Sweetheart
Tania Pabon I have a secret. It’s not a fat, hefty secret. It’s not juicy or delicious. It’s not even a secret that, when I tell you, you will feel compelled to tell other people. I love my father more than I love my mother, but this is not my secret. He drove from New Jersey for a night, after spending some days in Princeton for work. My dad’s visits were always a highlight for me, not because he took me grocery shopping, but because we got to re-live the relationship we had before the incident. Before, when he trusted me wholly. Before, when he wouldn’t pretend he was rummaging for a nail clipper in my nightstand but was really looking for cocaine and pot. Before. We bought a considerable amount of beef cuts and organic chicken at Stew Leonard’s for me to freeze in portions. The Styrofoam and plastic encasings of those now sit in my kitchen garbage can as if they mean nothing. “These should last you a good month or so, until your mother comes.” He’d said it caringly, but with a heavy undertone. They each visited me about every other month to make sure that I was handling the transition between Puerto Rico and New York smoothly. The mood stabilizers only did so much. They didn’t keep me from overthinking the slightest excitement, and turning it into mania in my head. They didn’t make my parents forget what I had done. As we put away the groceries my father asked, “do you want to keep these,” bunching up the plastic bags together. “Nah,” I responded, taking them from him and tossing them in the garbage. “I have plenty.” “I don’t have to leave for another couple of hours. What else do you need? Use me up!” he said with a smile. I hugged him tight. My father was the type of man I hoped to marry some day. He cared, truly cared. A business consultant, he traveled the world visiting companies that recruited him for his savvy. He was intelligent, both intellectually and emotionally. Everything he did, he did for my mom and me. And that is why my secret hurts so much. I made him cry once. The man who made sure I was fed and had a roof over my head. The man who loved me. I made him cry, back when I was untreated and undiagnosed. On a manic whim I flew to California - no phone charger, no bags - with the intention of making it to Las Vegas to see a friend who was celebrating her birthday there. I was at an Irish pub in Hoboken when I became overwhelmed, consumed, with the idea of running away and having an adventure. I hitched a ride to John F. Kennedy Airport and bought a one way ticket to Los Angeles. I spent a week in L.A. with a former fling. None of my friends, let alone my parents, knew where I was. After my phone inevitably died, I made no efforts to find a charger for it. I was in California for a week as my network of friends and family in Puerto Rico and New York collapsed trying to find me. My parents flew to N.Y.C. to file a missing person’s report. And, just when they started searching the hospitals, I called. I had charged my phone with a borrowed charger and was making contact. They responded as all parents would - with relief that I was alive, and with rabid anger. This was a Friday. On Saturday, I flew back to New York and met my parents at the airport. We rode the subway in a stiff silence. When we got to their hotel we sat down and my father said, “Choose your words carefully. Know that it’s one thing to bump into someone and say I’m sorry, but it’s another to push someone off a building and try to apologize. You’ve pushed someone off a building.” He took a breath. I thought he was trying not to yell at me, but then I saw that his eyes were glistening and in their ducts were tears. They fell quietly, rolling down his olive skinned cheeks, collecting in his chin and crashing down onto his lapel. He looked at me not with sadness but with fear. He no longer recognized me. I was not his little girl anymore, nor would I ever be again. I was the one who broke his heart. When my father’s visit was over, I walked him to his rented car, watching him shiver in the thirty degree cold. He wasn’t used to this kind of weather. He got in the driver’s seat and I peered through the passenger side window. He rolled it down and said, “I love you, sweetheart. Be good, OK?” “Always,” I smiled. “I love you, too.” He drove away, the smoke from his tailpipe leaving a trail of fog behind him. And all I could think was, at least he called me “sweetheart.” |
|
About the Author:
Tania Pabon was born and raised in San Juan, Puerto Rico, but she likes to call New York home. She is an MFA candidate at Sarah Lawrence College concentrating in Creative Nonfiction. Prior to attending the College, she obtained an MA in English Literature from the University of Puerto Rico - Rio Piedras. Her undergraduate studies were completed at New York University with majors in Journalism and Cinema Studies.
Tania Pabon was born and raised in San Juan, Puerto Rico, but she likes to call New York home. She is an MFA candidate at Sarah Lawrence College concentrating in Creative Nonfiction. Prior to attending the College, she obtained an MA in English Literature from the University of Puerto Rico - Rio Piedras. Her undergraduate studies were completed at New York University with majors in Journalism and Cinema Studies.
