1980 to 1984, Puerto Rico

By JD-Lopez

“I don’t want to hear any more excuses!” yelled my mother. “You are going to see your grandfather today and it’s final!”

I ran to my room wanting to slam the door in anger but didn’t because I knew that would mean a beating for sure. I had learned to contain my emotions; I was an expert in hiding them well. The smallest gesture could mean a slap in the face or the pulling of my hair. My dad was an ex-marine war hero, but the G. I. in the family was definitely my mom.

I put my clothes on along with the contentment disguise on my face. Under the masquerade was the true face of fear, anger, resentment, hatred. I hated my grandfather. I was happy he was dying; I could not wait to see him dead. But I could not tell that to my mother. It would crush her, and telling her why I did not want to go was not an option.

As I arrived at the house, I rehearsed the usual act. “I can be an Oscar worthy actress one day,” I would always tell myself. Soon I would drift into my own fantasy world. I became a robot. I would show no emotion, do what I did best: pretend to be someone I wasn’t.

I walked into the living room; the smell of death and medicine was overwhelming. I hadn’t seen him in years. I would always volunteer to babysit my brothers, that way I could stay home and not have to deal with the nightmare. But this time, I could not escape; my mom knew he was dying and probably had only a few days, a week maybe.

As I entered the room, I knew where he was sitting, his favorite recliner. I could hear his desperate breathing, each breath sounding like his last. I didn’t want to look at him, so I kept walking, my back to where he was, toward the kitchen, wanting to avoid an encounter.

“Hey! Aren’t you going to say hello to your grandfather?” I stopped in my tracks. There is no escaping this one, if I don’t turn around they will know something is up. “She can’t suspect a thing,” I thought. “Be strong, you are good at this, you will be an actress one day. Oscar worthy, even.” I turned around and there he was. He once was a 6 foot, 4 inch, 250 lbs. husky guy; now he was barely 90 pounds, unable to move, gasping for air, an oxygen mask in his face. He was skin and bones. He didn’t seem so scary and overpowering anymore, he looked pathetic, weak….

He is looking at me. Come on, Jo, smile, say it! “Bendicion, abuelo” He looked up, his mask so big for his face you could only see his deep blue eyes. His eyes. I was transfixed; I couldn’t turn away my gaze. He was talking to me with his eyes. The only thing breaking away the deep silence between us in that room was his breathing. The desperate breath, each thinking it could be his last; his eyes kept telling me something.

My grandfather had the most beautiful deep blue eyes I had ever seen; I always compared them to the blue color of the pool water. They were that exact blue. Most of the time, you would only see the eyes of a flirt, a sick old man, on the lookout, on the prowl. I hated that look. This time all I could see was a cry, he was speaking to me through those blue eyes. “I am so sorry! Please forgive me!” I could see him begging for forgiveness.

I run to the bathroom. I can’t breathe. I lock the door behind me. My mother is knocking, “What’s wrong, Jo, what happened?” I can hear her whispering with my grandmother.

“She can’t handle to see papi like this,” my mom says.

“Poor thing,” my grandmother whispers.

“Well she needed to see him anyway, she can’t be staying home all the time,” my mom answers in her bossy tone. I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe! My mind is rushing, a million thoughts per second, I cannot think straight. What is happening to me? I remember the first time, eight years ago. I was only 10.

I remember being in my favorite room of the house, the guest room; it had a huge four-pillar bed, the mattresses were as tall as I was, I could hardly climb up to the top. But I loved it! It made me feel like I was on the tallest mountain. I would often play in that bed, pretending it was a castle and that I was the princess in distress, soon to be rescued by the handsome prince. That day, my fantasy became a reality, but not the way I expected it to be.

He walked into the bedroom and told me he wanted to play with me. “Play with me?” I thought, “But he does not even like me, he likes my cousin better.” Could it be that he’s had a change of heart? At first I was elated, so happy that he was playing with me. He would grab my legs and make me lose my balance, I would fall on the bed and bounce, and I laughed and giggled with such happiness.

But wait. This doesn’t feel right. Why is he only interested in opening my legs? That confused me. I didn’t sleep well that night. I even had nightmares. Was my abuelo being playful with me? Why now? He never played with me before, he usually yelled at me to go away. Why does he want to play?

The months after that became more and more tense. Soon it was summer time, which meant my cousins would come from the States and I would be forced to sleep over at my grandparents’ home, simply because they needed someone to play with. I hated it. I would always be blamed for everything that happened, even if I wasn’t involved in it.

“You are the oldest,” my grandmother would say. “You should have been more attentive, and not allow this to happen.” If I hated every summer for those reasons, this year I simply dreaded the fact that I would be totally at his mercy. I would not sleep at night worried that he would come into the room. I hated going to the beach with them, which meant swimming away from him. Actually that is how I learned to swim in the first place.

I hated when he would bend over pretending to scratch his foot just to see between my legs. I hated when he would trap me on the corner of the bedroom and force me to let him touch me. I wasn’t safe anywhere. I hated him! How could a grandfather be like that? Grandfathers are supposed to be loving and caring. They are supposed to spoil their grandchildren, especially if you are the oldest and the only daughter of his favorite.

My mom simply adored him. He was the world to her. I could never tell her what he was doing to me. Even as young as 10, you just know that telling on your grandfather could mean one of two things: destroying the loving relationship between father and daughter, or worse, being treated as a liar. I was not going to do that. I couldn’t tell anyone. It would be my deepest darkest secret forever.

I was ashamed of it; I even blamed myself for it. Then as I got older, I realized. He was a sick old man, who didn’t care at all about me. All he cared was to satisfy his lust and desires. I really grew to despise him. I would watch him over the years be so loving and caring with my cousins, with my brothers; the only time he would be nice to me was when he wanted something from me. I can’t forgive him. I’ll never forgive him, never.

I am back in the bathroom, I am laying on the floor, sobbing. I know what I must do, but can’t find the strength to do it. Or maybe it’s the will to do it. I cry, silently, I don’t want to be heard. I am 18 years old now. I’m supposed to act like an adult. I know what I must do. But I don’t want to. He hurt me. He hurt me. All those years, he has hurt me!

I remember what I had been taught at Church since I was a little child; I was told of God’s forgiveness. I think of what happened to Jesus on the Cross and how He still said, “Father forgive them….”

My eyes open. I can see his eyes in front of me, as if he is with me in that small bathroom. I can’t look away. He is begging me to forgive him. I can’t, I can’t!

As I sob, a deep cry comes from what seems to be the depths of my stomach. “God!” I cried. “God! I forgive him! I forgive him! I can’t see him suffering like that, please take him away, and let him die in peace. I forgive him!”

After what seems to be hours, but is probably only minutes, I get up and wipe the tears from my face, as if I am wiping away all that hatred, all the resentment. I wash my face with cold water. I leave the bathroom; my mother and grandmother are busy talking on the kitchen, they don’t seem to notice me.

I walk up to him. He is still breathing desperately, the mark that lung cancer has left in his fragile body. This time I see him with compassion. I feel sorry for him. I know he is paying the price for the evils he has done in his lifetime.

I look at him and whispered: “It’s OK, abuelo, I forgive you.” I kiss him on his forehead and see a big wave of relief wash over those blue eyes. He looks at me and almost gives me a weak smile. I go outside, become the actress again, pretend nothing had happened. I feel free inside, though, like a heavy weight has been lifted. I go home feeling lighter, not so miserable anymore.

The next day, I am babysitting, as usual. My mom is over at my grandparents’ house. My aunt had called to tell her he was in his final moments. My parents rushed to be at his side.

I am washing dishes when my mom calls: “Your grandfather passed away,” she says. “He went peacefully, he went in his sleep.”

“OK,” I say, the robot in me playing its part again. “Thanks for telling me.” I hang up the phone, pretended nothing has happened, and continue washing dishes. All of a sudden, without any announcement, a loud cry comes from inside of me; this time I am sure it is coming from the depths of my soul. It is a cry of sadness, of relief; it is a cry of forgiveness.

My grandfather passed away a year and a half after discovering he had lung cancer, and that it had spread all over his body. His battle against sickness lost, but his battle for forgiveness won. At the end he died at peace, he died with the victory flag in his hand. At the end he died, only, and just only he knew he was forgiven.

JD-Lopez lives in Florida.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Thursday, February 22nd, 2007 | Email This Post

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