Something is wrong. I feel it. The next morning when I wake, I’m alone again. Although I know Santiago got a few hours of sleep, it was still dark when he slipped out of bed.
“We all make mistakes. I hope you’ll be as quick to forgive mine.”
His words keep playing in my head. They’re strange. And they certainly don’t fit Santiago. He isn’t one to forgive mistakes. Or maybe it depends on who has made the mistake? Either way, he is certainly not quick to forgive. The opposite.
I’ve tried to call him multiple times, but my calls only go to voicemail. Just like any time I try to call my father. To say I’m worried is an understatement. At least when I finally managed to talk to a nurse, she told me my father was fine. Just sleeping.
It’s not until two nights later when Eva and I are just finishing dinner that Santiago finally returns home. And by now, I’m angry.
But when I see the look on his face, the weary, dark expression, that anger quickly morphs into something else.
Walking behind him is my obstetrician.
“What’s happened?” I ask, quickly getting to my feet.
Santiago’s expression doesn’t change as he takes stock of me before shifting his gaze to my sister.
“Eva. Go to your room.”
I glance at my sister whose forehead wrinkles with worry. “Why? What’s going on?”
I turn back to Santiago in time to see him gesture to Marco, who comes to Eva. “Come on, kid,” he says, his tone gentler than I’ve ever heard him.
Eva looks at me, and I nod, and once I do, she goes. I’m left in the room with Santiago and the doctor.
“Sit down,” Santiago says as he comes closer, but I just back up a step, wrapping my arms around my middle.
“I hope you’ll be as quick to forgive mine.”
“Where have you been?” I ask.
“Ivy, sit down.” He takes my arms, tries to maneuver me around to the front of the chair.
“What have you done?” The words come out sharper than I mean, the feeling they leave behind dark. Full of dread.
“It’s not like that.”
And I know what it is. What he’s going to tell me. I know exactly.
“Say it,” I bite out, my eyes already warm with tears as my body begins to shudder with cold. I pull out of his grasp, my hands fists at my sides now.
The doctor speaks next. “Ivy, it’s not good for the baby if you get worked up.”
“Say it!” I snap at Santiago.
Santiago’s jaw sets, and again, I hear his words. “I hope you’ll be as quick to forgive mine.”
But I won’t be. Not if he did what I think he did.
“There was a complication, something the doctor missed.”
I hug my middle, my shoulders hunching as I back up another step, slipping into a chair now. I shake my head and don’t look at him. I can’t.
“He’s gone, Ivy. I’m sorry, but your father is gone.”
I close my eyes as his words echo. Gone. Gone as in I’ll never see him again. Never hear his voice again. Never hug him again.
Gone as in dead.
I shake my head and make myself look at him. “I don’t believe you,” I say, wiping the backs of my hands over my eyes. I force my legs to carry me as I stand. “I don’t.”
“Ivy, you—” He reaches for me, but I slip away.
“I called the hospital. I talked to the nurse. She told me he was fine. Just sleeping. She told me!”
Santiago glances at the doctor as if they’ve had some private exchange, but whatever it is, Santiago raises his hand just slightly as if to tell him to wait.
“I’m truly sorry, Ivy,” Santiago says, solemn gaze on me again. “He died a few hours ago. There was nothing anyone could do.”
“No.” I shake my head, walking a few steps away so I’m near the head of the table where Santiago’s place has been empty for two days. Gone for two days. The two days before my father has a complication out of nowhere. Two days in which my father, his enemy, the enemy under guard, the weak old man under his power, dies. “No,” I say again, setting my jaw. I reach for the steak knife Antonia had set for him. She didn’t even know if he’d be home or not. She’d fretted about keeping his dinner warm. “Tell me the truth.” I keep the knife at my side.
Santiago’s gaze drops to it momentarily before returning to mine. “Put that down, and I’ll tell you everything again.”
“Tell me now,” I say, and when he takes a step closer, I hold the knife out between us.
The doctor watches but stays where he is.
“There was a complication.”
“Something the doctor missed. I heard your practiced words the first time around. Tell me how! Tell me the truth, you fucking liar!”
There’s that tic in his jaw. I wonder if he’s counting to ten before he speaks. He’s not used to rebellion. Not used to people speaking up.
“I know you’re upset. It’s natural you’re upset. But I’m here for you, Ivy.”
At that, I laugh outright. “You’re here for me? Did you just really say that?”
I walk farther away as he begins to close the space between us. Marco comes around the corner, and without taking his eyes off me, Santiago signals to Marco to stand back.
“Were you the complication the doctors didn’t see coming, Santiago?”
He smiles a strange smile, but it’s gone in an instant. “I can see how you’d think that,” he says through clenched teeth. “But no, Ivy, I did not murder the old man.”
“But it was your right. Isn’t that what you told me?” I take more steps away, aware of how close Marco is. “Did you use your knife? It would be symbolic to drive the De La Rosa blade into his heart. It would make your father proud.”
“That’s enough.” His voice is harder. “Give me the knife.”
“Is this why you forgave me so easily a few days ago? You knew even then what you’d do. You thought you could use that against me? Force me to forgive you? To somehow maybe accept and forgive the fact that you murdered my father?”
He speaks, maybe asking for the knife again, but the fact of what he told me washes over me, and I can’t process his words. My father is gone. He’s dead.
“Tell me something. Tell me one thing,” I say.
“Anything.”
“Did he see it coming? Was he scared?” I feel tears stream down my face.
Something shifts in his expression, like a thing cracking, splintering. Just a little. “No. There was nothing to see coming. His heart gave out. It was all just too much for him. Now give me the knife.”
I look beyond Santiago to the doctor. They’re all closer. And in his hand, the doctor is holding a syringe.
They’ve come prepared.
“Please give me the knife,” Santiago pleads, and I turn to him again. He’s only a few feet away now. He’s fast. I know that. He will lunge for the knife any second now. The only reason he’s not is he’s afraid I’ll hurt myself. He’s not afraid for himself. Not afraid I’ll hurt him. I know that.
But he’s wrong.
And before any of them can get to me, I fly at him, arm raised, my scream a proclamation of my hate for him. For this man I thought I loved. For this man who has only ever lied to me. Only ever manipulated me. Used me. And who has now taken my father from me.
It’s that last thing that saves him. That final thought. Because I know he’d stand there and take it otherwise. And when I bring the knife down, it’s half-hearted because I am already defeated.
He grabs it by the sharp, serrated edge. It breaks skin, but he doesn’t cry out. He barely flinches. I am not as strong as him nor am I as capable of violence. Not even against him. Not even now. And moments later, he’s holding me as I sob, trapping my arms at my sides as he hugs me tight, my face pressed into the crook of his neck, the blood from his hand warm against my cheek as he cups my face, the needle barely noticeable when the doctor pricks my arm, a whispered apology on his lips as Santiago lifts me up when my knees give out, and I look up at him as my head lolls to the side.
“I hate you,” I tell him, my arm not doing what my brain is telling it, my fingers not curling into claws, my hand only slapping weakly at his chest. “I hate you,” I manage, my words slurring together as darkness creeps in, dulling the corners of my vision. “And I will never forgive you. Never.”