My Father’s Dreams
He took a long breath, and for the second time in so many days, reached for my hand. “My dreams just made it clear that me and your mother weren’t meant to be together. Listen, the past isn’t important. Your mother and me—we’re old people. Who cares?”
“I do,” I said pulling my hand back.
“Hijo, why don’t you come out here? You can live with me, and we can go to the beach and make up for lost time.” My father leaned in toward me. “Forget what I told you about my dreams. Forget you’re angry about whatever you think I’ve done to you and your mother. Just think about what makes you happy. You know, do you ever just feel happy? You don’t look at a watch when you’re happy. Do you ever not look at that nice watch of yours when you’re with Janet?”
I told him I was going to get married and that I didn’t care about his dreams.
He nodded his head rhythmically as he played with his wedding ring. “OK, Alex. You’re right. You’re a grown man and I know that what I’m saying sounds crazy, so I’ll be quiet.”
“Does this mean you’re coming to the wedding?” I asked.
“No. I can’t,” he answered without hesitating, and with that, I got up and went to my room and started packing.
For the rest of the day my father seemed different again. He was still kind but distant. When he took me to the airport that evening, we shook hands and said our goodbyes. I told him he’d still be welcome at the wedding, but he only forced a smile and thanked me for my “kind offer.” It sounded like the end of a business transaction more than a good-bye between a father and his son.
I got back to New York early the next morning and went directly to Janet’s. She was concerned and asked me a million questions that I didn’t want to answer. So I made some excuses and changed the subject. I didn’t tell her about my father and his dreams, thinking he would eventually relent and come to the wedding. But I was wrong. He didn’t show up, and six months after I left him at the airport, he died—suddenly and in his sleep.
When I got the call from Jenny, I wondered if he’d ever dreamt of his own death. If he sensed it was coming and if that was why he was so desperate to see me. For the days leading up to the funeral, I spent any free time I had between all the arrangements that had to be made wondering about his dreams. I didn’t think of much else, and then at some point, I stopped wondering. My father was a lot of things, I decided, but those dreams of his were nothing more than the delusions of a selfish man.
Maybe this is why I never cried for him. Janet was sure that it was going to come. She talked about my grief like it was some kind of storm off in the horizon. She was so sure I felt like I had to lie to her. One day I told her that I broke down at the office, and then we never spoke of it again. But the truth of it—a truth I never thought Janet would understand—was that after his death, there was no one left to be mad at, and I was at peace. That’s why I decided to make his house a summer getaway. Janet thought it was a bad idea—us going there. She saw the place as a celebration of my father’s escapism, and a reminder to me of all that I’d lost as a child. But I ignored her. I told her to relax and enjoy the place. At the time, I didn’t feel as if I’d lost a thing.