Running

by Natalia Sylvester

Tonight, though, he doesn’t even look out the window as we approach. He stares at the dashboard with his hands held together, and we keep our voices down as he prays. I close my eyes and join him.

  No matter what happens tonight, please let my family, and all the families affected, be okay in the end. Amen.

  We pull into the terra cotta−lined entrance to the hotel. Immediately, a group of valets and press people swarm us. My father gets out first, waving his arm in a way that greets them but also keeps them at bay.

  “Move, move, move it,” Joe says as we climb out. “Left. Over here.” He places his hand on my shoulder and we make our way through the arches in the lobby to the courtyard out back. There are cameras set up all over the place—by the water fountain in the terrace, by the coral steps that lead to the garden next to the giant pool. Everywhere I look, there’s a reporter doing a sound check or recording a segment.

  “We’re here live . . .”

  “Florida senator Anthony Ruiz awaits tonight’s crucial results . . .”

  “His home state . . .”

  “A must-win for this campaign . . .”

  Someone calls my name through all the noise. I look over my shoulder and see Vivi darting through the crowd with Zoey right behind her. We scream and run into each other’s arms.

  “How do you feel? Are you ready for tonight?” Vivi says.

  “This is super intense.” Zoey’s breathless as she takes it all in.

  “I’m just ready for tonight to be over,” I say, perhaps a bit too loud.

  Joe clears his throat. “Let’s go. We gotta keep walking.”

  It’s then that I realize I no longer know where my parents are. We cram into the elevator with Joe and a bunch of new-to-me people he makes a point of shaking hands with. Donors, I assume. Are they with Irving? Are they also condo developers? Could we be standing in this tiny space with the same people who will be building over Vivi’s home?

  “Sinvergüenzas,” I mumble.

  “What?” Joe says.

  “Huh? Nothing. I just hate elevators.”

  We spill out into the penthouse suite, yet another space filled with people I don’t know. There are flat-screen TVs everywhere. You can tell someone brought them in, so what used to be a pretty elegant room now looks like a sports bar tuned into all the news channels. The volume isn’t turned up very high; the sound gets drowned out by the sound of everyone talking over one another. All around me, people are raising their glasses and making toasts. They point at the maps of Florida on the news—several of them from Central and North Florida have come in overwhelmingly for my father.

  “Alachua!” someone yells. “Orange county!” They whoop and whistle as the numbers trickle in.

  “Okay, okay,” I hear Joe say. “Not a bad start. Not bad at all.”

  It’s 7:31 p.m. The polls have only been closed half an hour, and it’ll be another thirty minutes before the last polls in the panhandle close. What we’re seeing now are the smaller precincts, the ones it took less time to count. I glance at the map and see that all of South Florida is still in a dead heat. Three percent of the votes have been counted, and Papi’s ahead by 437. I take no comfort in this. My nerves are wound tight and I can’t decide if it’s from the possibility of Papi losing, or the possibility of him winning. I can’t control any of tonight’s outcome, but I hate knowing it’ll control me.

  Vivi, Zoey, and I make our way to the kitchen to get some sparkling waters.

  “You’re the senator’s daughter,” a woman in a navy skirt suit says to me. “I saw you on TV the other day.”

  I feel her eyes travel from my eyes to my toes and back. Vivi reaches across her to grab a handful of chips. “Okay. And???” Crunnnch.

  “Are you happy? With what you accomplished?” She nods and smiles as she talks, but her words are coated so thick with politeness it makes them sound like poison.

  “What do you mean?” I say, pretending to be clueless. I can’t defend myself because it’d look like I’m the one who attacked her first, so I try to do the next best thing: make her explain herself.

  She ignores me, though, and just keeps going. “That girl Jackie. Real opinionated, isn’t she? Didn’t she almost get expelled?”

  Out of nowhere, Abuelo’s deep, booming voice fills the kitchen. “¡Chicas!” The woman nearly drops her plate of celery sticks. “You look bored out of your minds. ¿Qué hacen aqui?”

  “We were just leaving,” Zoey says.

  “Here. Take a pizza.” He hands us a whole box. “Go enjoy yourselves. Someone should.”

  I stifle a giggle as we make our way to one of the bedrooms and shut the door. Inside, the whole bed is covered by men’s jackets and women’s purses. I sink into the overstuffed pillows and eat even though my stomach feels like a brick.

  Now that it’s just the three of us, I turn my attention back to my friends. “Tell me about your grandma. How’s she doing?”

  Vivi tilts an open hand back and forth. “She’s okay. Not any better or worse, at least. Her neighbor just got admitted to the hospital, too, so now she has company, I guess.”

  “Tell her about the tests,” Zoey adds.

  Vivi shoots her a severe look. “Not now.”

  “What tests?”

  “It’s nothing,” she insists.

  “Will you just tell me!”

  She sighs. “Just that they found some chemicals in her system, and they think that’s what she’s reacting to. And they match some of the chemicals in the water.”

  “Oh, Vi. That’s terrible,” I say.

  “Nothing’s confirmed yet.” I can’t believe she’s trying to make me feel better, after all this. Vivi takes a bite out of her pizza. “I just wish she’d come home already. My aunt and I redid her bedroom for when she gets back.”

  It’s the first time she’s ever called her aunt’s apartment home, and she doesn’t even seem upset.

  I think of Jackie, Didier, and Crissy, whom I haven’t heard from all day except for a few thumbs-up, party hats, and tongue-out smiley emojis they sent a couple of hours ago. I know they’re giving me my space tonight, but a part of me wishes I knew what they were up to. I’m sure they’re off somewhere, planning next steps.

  “We’re going to fix this,” I say, giving Vivi’s wrist a reassuring squeeze. Outside our door, we hear another eruption of cheers. More good news for Papi. I try to imagine a future in which he has the power to make this right. I smile and clap twice, as if they could hear me. “Wow. That’s great. Yeah.”

  Then everything goes quiet all at once. Our phones vibrate. I can’t look, but Vivi and Zoey check their alerts, gasping in unison.

  “This early? Are they sure?” Zoey says.

  Vivi nods. “The South Florida numbers just came in. That’s a lot of votes.” She scoots closer to me and loops her arms under mine. “It’s going to be okay. Really.”

  That’s when I know we lost.

  forty-five

  “How can you be sure?” I run out of the bedroom barefoot. The carpet feels stiff and dusty. Everyone is either seated, slouched with their hands over their mouths, or standing with their arms crossed. No one looks at one another.

  “Where’d he go?” I ask a man in a dark khaki suit, just as he’s pouring himself a beer. He shakes his head and shrugs. His eyes are bloodshot.

  The room fills with splashes of color from the television screens as the news stations announce the name of the projected winner in fancy 3D graphics.

  “In a race that started out in his favor until Miami-Dade County’s numbers came pouring in, Florida Senator Anthony Ruiz has shockingly lost the state’s primary by a two-digit margin.”

  Two digits. So, more than 10 percent. It can’t be.

  “I’m sorry, Mari,” Vivi says. “I know this was going to be hard no matter what the outcome . . . but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “I just need to see my mom and dad.”

  We make it to the master bedroom. I’m about to walk in w
hen something makes me hesitate. I knock three times, gently. I hear a couple of muted voices and then the unmistakable shrill sound of Ricky bursting into a long, escalating sob.

  The door opens a crack. For a second Mami looks surprised to see me, then she stretches her arm through the small opening and pulls me through.

  “Ven acá. Girls, give us a moment?”

  Vivi and Zoey look at me for assurance that I’ll be fine. I give them a quiet nod and step into the room.

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting. Maybe that Ricky would be sitting on Papi’s lap while Papi tried to console him, telling him that there was no need to cry. Or that Papi would be standing by the window with his hands on his hips, jacket off, and tie undone, staring out at the Miami skyline.

  Instead I find him hunched over the edge of the bed. It’s unmade, with the white overstuffed comforter rolled into a giant wormlike shape. Papi’s wearing only one shoe; his toe is pressed against the heel of the other foot, as if he started to take off the other one, but forgot what he was doing. He’s frozen in that groggy way you get when you’ve just woken up and can’t function.

  “Is he—”

  “Shhh,” Mami says. “He just needs some space.”

  I hear Ricky wail again, this time behind the bathroom door.

  None of this feels real. As conflicted as I was about the election, I never actually imagined a reality in which Papi lost. Not even the general election. Definitely not the Florida primary. Our own home state.

  “There’s still other primaries in other states,” I offer.

  Papi half laughs and half scoffs. “You heard what they said. There’s no future for me if I don’t win Florida. So congratulations. You never have to worry about me being president again.”

  Mami places her hand on my shoulder. “Tonio.”

  He straightens his back and looks up at me. “Your Twitter must be blowing up. Have you checked yet? Have you posted a selfie celebrating your victory?” He raises his eyebrows and holds his hands together as he speaks to me. I didn’t know he was capable of being this cruel.

  “That’s enough! That’s not fair,” Mami says.

  “This is not fair,” he says, tossing his arm once in my direction. “We were so close. So close.”

  His words land sharp and cold on my body, and I can feel the pain spreading. I imagine it like an ink stain that just keeps growing until it consumes me. That would actually be better than this. At least then I’d disappear.

  “Ruined by my own daughter,” he says.

  “I never thought you’d lose.” As soon as I blurt out the words, I know they’re true. I thought he was invincible, that he’d be able to handle everything that PODER or any of the other students tossed his way. I thought in the end, we’d somehow band together and he’d help us, save us. I thought we’d save each other.

  But he’s not the hero I thought he was. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as it hits me. I used to believe he could do anything. I begin to feel sorry for him, for all of this. Then he looks at me with the most unforgiving eyes.

  “Of course you didn’t. You never considered that your actions have consequences.”

  He, of all people, is telling me this. I want to punch the pillows and tear apart the comforter and scream that he’s the one who acted recklessly all this time, when he thought he could get away with contaminating the water.

  “Vivi got kicked out of her house because of Irving’s new development. Her grandmother is still in the hospital because of the water contamination. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  Mami tries to interject again, but Papi cuts her off.

  “If we’d won, I would’ve fixed it.”

  “Prove it.”

  “What did you say to me?”

  “Prove it. Fix it anyway. Now that you lost.” I regret the words as soon as I hear them. They’re too final, too real, and I’m the last person he wants to hear saying them.

  I try to imagine what tomorrow will be like, but I can’t remember what life was like before any of this. Papi always won, no matter what.

  No matter what.

  That was the problem.

  “You should call the governor,” Mami whispers. The governor of Georgia is the candidate who won Florida tonight. My shoulders tense as my body remembers what comes next. The losers will congratulate the winner. They’ll make their concessions as soon as possible, with their families at their sides, before the winner can make his victory speech, so that no one has to compete for airtime. It’s a professional courtesy, Papi told me the night of his last election. But that time, he’d won.

  “Will we have to go out there too?” I ask.

  “Come, I’ll freshen you up,” Mami says, leading me into the bathroom.

  Inside we find Ricky sitting on top of the toilet with his feet dangling. His body sways like a tiny drunkard’s as he tries to hold back his tears.

  “What do we do now?”

  His whole world is so small that this campaign engulfed everything. I sit on the edge of the bathtub and place him on my lap. “We’re going to be fine.”

  “Will Papi have a job?”

  We both look at Mami, but she’s hyper-focused on the mirror, reapplying her lipstick with her mouth hanging open in a shocked expression. I can tell she’s taking her time just to avoid answering the question. Papi’s term was ending this year. He’d have to launch a new campaign for re-election. Could he just start over again? Would it ever end?

  “There’s still plenty of work to do,” I say. “It’s going to work out eventually.”

  I help Ricky wash his face. Mami redoes our makeup and by the time we leave the bathroom, Papi’s pulled himself back together, suit and tie and everything. I’m guessing he made the phone call while he was alone, but now it’s time to admit defeat in front of millions.

  We head downstairs to the ballroom where his supporters have been waiting all night. There’s a stage and a podium with his campaign logo splashed on the backdrop, the stage where everyone hoped he’d celebrate a win. A teleprompter displays the first few words of his speech, and they hover in place, waiting for him to begin. I recognize the words. They’re the ones Mami and I wrote.

  She takes Ricky’s and my hands in hers. My father walks up the side steps ahead of us, and we wait a few seconds to follow. He waves and thanks his supporters, and then he turns to us and blows one big kiss. His arms hang open for half a second and then he slaps his hands together. It looks like a hug he’s taken back.

  “First of all, I want to thank all of you for your unwavering support. It got us further than you know, further than it feels tonight. But in the grand scheme of things, when history has turned its page, we’ll look back and remember not defeat, but a beginning. A renewed sense of commitment to the beliefs that we will continue fighting for, win or lose, in the future that awaits our country.”

  He goes on to congratulate the governor on his victory. He wishes him strength and courage to mend our country back together, but eventually his words begin passing through me. I hear them as if they’re detached from meaning, as if I’m underwater and all I’m aware of is my breath, how the air sits in my lungs, hurting. The edges of my mouth feel dry and cracked. The crowd starts applauding so I follow. He keeps talking, and talking, to a room full of strangers, for longer than he’s ever talked to us. I scan the crowd and see Joe up front, nodding along. Next to him is Zoey, who tries to hide the fact that she’s checking her phone, and next to her is Vivi. She has a look on her face that seems to live there permanently these days. It’s pure worry, a deep, sad concern.

  I tilt my head. My forehead creases like it does when I bite into something gross, in a way I can’t control.

  Mami clears her throat and nudges me. He’s about to get to the part where he talks about the water, about a future in which we overcome our differences to care for one another.

  Rebuilding America means we create a new foundation from which we can all succeed.

  I
see the line on the teleprompter. The scrolling stops, and the words are suspended midscreen, as if they, too, are waiting. Papi scoops his arm underneath the podium and grabs a water bottle. Drops of sweat drip from his forehead as he takes a long sip.

  “Thank you. And God bless America.”

  forty-six

  When he steps away from the podium, that’s our cue to come forward and embrace him. He doesn’t even look back, so sure that we’ll come to him. Ricky is the first to take his hand, and then Mami is at his side for a kiss. They all turn to me at the same time and Papi mouths my name. Our hug is stiff and painful, like a handshake that crushes your bones together.

  The voices all around us are loud but defeated. Every second that passes takes a bit of hope and happiness with it. Ironically, “Don’t Stop Believing” blasts through the speakers as Papi begins making his way through the crowd to shake people’s hands and thank them. I watch them smile like their faces hurt.

  Soon he and Mami are walking through the crowd. Ricky and I sit on the steps to the side of the stage, and Vivi and Zoey join us. Within minutes he’s asleep, his torso draped over my lap.

  “What’ll you do now?” Zoey asks.

  I run my hands through Ricky’s hair, careful not to wake him. “I don’t know. They say he can still run for his same Senate seat. So maybe everything will go back to how it was before.”

  Which sounds so depressing, now that I say it out loud. The way things were before isn’t good enough.

  “She didn’t mean him,” Vivi says. “She meant you.”

  “I can’t even think about me right now,” I say. “Everything’s still messed up. Your aunt’s apartment will still flood every full moon, and the water will still be contaminated. Irving will still be full of it.”

  “We’ll figure something out,” Vivi says. “We have to.” She puts her head on my shoulder and whispers, “You were awesome at the walkout. I liked seeing you on TV like that much better. Behind the mike instead of behind your dad. It suits you.” She yawns just as she says you, not bothering to cover her mouth, and I don’t know why—maybe it’s because she looks so adorable, with her nostrils flaring open and her eyes squinted shut—but it breaks me. All the hope I’d had for my father—for his campaign, for all the things I wanted him to do and all the things he didn’t—finally spills out of my body. Vivi and Zoey lean in closer, covering me so I can cry in private. Even though the room is huge it feels like it’s just the three of us. Somebody switches on a block of lights, and they flicker on one after the other in random order. A heavy hush fills the space, followed by a collective gasp from across the floor.