the elevator arrives.
My father likes to stay in this apartment whenever he gets ‘too tired of being married,’ as he calls it. I don’t know the nature of my parents’ relationship, as far as all of the nitty-gritty details go, but to say that it’s a somewhat complicated situation would be an understatement.
My parents have a 10,000 square-foot apartment that they share in the city along with an estate in the Hamptons and a few other houses around the country, but they also have their own personal apartments in the city whenever they want to get away.
My father refers to his apartment as a man cave, somewhat ironically, and ever since he started doing that, my mom started referring to her 5,000 square-foot apartment as her she shed, completely ironically.
My father‘s apartment is around 7000 square feet and contains three floors as well as two elevators that go in between them. He had to get special permission from the city to build, or rather to renovate and combine five apartments into one. After he found the right connections, he managed to get it done.
I think that what my father likes best about his place is that it is decorated specifically to his taste. Everything is black-and-white with traces of gold, basically exactly what you would think of as a bachelor pad. There’s even a large pool table near the entrance and all of the toilets are gold plated.
“Hey there, honey,” Dad says, throwing his arm around me and giving me a warm hug. I haven’t seen him much since he got out of the hospital, but he looks good.
His tan from earlier in the year has faded a bit and I can tell that he hasn’t been going to the gym or getting spray tanned like he usually does in the winter.
“You look good,” I say. “How are you feeling?”
“Actually a lot better. That was quite a scare, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was. We actually thought we were going to lose you.”
“Who, me? Come on now, it would take a lot more than a little heart attack in jail to take me out.”
“I hope so,” I say, giving him a smile.
“So, would you like to get something to eat?” I ask.
I look around the spotless marble kitchen with two enormous islands. I don’t see a single edible thing anywhere in sight.
“Actually, Rafael made us something to eat before he left for the day.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, rather surprised.
My father goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a tray of pre-made food.
“I’ll just pop this onto the skillet and it’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
My mouth nearly drops open.
“Hey, don’t look so surprised,” my father says, tossing his salt and pepper hair and shrugging in that casual unassuming way that only he does.
“Hey, I’m sorry, I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you cook like ever…”
“Well, I’m a new man, or at least trying to become one.”
After throwing the food into the pan and moving it around with the spatula, he asks, “What’s going on with you?”
I don’t really know how to answer him, not right away. I want to enjoy this moment, without complicating it with what is at stake.
But then I realize that I can’t not talk about it. That has been the core of the issue.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” I say. “I was really worried before.”
“I know you were, honey. And I really didn’t want you to be.”
“It’s just that it happened so quickly. Everything seemed to just take a turn for the worse. I really wish that you and Mom had told me what was really going on… Before.”
"We didn’t want to involve you. We didn’t want you to worry. We wanted you to keep thinking that everything was fine.”
“But you couldn’t work it all out. And then it got really out of hand, didn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” Dad asks.
“Well, they came and arrested you and you didn’t even know about it.”
“Yes, that was a surprise. But then they dropped the charges,” he says. "Thanks to Franklin. See, things always work out.”
“No, Daddy, they don’t. At least not without consequences to other people.”
“What are you talking about?"
“Well, I don’t think this will come as a surprise to you but I don’t really want to marry him. Actually I don’t want to marry him at all.”
The plastic smile vanishes and a more severe and serious expression emerges.
“Honey, don’t say that,” Dad says. “That’s a very dangerous thing to say.”
"What are you talking about?"
“If you don’t marry him,