. I wouldn’t have known why he would choose a harder life when he could be here, enjoying every experience with me. I would have pushed him to live life to the fullest by moving to the US with me.
But the past few months have happened. They’ve changed me, stretched me. My relationship with Samantha has helped me see that life to the fullest doesn’t mean easy, carefree days. The fullest life is one that includes pain, includes sitting in the hard things with the people you love.
So I’m not going to push my dad. I’m going to let him choose his fullest life—even if it’s thousands of miles away from me.
The weight of the conversation starts to pull too hard, and I wipe my eyes one final time. “Well,” I begin, “I guess I will need a place to stay when I bring Samantha to see Venezuela. I wouldn’t want to have to pay for a hotel.”
Dad turns to me with a wide smile, and we break out laughing at the same time. We also stand at the same time, embracing one another. “I love you, Papá.”
“I love you, mijo.”