Papi, Is That You?

In the spring of 1997, my father and brother were murdered in Miami. I was on tour with a Broadway show when I got the call. I was 29 years old.

These two pieces were written in the aftermath.

The first piece is that night. This is the second piece, and it is two days later, when I found myself sleeping at my father’s place, in his bed, next to my mother, listening to the ocean.

I have never shared these before. Here they are.

I don’t remember the first time I saw the ocean because I saw it every day. I grew up in Florida — Miami Beach — so seeing the ocean was never a big deal. It was just something that was always there, like the furniture and walls you get used to living with; you see them every day without really noticing.

Honestly, the ocean was kind of annoying to me. I was one of those weird kids who hated going to the beach. ‘Ugh,’ I used to think, ‘all that sand, heat, and salt water.’ I liked the pool much better. The pool seemed clean, neat, and orderly. The beach looked unruly and unmanageable. Dangerous even. Plus, all that damn sand! For days afterward, I could never get it out of all the crevices in my body, no matter how many showers I took. So, the beach was never a fun experience for me.

I do remember, however, the first time I heard it.

The date was May 2nd, 1997 — two days after my father and brother were killed. My parents had moved into a sprawling condominium right on the beach. I had never lived there, so I had no sense of or connection to the place except through my parents, but my father and brother’s deaths changed that when I found myself awkwardly taking up residence there.

It was the second night after I had arrived. I was sleeping with my mom in their bed, occupying the space where my father should have been. I lay there, going over the events of the past few days, especially what my brother Dani had said to me that morning. Screamed was more like it.

“You always hated Papi!” And, “You can’t just go away like you always do! You can’t just go away and be alone! This family needs each other now!” Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…

I thought about Dulce, my brother Alberto’s wife, now a widow at thirty. I wondered what was going through Pop and Alberto’s minds at that very moment. Did their eyes meet? What were they feeling? Did my father think of me? Did my brother think of his children? Dear God, was it painful? Oh God, oh dear God, what did my father have to watch them do to his favorite son? Why didn’t I call them that day like I had wanted to?

All these thoughts, these terrible thoughts, went through my mind as I lay where my father should have been, next to my mother, in their bed.

I let my mind chase its own tail like that for two hours, and when I finally felt I had explored every thought thoroughly, I granted myself the luxury of denial. ‘I just won’t think about this anymore for now,’ I told myself. I felt mentally drained, like you do when you keep turning an unfixable problem over and over in your mind. So with my brain shut down and sleep out of reach, I just lay there. And listened.

I started to notice the house winding down: the ice maker in the fridge turning on by itself, the hum of the air conditioner, the sound of air whistling through the crack under my parents’ bedroom door, and the creaks and pops unique to their home.

When I felt I had successfully identified all the sounds the house’s mechanics made, I turned my focus to my mother’s breathing; it was light and very deep, almost imperceptible, with long inhales and exhales. I became so absorbed in her breathing that I started to count time by it — five inhales/exhales per minute, twenty-five every five minutes, fifty every ten, and so on, until three hundred inhales/exhales an hour.

That’s when I heard it — the ocean. It was a lazy, all-consuming, monopolizing sound. As soon as I heard it, I had the instant sensation that I couldn’t hear anything else. ‘My God,’ I thought, ‘how had I not noticed this before? It’s so loud! Who could sleep through this?’

Every other sound was swept away and became insignificant: my mother’s breathing, the house, the air, my thoughts. I lay there and let this now massive sound wash over me like an intimate kindness. I felt myself be swallowed whole by it, gratefully lost in its enormous embrace. It was soothing and comforting like a mother’s love, only more passionate. It seemed too fervent to be purely maternal. No, this felt more masculine, God-like, yet more sensual than sexual.

“There, there,” it seemed to say to me. “Come lie in my arms and let me hold you. Rest against me. Let me take care of you, my love. My dearest, sweet angel. Aren’t you tired? Aren’t you so very tired?”

‘Oh God yes,’ I thought, as silent, salty tears ran down the sides of my face and into my ears. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to get rocked languidly in its vociferous, tidal embrace. ‘Go easy with me,’ I said to myself. ‘I am not sure I know how to swim in these waters.’

“I will,” it said to me. “I won’t let you drown.”

‘No, let me drown,’ I thought, feeling myself sway with the rhythm of the tide. It was endless, unrestrained, and soothingly constant.

“Papi, is that you?” I asked the tide. In response, the ocean made a ‘whoosh’ sound as it drew its lips back and took in a sand-filled breath, holding it for an inexpressibly stirring moment before finally exploding it back onto the earth’s belly.

“Yes and no,” it said, as I rolled onto my side, letting the sound caress the back of me.

“Well, I don’t care if you are my Papi. Just don’t leave me, OK?” I begged.

In response, the ocean kept breathing; in .. out .. in .. out .. in .. out .. in .. out. And through its steady, endless, healing breath, I finally found … sleep.

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