The American

Chapter Seventeen

The day that Papa died, we weren't even in Tribeca. Mario and I received the news over text, from a strange number we later found out was a local prostitute's. Her name was Ciara. 

According to Ciara, Papa had been experiencing a sensation in his chest all evening, one he insistently dismissed as heartburn. But when she woke up the next morning to find him unresponsive, she knew it wasn't just heartburn—it was something far worse. Her suspicions were proven an hour later in Mount Sinai Hospital, which was when she texted us.

Papa was an expert in disguising the parts of himself he wished to keep hidden, covering his vices until the very moment of his death. However long it took us to get over the fact that we were hearing about his death from his prostitute, it took us longer to recover from the realization that this was how the universe had decided to take him away: calmly, quietly, peacefully, in his sleep. Somehow, this passionate, violently opinionated man had been taken in the simplest way, while he was dreaming.

There were no last words the way there often are in movies, merely a "see you later" as Mario, Sahara and I had left for the Catskills for the weekend. I still wonder what would have happened if we had calculated our moments differently. Would Papa still be alive? Would we have been able to save him? Or was it in his destiny to go as he did—was it inevitable?

The idea of inevitability is an interesting one. It haunted me until I let it go. Today, I see them manifesting in the eyes of my mother, who's decade apart from us hasn't hardened her heart at all. On the contrary, she looks more vulnerable than she ever has, more apologetic, more remorseful. I want to tell her that the past is gone and done, that we cannot change our narratives despite our will, but the future: the future we can change. We can rewrite this story, Mama, I want to say, but I do not want to be overwhelming. A woman who has kept her distance for this many years cannot be trusted to change course after a happenstance meeting.

Once the excitement of seeing her begins to wear off, I find myself grappling with a numbness I cannot explain. It is a numbness I carry with me later that evening to the hostel, when we finally part ways. She promises to join us for Papa's burial, which is now less than two weeks away. For now, that is all I can hope for. 

As I enter the room of our hostel and saunter into the balcony, I pull out my phone and call my brother, who answers the phone on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Mario, hey."

"Look who finally decided to call," he begins to jest, but I stop him. 

"Mario, you won't believe who I ran into today."

"Lionel Messi?" he says. Mario is in a bantering mood, which isn't good, because I know what I will say will absolutely ruin his day. 

I sigh. "No, not Lionel Messi, you dipshit."

He chuckles at his own remark. "Who did you run into, Margie?"

"Mom."

There is shuffling on the other end of the line. And then there is more. And more. "Wait," he finally says. "Can you say that again? 'Cause for a second I thought you said mom."

"I did."

There is more shuffling until the background noise fades entirely.

"And guess who was with her, Mauri," I say quietly. "Maria. They're sisters. Sisters, blood related and all, like you and me. Can you believe that?"

Mario is silent for the longest time. It is only when I say his name that he reaffirms his presence, making my stomach churn with worry. 

"I'm here," he says, but I know he is somewhere far away. It manifests in his sudden silences in between his words.