Waiting

2.

Summer POV

“Just a little more, sweetie. It’s my favorite story. That little critter is so smart, and I love how the boy keeps his innocence, even though the world tells him to get rid of it,” Papa says.

I smile at his words. Other than my mom and dad, my Papa is my world. I hate seeing him in this hospital bed. Colon cancer is no joke. f**k cancer for hurting and taking away the people you love the most. f**k cancer for only ever wanting to latch on to amazing people who don’t deserve this suffering.

These last treatments have been very hard on him. Mom says the doctors are trying to figure out what “special” cocktail of meds and radiation will finally slap this b***h in the face. I hope they find it soon.

I want to read to my him his favorite story under the giant willow at the end of the driveway, with its sweeping branches that sway in the breeze. I hope I have the chance to do it soon, before summer begins. Maybe Mom can plant some of Abuelita’s favorite color tulips around the willow’s trunk this year. Papa would like that.

“Okay, Papa—just because I love you—do you need anything? Another pillow? Or some water? I can tell Mom to grab some before she comes back.”

“Love you too, my shine. No, I’m good. Just start reading before your mom comes in. If I fall asleep, she won’t start fussing with me and my dang pillows.”

His concern over pillow placement makes me giggle.

“Once I fall asleep, you can take some time for yourself and rest.”

He makes himself comfortable and closes his eyes while I begin to read.

“Ready?”

With his eyes closed, he gives me his signature two thumbs up. I look down at the book cover and lightly brush my hand over the picture of a little boy and his rose before opening the hardback and flipping to the page I left off on.

“‘One only understands the things that one tames,’ said the fox. ‘Men have no more time to understa—’”

BEEEP. BEEEP. BEEEEEEEEEP!

“s**t!”

I jump up from my chair. His machine is beeping. Why is it beeping?

I look over at my Papa. His eyes are closed.

“Papa? What is that? What does it mean?”

I reach for his hand. It’s cool to the touch.

What?

He shouldn’t be that cool.

“Pa—Papa?”

I shake his arm. Nothing.

“PAPA!”

Suddenly, someone’s arms grab my shoulders and push me aside into the corner. Nurses and doctors rush in. Gloves snap on. Machines are checked. Someone presses fingers to my Papa’s wrist. Another listens to his heart.

A nurse starts CPR.

She stops for a split second so another person can cut his gown open with scissors, exposing his chest. Papa’s doctor points and gives orders, but I can’t hear her. Everything is muffled.

Another nurse wraps her arms around me and leads me out of the room.

No. Stop. Please don’t take me away from my Papa.

But my voice is gone. My body won’t listen. I move on autopilot as she walks me to the waiting room and helps me sit on the couch.

I stare at her. Her lips move, but I don’t understand what she’s saying.

She leaves, then comes back—maybe a minute later, maybe five. I don’t know. She wraps a blanket around me.

“Summer? Summer, what happened?”

My mom.

That’s my mom’s voice.

I look up as she rushes toward me and pulls me into her arms.

“My sunshine! What’s wrong?”

She’s scared. I can hear it.

“Oh, sweet girl, please tell me what’s wrong. You’re scaring me.”

Before I can answer, a nurse steps forward.

“Mrs. Valdez?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Dr. Andrews. I’m so sorry, ma’am. Your daughter was in the room when your father went into cardiac arrest. We didn’t realize she was witnessing the crash cart procedure until the doctor called the time of death. I believe she may be in shock. Would you like me to call the chaplain or a grief counselor?”

“Oh no. Mi Papi. No.”

My mom clutches me tighter.

Did the doctor just say what I think she did?

“No,” my mom said desperately. “That’s not possible. My father is strong. He’s getting better—you told us he was getting better, right?”

My tears start falling. I can’t stop them.

“Where is my father?” my mom asked. “Can we see him?”

“I’ll go check for you,” the nurse said gently. “I’ll be back shortly.”

My mom doesn’t wait for the doctor to come back. She walks toward Papa’s room—the same room where I was reading to him moments ago. It feels like another lifetime.

“Summer,” my mom says softly, “I’m going to try to speak with the other doctor. Are you okay staying here for a moment? Maybe you can call your dad?”

Her emotions are all over her face—anger, grief, fear. I have no idea when she did it, but I notice her hair is now pulled into a messy bun and her earrings are gone. Proud Mexican woman. Full business mode activated.

“Summer,” she says firmly. “Sunshine. I’m talking to you.”

“Oh—yeah, Ma,” I say. “I’ll call Dad.”

She kisses my forehead and walks into the room.

I wipe my face with the blanket.

Okay. I can do this. I pull my phone from my back pocket and dial my dad’s number.

Ring. Ring.

“My baby,” my dad answered. “How is your Abuelito doing? And your mother?”

I can’t speak.

“Sweetie?”

Nothing comes out.

“Mija? Are you there?”

“Summer, you’re scaring me. Put your mom on the phone.”

“I can’t,” I choke out. My voice breaks completely. “Papi, come here now.”

“I’m on my way. I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

He hangs up, but it’s like I’m a statue. I can’t pull the phone away from my ear. I stand there in the middle of the hall with a blanket wrapped around me, my phone still pressed to my ear.

About fifteen minutes later, my mom returns.

“Oh, baby, have you been right here this whole time? Let’s go sit down. Did you get a hold of your dad?”

“Yes. Daddy’s on his way.”

“Okay,” she says. “If he’s at the mansion meeting with Damien, like his schedule suggested, he’ll be here in about an hour.”

We make our way to the visitor waiting room and sit down. She explains what little the doctors and nurses have told her—cardiac arrest, uncertainty, an autopsy needed to know more—but I can’t hear most of it. My mind is somewhere else. All I want to do is go back into the room and finish reading my Papa’s favorite story to him.

Fuck cancer.

Fuck cancer.

FUCK CANCER.

Forty-five minutes pass, and my mom migrates to the seat across from me. She has her laptop out and has already begun calling members of the family.

Out of nowhere, a strange thought begins nagging at me about the sudden way my Papa is just… gone.

I’ve spent enough time in his hospital room to know the monitors are there to give doctors and nurses a heads-up when something abnormal happens. This wasn’t gradual. There was no slow decline. Just a sudden burst—and then his heartbeat was gone.

It feels like he wasn’t meant to leave yet, like he was taken too suddenly.

Somehow, I feel like he knew it was time—but that his passing would be gradual. That he would help prepare me and my mom for life without him. That we would have time to say our goodbyes.

He should have been able to say goodbye, right?

Yeah. Right.

Maybe this is what grief does to you. You start imagining how it should have happened. When it should have happened.

Is grief making me delusional?

It’s not like death shows up and says, “Hey buddy, it’s time. Say goodbye to the people you love. I’m getting ready to take you from them.”

I don’t know why I expected death to be fair.

It just came and took the people I loved most at the worst possible time—and didn’t give a s**t if it ripped your heart out in the process.

Suddenly, I feel like someone is staring at me.

I shift in my chair, still wrapped in my blanket, and pretend I’m trying to get comfortable while I look around the small waiting room. The only person in here with me is my mom. She’s texting on her phone, and I can hear her talking quietly to my Aunt Olivia. No doubt they’re already in full force—planning the service and letting the rest of our family and Papa’s friends know what happened.

I don’t notice anyone else. Let alone anyone who would be looking at me.

Maybe grief makes you paranoid.

I grab my phone and decide to distract myself by reading and replying to texts from friends and family. But even as I type my replies, that nagging feeling won’t go away.

Someone is watching me.

I stand from my chair and walk over to where my mom is sitting, then take the seat in the corner of the room facing the entryway. That way, I can see who comes and goes. It’s still just me and my mom, so why do I feel this way?

Was it maybe my grandfather’s spirit?

“Papa, are you there?” I whisper.

Am I going crazy? Does grief make you crazy?

I pick up a magazine from the coffee table and flip through it aimlessly, pretending to read while scanning the room again.

That’s when I see him.

He stands on the farthest side of the room, leaning casually against the wall.

As if he can sense me looking at him, he lifts his head—and our eyes lock.

He’s taller than me, which isn’t hard considering I’m only 5’2”, but he still looks a good foot taller. He’s ripped, and I can see every curves of his massive arms and chest beneath a tight gray Henley tee. He’s completely covered in ink from the neck down. Wherever there’s skin, there were clearly tattoos riddled all over his skin. It’s as if he’s an art masterpiece—one that refuses to be hidden.

His hair is pitch black, worn in shaggy, loose curls that frame his face and shade his aqua-colored eyes.

Eyes that I swear are glowing.

He looks about my age, but considering the amount of ink covering his arms, he’s probably a year or two older. Damn—he’s incredible to look at.

What? Why am I checking someone out at a time like this? What is wrong with me? Does grief make your brain get its wires crossed?

I can’t stop staring, and he definitely notices, because a slow smirk tugs at his mouth.

It’s mortifying. I can feel my face heating up, turning red, but I can’t look away. He’s captivating.

Yes, grief makes your brain go haywire, and I have proof. Here I am… having just lost one of the most important people in my life… and I’m staring straight at a stranger, like I’ve forgotten what day it is—and the answer is somehow written across his face.

And right now, he’s probably wondering what meds I’m on—because why would a mentally sane, snot-nosed, smeared-mascara, puffy-eyed girl openly stare and practically drool over someone she’s never met before? before? In my very moment of grief, no less.

How freaking embarrassing.

A minute later, he pushed himself off the wall and glared at me as he walks out of the room.

The spell shatters.

What the hell? Why did he look at me like that? That wasn’t a casual glance. That wasn’t neutral. That was pointed. Directed. At me.

Heat rushes to my face, embarrassment crashing into something sharper—anger, maybe. Confusion. Why do I suddenly feel like I’ve done something wrong just by looking at him? And why do I feel this stupid, impulsive urge to go after him and demand to know what his problem is?

I stand up without fully realizing I’m moving and walk out of the waiting room, following in the direction of the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen.

Ridiculous.

When I turn the corner near the entryway, the hallway is empty.

Where did he go?

There are no adjoining corridors down this way—just patient rooms, closed doors, quiet beeping from behind walls. He couldn’t have disappeared that fast. Maybe he slipped into one of the rooms. Maybe he was visiting someone.

Or maybe I imagined more than I should have.

I stop, suddenly very aware of myself again. Of where I am. Of why I’m here.

Oh well.

I exhale shakily and turn back toward the waiting room. Whoever he’s here for, I hope they’re getting better.

And just like that, the distraction dissolves—leaving grief waiting right where I left it.

Second answer: Yes—grief makes you crazy.

Suddenly, my dad’s arms wrap around my shoulders, hugging me tight to his chest. I can hear his heartbeat. He kisses the top of my head over and over.

“Oh, my sunshine.”

“Daddy!” Oh, thank goodness—my daddy is here. I start to cry as the relief crashes into the sadness all over again, and I remember why my daddy is here in the hospital with me.

“My little girl, I’m so sorry for the loss of your grandfather,” he said softly. “I wish I could take your pain away. I wish I could make it so he didn’t have to leave this life.”

His words are so comforting.

“Come,” he adds gently. “Let’s go find your mother.”

My dad leads me back into the waiting room, where my mom is sitting. She’s still on the phone with my Aunt Olivia, but she sees us the moment we walk in and gives my dad a half-hearted smile.

“Olivia, I’ll call you back. Juan is here,” she says as she waves us over. “Yeah, keep me posted. Thank you, sister. Bye.”

As she places her phone on the table in front of her, my mom stands with open arms.

My dad doesn’t hesitate.

He crosses the space between them in two strides and catches her by the waist, lifting her as if her grief weighs nothing at all. He holds her firmly against his chest—protective, grounding—like he’s anchoring her to something solid so she won’t fall apart. His forehead presses gently to hers before he kisses her, slow and reverent, pouring every unspoken promise into that single moment.

“My love,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady despite the storm in his eyes. “I’m here. I’ve got you. I wish I could take this pain from your heart and make it all better.”

She breaks in his arms.

“Oh, my love,” she sobs. “¡Mi Papa! He left us.”

She clings to him, burying her face into his neck as her body shakes with grief. My dad wraps himself around her completely, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other holding her close, as if sheer will could shield her from the truth of it. He doesn’t rush her. He doesn’t speak again. He just holds her—steady, immovable—letting her cry until the worst of it passes.

I can’t bear to see her like that, and I know my dad can’t either. The woman he loves—the center of his world—is hurting in a way he can’t fix, and I can feel the helpless anger radiating from him. Not at her. Never at her. At the pain. At the unfairness of it all.

Even in the middle of all that heartbreak, I can’t help but notice how deeply they love each other. The way he holds her. The way she trusts him enough to fall apart completely in his arms.

I hope—quietly, fiercely—that one day I find someone who loves me the way my dad loves my mom.

“There, there, my little one,” he murmurs. “I’m here for you both. Daughter, come.”

He sets my mother down and hugs her to him while holding out his other hand for me, tucking me into his other side.

“Cry,” he says softly. “If you need to cry, cry. Let it all out. I’ve got my girls. You’re safe now to let go.”

And just like that, Mom and I cry—for the loss of Arturo Jesús Perez.

My Papa.

My Abuelito.

My thoughts drift as the tears slow. My Papa is no longer in pain. He’s no longer trapped in that bed with dozens of tubes running in and out of him.

And for that, I am grateful.

Rest in peace, Papa.