His face grows solemn.
“Son, it has never been about me being right and you being wrong. How you reacted to your mother leaving, the beliefs you took on because of it, is all valid. You have not been wrong. As your dad, I’m just trying to get you to see that those feelings are not your only option. Maybe I went about it in a high-handed way, and for that I’m sorry.”
I sigh heavily.
“You were super high-handed, and I’m still mad about that. I can’t be mad about how it all turned out, though. I think it gave me the push I needed to work past my fears,” I admit.
“Cabrera men are stubborn. It was too late for me to be the husband I should have been, and I regret it more than anything in my life. I don’t want that for you,” he almost whispers, his face a picture of pure pain that has nothing to do with his fall.
I clasp his shoulder and look him in the eye.
“I’m learning, pops. Slowly, but surely, ok? Celeste and I are figuring things out and exploring the real thing. We’re taking our time.”
He nods thoughtfully, and we sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, until Celeste sweeps back in with our coffees. Her eyes dart between me and my dad, clearly picking up on the heaviness of the conversation we just had.
“What did I miss? Everything ok?”
“Everything’s fine, we just had to have a father/son chat, mija,” my dad tells her. “While you both are here, I did a lot of thinking while I was on the floor and then in the ambulance. I’m retiring,” he announces.
Both Celeste and I look like gaping fish.
“Dad, what do you mean you’re retiring?” I demand.
“Just what I said. We can’t have me falling there again, it’s bad for business.”
“So, what, you’re just not going to come to the bar you built from the ground up ever again?” I ask incredulously.
“Of course I’ll still come in from time to time, it’s part of my very soul. Soon I’ll get a cane or something to stay steady on my feet, and I sure as hell won’t be doing inventory. The Parkinson’s is only going to get worse, though. It’s time to step aside. You’ve already shown you’re more than ready totake the bar to an even higher level, Gagey. It’ll be in the best hands.”
“Dad, you can’t be serious.” My throat is tight with emotion. He IS El Abrevadero as much as my abuela is. I’ve known he’s wanted to step aside soon, but I am not prepared for it to be this soon.
“It was going to happen sooner or later. It’s just going to be sooner, that’s all,” he reassures me, as if reading my thoughts. “I’m truly serious, son. Incidents like tonight can’t happen again. This is not me giving up, it’s doing what’s best for the bar we both love so much, ok? I’ll still be there holding court and trading stories with the customers. You’ve more than earned stepping up into the ownership role.”
“Let’s focus on getting you better, then we can talk more about this,” I say, unable to handle any more emotions tonight. Between my anger over the asshole who harassed my wife, worry for my dad after his fall, and now his dramatic ass announcement, I’ve hit my limit.
Celeste seems to sense it, and takes my hand to give it a reassuring squeeze.
There’s really nothing more for us to do except sit in our respective thoughts, until a tech finally comes to wheel my dad away to get his x-rays.
Celeste and I go back to the waiting room to sit, hand in hand, nursing our coffees. Not that I would ever say it out loud and jinx things, but the ER is fairly quiet tonight.
“What a night,” she huffs with a laugh that contains just about every emotion I’m feeling.
“Thank you. For everything,” I say.
She doesn’t respond, just squeezes my hand, as if she knows words aren’t needed right now. This is what true partnership feels like, I realize. Knowing each other so well, being present instead of leaving when things get hard. Herability to read what people need in a given moment astounds me, especially considering what she had to deal with growing up.
“You know, I’ve never met anyone who can read people like you do,” I blurt. “How do you do it?”
She rears back in surprise at the sudden question, then cocks her head in thought for a minute before finally answering.
“It’s something I did manage to learn about myself in therapy back when I was a teenager, in spite of my resistance. When you grow up how I did, reading people becomes part of survival. The slightest shift in mood, the most minute movement in a facial expression, reading those means the difference between escaping a beating and getting bruised. You learn to become hyper aware of how people are acting and clocking even the smallest change. I guess it serves me well with people I like, too,” she explains quietly, her voice raw.
It’s my turn to silently squeeze her hand, and bring it to my lips to kiss her palm.
“You’re safe now,” I remind her, willing her to believe it.
“I know,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder.