When I wasn’t with the ICU team, I sat with Abuela. Ricky’s looks were all his grandfather, a taciturn, compact man who spoke to me exclusively through his wife, but his personality was all her. She was gracious and excitable and shockingly funny, capable of finding a sliver of happiness even with her only son dying feet away from her. I could see why Ricky loved her so much.
“When I sit for a long time and it hurts, is this also rhabdomyolysis?”* Abuela said, slapping her bum to demonstrate just as Ricky pushed the door open with our Starbucks in hand.
“I don’t know,” I said, crumpling into giggles. “I’ll have to ask Dr. Milner.” Then I turned to look up at Ricky, wiping at my eyes.
“Grande iced mocha,” he said, handing Abuela her drink. Then, for me: “Tall vanilla latte.”
Our fingers brushed as the drink exchanged hands.
“Thanks,” I said.
Ricky gave me a long, blank look. Then he nodded and pivoted away.
“I’m going to get some work done down in the café,” he said. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Okay, mijo,” Abuela said placidly.
I watched him leave, racked by guilt. As much as I loved spending time with Abuela, she was Ricky’s grandmother, not mine. I knew I was intruding. Even though Ricky accepted my presence, he seemed uncomfortable with it, leaving the room any time we might be left alone together, keeping our conversations strictly clinical, careful to always place an Abuela-sized buffer between us. And that was fine. I was the one who had walked away from us, and now that I had unceremoniously turned back up again, it was Ricky’s choice if and when he wanted to accept me back into his fold. No expectations, I reminded myself.
I stood.
“I should go too,” I said.
Abuela gave me a small, secret smile.
“You love my grandson, don’t you?” she said coyly.
Okay, hadn’t seen that coming. I knew I’d probably been staring after Ricky longingly, maybe letting out some long, lovelorn sighs, but had I really been that obvious?
“U-um,” I stammered, unsure of how to respond, and she cackled, pleased with herself.
“It’s okay, it’s okay!” she said. “You don’t have to be shy.” She patted my arm and gave me a conspiratorial wink. “He’s a kind boy. This is hard for him.” She looked toward her son, now flipped onto his back. “My son,” she swallowed, an ancient, hardened sorrow peeking through, “was never a father to him. He made choices that he shouldn’t have, and no matter how hard I have tried, how many times I cried, I couldn’t stop him. I have to admit, I gave up long ago on him changing. I have known that I would outlive my son since he was young.”
Slowly, I sat back down, not looking away. Abuela’s jaw was set, and she looked upon her son’s heaving body without flinching. I imagined Abuela twenty years younger, her back a bit straighter, her face less lined, screaming at a man who looked like the one on the vent, who looked like the one I loved.
“Ricky believed, though.” She wrung her hands together. “He always thought that his father was capable of changing his own destiny but was just refusing to do so. It’s frustrated him his whole life. He could get so angry with me! Every time I give his father money, he would say, Abuelita, you are enabling him. He’s just going to spend it on more drugs. As if I didn’t know.” She shook her head, smiled. “I think he was still hoping something would change. But now . . . here we are.”
I swallowed against the lump in my throat, for the first time feeling Abuela’s resignation. During rounds, when the team talked about Gabriel’s case, I could read between the lines. They hadn’t said it outright yet, still waiting on a miracle, but we all knew the truth—Gabriel was in a bad way. His chances of making it through this were next to none. He would most likely die here, and . . . Abuela knew this. I suspected she’d known from the beginning, and the sobs that had racked her body when I met her at the elevators the second time had been from grief. She had simply been keeping vigil ever since.
“I used to have regrets,” Abuela said. “Maybe if we had sent him to the expensive Catholic school. Maybe if we had not pushed him so hard. Not anymore. My son has brought me many tears, but so much joy as well. And he gave me a grandson who has the most beautiful soul.” She turned to me then, reached for the hand in my lap. “You too, Angela. You have a beautiful soul too.”
I looked down at Abuela, feeling my vision blur with emotion. I opened my mouth to speak but found myself too choked to find the words.