Surviving Santiago (31 page)

“Is that supposed to be a good thing? To want to be like him?”

Frankie squeezes my hand—almost too tight, like he doesn't know his own strength. “I always thought it was. And I hated myself for being weak. My uncle always said you could pick out a person's weakness and use it to destroy him.”

“Like he tried to do to Papá?”

“But your father was stronger than we thought.”

“Because you helped him in the end,” I say.
Maybe love is stronger than all our strength.

Frankie doesn't speak for a long time, and then he asks, “Do you still love me, after all this?”

I will never forget how he refused to carry out his uncle's orders, and how he took such good care of Papá this morning. “I still care about you. Wherever you go, I want you to have a good life.”

“Good enough.” He kisses the top of my head.

“What are you thinking?” I ask him.

“It sounds really strange.” Frankie hesitates. “I'd like to watch your father sleep.”

“To make sure he's okay?” I recall the nights he slept on our sofa, after my parents' big fight in Madison that was the beginning of the end for them. I always kept a safe distance and looked away whenever I passed him, because he reeked of alcohol and cursed and writhed in his sleep.

I turn the door handle slowly, trying not to make a sound. Sitting in the desk chair reading a book, Tía Ileana shushes me. Papá lies curled up on his uninjured side under the sheet and blanket, his dark gray hair spread across the pillow. His mouth is slack and there's a damp spot on the pillowcase next to his face. I hold my breath and listen to his steady, shallow breathing. I hope he's dreaming of something nice, like playing soccer or wading in the ocean and letting the waves chase him back to shore.

“I have to get some stuff,” I whisper to my aunt.

“And him?” She eyes Frankie suspiciously.

“He wants to check on Papá. Because of his father.”

Frankie nods. “Is this his first detox?”

“Yes,” Tía Ileana says.

“The first one's the easiest. Each time my
papá
tried to quit, it got worse.” Frankie pushes up the sleeves of his sweater. “Got to get it right the first time.”

He steps toward the bed. I extend my arm to keep him from coming too close. “He might hit you if you startle him.”

Frankie crouches and rests his bare elbows on his thighs. “He looks so peaceful.” He lowers his voice to nearly inaudible. “I've never seen a subversive sleep.”

I shrug. “No different from anyone else.” I'm glad Tía Ileana didn't hear what he said.

Frankie scoots forward, still in a crouch. His fingers brush Papá's cheek. Papá's mustache twitches, and Frankie steps back. “No fever.”

I scrunch up my face. “Why would he have a fever?”

“Sometimes without alcohol, they lose the ability to regulate their body temperature. We had to pack my father in ice once so he wouldn't bake.”

A cry escapes from Tía Ileana. “Did he recover from that?” she asks.

Frankie shakes his head. I think it must have been terrifying for him. But what's worse: the damage someone else does to a person you love, or the damage that person does to himself?

“He didn't wake up for two days. Or recognize us for a week,” Frankie finally says.

“You said it wouldn't be that bad for Papá. Because it's his first time quitting.”

“Still want to be careful.”

I nod and lean against the wall. The room seems to rock back and forth like a cradle.

“Let's go.” I struggle not to yawn.

“In a minute.” Crouched again, Frankie stares at my sleeping father—both of them completely still. After a while, Frankie stands and follows me out of the room. “I sure hope he helps me like he promised,” he says in the hallway.

“He will,” I answer, though I don't know exactly what Papá plans to do. I drop to the sofa, and Frankie sits beside me.

“You look tired,” he says.

“I didn't get any sleep last night.”

“I got an hour, maybe.” He covers a yawn. “You can have the sofa. I'll take the floor.”

I stretch out on the sofa, while he tries to make himself comfortable on the rug using his sweater as a pillow. Even though I still have on all my clothes, I feel cold. I listen to Frankie roll from side to side, trying to protect his beat-up face. Then I hear whispers, followed by silence.

When I awaken, it's dark outside. Light shines from the kitchen and from underneath the door to the guest
room, and as my eyes adjust I realize I'm the only one in the living room. I tiptoe to the bathroom. Someone must have taken a shower recently, because water drips from the shower curtain and the mirror is damp. I wipe the mirror with the sleeve of my sweatshirt and pull my hair into a ponytail.

When I come out of the bathroom, Tía Ileana meets me. “How's Papá?” I ask.

“Working on his report.” She frowns. In one hand are a cup and saucer with a soggy tea bag hanging from the saucer's edge. “I let your boy rest in our bedroom. He didn't look very comfortable here.”

I knock on the door to her and Berta's bedroom. There's a shuffling, and Frankie opens the door. In the dim light his entire face looks bruised.

“Sleep well?” I ask.

“Yes. Nice of your aunt to let me have the bed.”

A total educational experience for Frankie—first watching a subversive sleep, and then napping on the bed of two women who love each other. I grin. “You're never going to be the same after today, Frankie.”

“Probably not.” His face turns serious. “What did you decide about me?”

“I don't know. I'll ask my father.”

Frankie tucks his T-shirt into his jeans and follows me into the guest room. Papá sits at the desk. He wears a rust-colored sweater I've never seen before. His damp hair
hangs straight to his shoulders. Headphones cover his ears, and he writes notes in a spiral notebook while listening to the tape player. I stand next to the desk, where he can see me. Eventually, he glances up. I wave. He lifts off his headphones.

“How're you feeling?” I ask.

“Better. Ileana fixed me two empanadas and a bowl of soup. I kept it all down.” He pats his stomach. “I'm almost done with the report, and Ernesto's picking me up in half an hour.”

“Frankie's here.”

“Good. I have some news for him.”

I sit at the foot of the rumpled bed and Frankie takes a spot in the middle. Papá turns his chair around and straddles it.

“Okay, kid,” he says. “I took care of you as I promised. Booked you on a flight to San José, Costa Rica, at eleven twenty-five tomorrow morning, changing planes in Panama City. You arrive in San José at seven in the evening.”

Frankie presses himself against the wall. “Costa Rica?” he repeats. I wonder if he even knows where Costa Rica is. And when he gets there, he'll know no one and have nothing to do. No school, no job, no home. No family—not even the terrible one he has now.

Papá slides his chair closer to the bed, leaving a scrape mark on the wood floor. “That's right, José Francisco.”

“Frankie. Call me Frankie, sir.”

“I have a friend, a lawyer, who's going to meet you at the
airport and help you get settled. You might want to get his laundry done tonight, Tina. Machine's in the basement.”

“Excuse me?” I cut in.

Papá smirks. “Okay, Frankie, that's her way of saying she's a liberated gringa so do your own fucking laundry.”

I laugh. Frankie still looks too stunned to speak—or to appreciate my father's humor. Papá hands Frankie a passport, and he flips through the pages, staring at each blank one. I lean toward him. The picture looks like a younger Frankie, one with a smooth face, longer hair, and an innocent gap-toothed smile. His teeth appear larger in his smaller face—and so does his crooked nose. His uncle must have taken the picture years ago and then used it when he got passports for the entire gang.

“Costa Rica doesn't have an army,” Papá says. “I think that will be good for you.”

“Yes, sir,” Frankie says. “And I'm sorry for all that stuff I said on the tapes. About you and Tina.”

Papá runs his hand through his hair. “Starting tomorrow, when I turn copies of the tapes over to the authorities, my insides are going to be splattered on every newspaper in Chile.”

Behind me, from the direction of the kitchen, the teapot whistles.

Papá continues over the clatter of my aunt making more tea. “Ironic, though. Your
capo
wanted to beat out of me whatever information I had on your group so he could cover it up. But I had nothing but guesswork until you
showed up. And now I have all I need. Including proof of the attack on Rodolfo Guerra and who did it.”

Frankie stares at his hands—hands that beat up a musician two months ago, made me feel so good last week, and this morning saved my father from a seizure.

Papá raps the back of the chair. Frankie's head jerks up. “What are you going to do about your uncle?”

“Nothing. Nothing I can do.”

“Forget about him. Help the rest of your family—in whatever way you can.” He flips the chair around, rests his elbows on the desk, and glances at the door. “Now get out of here, you two. I need to finish this.”

I go to the kitchen to help Tía Ileana. Frankie follows me. When we get there, Tía Ileana hands me the mint tea she made for Papá, with two aspirin tablets on the saucer. “Please bring this to your father,
amorcita
. I've seen enough of him for today,” she says.

“Sure.” I have no idea what else went on between them while I was napping, but she clearly needs a break. I grab a couple of gingersnaps from the pantry to help soothe his stomach from all the aspirin and leave the cup and saucer on the desk next to him. He doesn't say anything, but before I leave, he gives my wrist a quick squeeze.

Back in the kitchen, Frankie says, “The tapes. He's never going to forgive me.”

I spot Tía Ileana drinking her tea in the living room. “You spared his life up in the mountains. And risked yours
to do it.” I pour steaming water into two more cups for Frankie and me. “And you helped him this morning so he could finish the report—even if the report gets you and your family in trouble.”

“I've seen what those seizures can do to a person. I couldn't let your father go through that.”

“I'm sure he appreciates it, even if he can't say it.” I touch my wrist where Papá squeezed it.

“Don't let him give up on himself, Tina.” Frankie's dark brown eyes meet mine.

“I won't.”
Why does he care so much?

“At first I thought you were crazy, to protect him like you did. But then you two made me see . . . we're all just people.”

We lean against the kitchen counter, facing each other as we drink our tea. And I realize that for all the time I spent with him, wanting to know about his dying father and what it meant for Papá's future, it all comes down to one thing:
don't let him give up on himself
. Something Frankie's father must have done long ago.

But I can't make Papá love himself. All I can do is show him how much I love him, even if he can't love me back. Even if sometimes it seems as if my love and everyone else's love isn't enough to save him.

“Hey, you two, where's Ileana?” Papá stands in the doorway, leaning on his cane. Behind him, there's no one in the living room. Tía Ileana must have finished her tea and taken a well-deserved nap.

Beneath Papá's sweater, one side of his shirttail hangs lower than the other.

“
Chuta
, you buttoned your shirt crooked again,” I say.

“It's radio, not television.”

I bend down and rebutton his shirt from the bottom up. After the second button I push up his sweater and see the shirt pulled tight over the swollen, hard upper right side of his belly. I leave the next two buttons open, fix the remaining ones, straighten his sweater, and finally, tie the laces of his boots. Stepping backward, I gaze at his shaggy hair, stubble, and sallow complexion, then gently pat his stomach. “You look pregnant.”

“Don't even say that word. Your mother will kill me.” He winks at me.

I smile back. “She'll have to get in line to do it.”

“Forget it,” Frankie says. “His kind, you can't kill.”

“What, the cockroach?” Papá sets the cup in the sink. “And by the way, I'm not coming back here tonight. Ileana's driving you to the airport.”

“Why not?” Disappointment dulls my voice. Is Papá still avoiding me? Does he still blame me?

“After this report airs, I'm not taking any chances on someone following me here and putting you guys in danger. Besides, a couple of birds and I need to talk about this feather-plucking problem. Because—”