Belen swallowed hard and looked down at her feet, which were dangling off the side of the exam table. “I spent years in and out of hospitals when my father was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. I still remember the expressions on the nurses’ faces change from hopeful to grieved when they realized there was nothing more they could do but keep him comfortable. Eventually he died due to complications from chronic respiratory disease. My dad was always a ‘the glass is half full’ type of guy. So even on his deathbed, he put on a brave face and told me everything was going to be okay. And I believed him because life without my father wasn’t an option.
“I hate that stupid platitude. When people tell you everything is going to be okay, it’s usually a lie. How were things going to be okay when I was losing the person who knew me before I knew myself? It’s like my safety blanket was ripped from me. In a flash, our already small family was down to two.”
“How long has it been since?—”
“Almost four years. He fought for months and then days after Christmas he was gone.”
I stood and claimed Belen’s hand, giving it a soft squeeze. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Me too.” Belen continued to pinch at her skin as if she hoped the physical pain would dull the emotional trauma. “Life is cruel. You build these deep relationships only for them to be ripped from you. And you’re just expected to keep going like there isn’t a huge black cloud over your entire existence.”
“I like to think the relationships we create are what make life worth living. I’m not in any way suggesting losing the ones we love the most isn’t hard. But shutting down isn’t the answer. We need to find meaning in the time we had with them. Happiness is hidden in the memories.”
“What if all my memories are bad ones?”
“With all due respect, I’d venture to say you’re focusing on how it ended and not all the meaningful parts in between. I’ve never lost a parent, so I’m not going to pretend I understand that type of pain. But I think your father would want you to find the sunlight even in your darkest moments.”
For the first time in minutes, Belen looked me in the eyes. The warm, gregarious woman I come to appreciate was replaced by a woman nursing a deep wound that only time could repair.
“He was an amazing cook. We always told him he should be on one of those cooking competition shows. He could make my least favorite vegetable taste delicious and have me going back for seconds. I didn’t inherit that skill. I can cook with a recipe, but he’d create new meals from his imagination. He was super creative, and he encouraged our creativity. Which is probably why I became an event planner.”
“Sounds like his imaginative spirit lives on in you.”
Belen closed her eyes and was silent for a long while. I was afraid she might have fallen asleep. “Belen,” I whispered.
Her next words caught me by surprise. “Did you know that back in the day sloths were as big as elephants?”
“No.” I eyed the door, concerned she was becoming disoriented. Where the fuck was the doctor? For urgent care, they were sure taking their sweet ass time.
“My sister told me that.” As if a fire was lit, her eyes shot open and her face was marred with alarm as she dug through her purse pulling out her phone. Belen typed a quick text. Only after her phone dinged indicating a response, did she appear to relax. “My sister’s alone and I don’t want her to worry. I told her I’d be home soon.”
After a ten-minute visit, the doctor confirmed Belen had a mild concussion. He recommended she rest for the next twenty-four hours and perform light activity such as housework or walking when she felt up to it. With a diagnosis secured, we were back on the road headed to her apartment building.
I fumbled with my keys,taking several attempts to connect with the lock. But before I could twist the key, the door swung open. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried.” My sister, Celeste, stood at the door, hands on her hips.
“I’m sorry. There was an incident at work?—”
“We missedThe Hidden Singer.”
“Can I walk through the door before you read me the riot act?”
Celeste stepped aside, allowing Kris and me to enter. “It’s Thursday. On Thursdays we make bow tie pasta and watchThe Hidden Singer.”
“That sounds like a solid Thursday night,” Kris offered, while bracing his arms wide, ready to assist in case I needed help as I made my way into the apartment.
“Who is he?” Celeste asked, eyeing Kris suspiciously. “Who are you?”
“This is Kris, from work. I bumped my head and he drove me home.”
Celeste scooped my hands in hers. “Are you alright?”
“Yep, I’m fine. No need to worry.” With a gentle pat to her arm, I reassured her everything was okay. Lowering myself to the couch, I released a soft groan.
“Can we watchThe Hidden Singernow?”
“Can you say hello to Kris?”
“Hello Kris, my name is Celeste Goodwin. I live at 765 Hampden Avenue, apartment 4123.”
