“It’s not like that.”
And I know what it is. What he’s going to tell me. I know exactly.
“Say it,” I bite out, my eyes already warm with tears as my body begins to shudder with cold. I pull out of his grasp, my hands fists at my sides now.
The doctor speaks next. “Ivy, it’s not good for the baby if you get worked up.”
“Say it!” I snap at Santiago.
Santiago’s jaw sets, and again, I hear his words. “I hope you’ll be as quick to forgive mine.”
But I won’t be. Not if he did what I think he did.
“There was a complication, something the doctor missed.”
I hug my middle, my shoulders hunching as I back up another step, slipping into a chair now. I shake my head and don’t look at him. I can’t.
“He’s gone, Ivy. I’m sorry, but your father is gone.”
I close my eyes as his words echo. Gone. Gone as in I’ll never see him again. Never hear his voice again. Never hug him again.
Gone as in dead.
I shake my head and make myself look at him. “I don’t believe you,” I say, wiping the backs of my hands over my eyes. I force my legs to carry me as I stand. “I don’t.”
“Ivy, you—” He reaches for me, but I slip away.
“I called the hospital. I talked to the nurse. She told me he was fine. Just sleeping. She told me!”
Santiago glances at the doctor as if they’ve had some private exchange, but whatever it is, Santiago raises his hand just slightly as if to tell him to wait.
“I’m truly sorry, Ivy,” Santiago says, solemn gaze on me again. “He died a few hours ago. There was nothing anyone could do.”
“No.” I shake my head, walking a few steps away so I’m near the head of the table where Santiago’s place has been empty for two days. Gone for two days. The two days before my father has a complication out of nowhere. Two days in which my father, his enemy, the enemy under guard, the weak old man under his power, dies. “No,” I say again, setting my jaw. I reach for the steak knife Antonia had set for him. She didn’t even know if he’d be home or not. She’d fretted about keeping his dinner warm. “Tell me the truth.” I keep the knife at my side.
Santiago’s gaze drops to it momentarily before returning to mine. “Put that down, and I’ll tell you everything again.”
“Tell me now,” I say, and when he takes a step closer, I hold the knife out between us.
The doctor watches but stays where he is.
“There was a complication.”
“Something the doctor missed. I heard your practiced words the first time around. Tell me how! Tell me the truth, you fucking liar!”
There’s that tic in his jaw. I wonder if he’s counting to ten before he speaks. He’s not used to rebellion. Not used to people speaking up.
“I know you’re upset. It’s natural you’re upset. But I’m here for you, Ivy.”
At that, I laugh outright. “You’re here for me? Did you just really say that?”
I walk farther away as he begins to close the space between us. Marco comes around the corner, and without taking his eyes off me, Santiago signals to Marco to stand back.
“Were you the complication the doctors didn’t see coming, Santiago?”
He smiles a strange smile, but it’s gone in an instant. “I can see how you’d think that,” he says through clenched teeth. “But no, Ivy, I did not murder the old man.”
“But it was your right. Isn’t that what you told me?” I take more steps away, aware of how close Marco is. “Did you use your knife? It would be symbolic to drive the De La Rosa blade into his heart. It would make your father proud.”
“That’s enough.” His voice is harder. “Give me the knife.”
“Is this why you forgave me so easily a few days ago? You knew even then what you’d do. You thought you could use that against me? Force me to forgive you? To somehow maybe accept and forgive the fact that you murdered my father?”
He speaks, maybe asking for the knife again, but the fact of what he told me washes over me, and I can’t process his words. My father is gone. He’s dead.
“Tell me something. Tell me one thing,” I say.
“Anything.”
“Did he see it coming? Was he scared?” I feel tears stream down my face.
Something shifts in his expression, like a thing cracking, splintering. Just a little. “No. There was nothing to see coming. His heart gave out. It was all just too much for him. Now give me the knife.”
I look beyond Santiago to the doctor. They’re all closer. And in his hand, the doctor is holding a syringe.
They’ve come prepared.
“Please give me the knife,” Santiago pleads, and I turn to him again. He’s only a few feet away now. He’s fast. I know that. He will lunge for the knife any second now. The only reason he’s not is he’s afraid I’ll hurt myself. He’s not afraid for himself. Not afraid I’ll hurt him. I know that.