I walked over to him, got in his face, gripped the collar of his shirt, and yelled, “My mother needs help! She needs help, you bastard! Help! It can only get worse! What if she hurts herself? Hm? What do we do then? What the fuck do we do? She dies, then what, hm? Speak, you fucking bastard!”
His eyes searched mine. Twitching. “You sound more like her than yourself.”
I frowned in confusion. “What—”
“Are you sure you’re feeling all right, son?” he asked also in Italian.
I paused, realizing how my breathing came in short gasps. My gaze flicked to my tight grip on his shirt, and I instantly let him go, stepping back.
“I’m fine.”
He shook his head. “No. No. I am not taking any chances. Get some shoes, boy; we’re getting a diagnosis.”
Fear clamped my gut. “I said I’m fine!”
He shot me a glare. “Do you want me to use force? I will.”
There was no countering that, and in a few minutes, we were on our way to the family hospital.
“If we can get Mamá—”
“I don’t want to hear nothing of your mother,” he snapped.
We arrived at the hospital, and the process started. They ran tests, did bloodwork, a scan to rule out anything neurologic. The doctors asked a hundred questions. It took time. I remember the antiseptic smell and a nurse’s high voice, not her exact words. I remember how the late night bled into morning, how the processes were expediated, how when the sun came up, I sat in a room where a psychiatrist told us I had major depressive disorder alongside some other brain things I’d blocked out because I felt the shift in my father’s demeanor, and his eyes had darkened in the way they did when he was looking for quick solutions.
A few minutes later, we were driving back home; the car was silent until he spoke.
“You’re joining the army,” he announced.
I snapped my head to him. “What?”
“You’re joining the fucking army.”
“Why?” I asked, baffled.
He was wise enough to pull over to the side of the road but left the engine on as he responded. “Didn’t you hear the diagnosis? You’re crazy, and I promise that I will work it out of you.”
“I’m not crazy.”
“You are.”
“I’m not fucking crazy!”
“You are!” he yelled back.
“I can’t even get into the army. You think they’d let me in, knowing my health conditions?”
“I will get you in. There’s a more private and secret base for people like you. I’ll make the calls.”
“This is insane. You can’t just—”
“Look at you!” he yelled suddenly, the vein on his forehead throbbing. “A fucking disappointment. Despicable and weak like your fucking mother.”
“I’m not weak. Depression isn’t weakness,” I gritted out.
“Oh, it is, and youareweak.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
