The Last Supper

      I can hear Dad’s whistle in the kitchen and the metallic noise of the spoon hitting the bottom of the pot. I sink into the couch, resting my back on one of the cushions as I look up at the ceiling. For a moment, I think about what would happen if the roof fell on top of me. Tilting my head, I can almost see it: a pillar collapsing. A little wind, perhaps, an earthquake, and the house would collapse, ending this farce. As I hope, I bring my hand to my right ear and pull it until I wince. As my ear gets hotter and hotter, I can almost see the ceiling shaking a little above me.

      Then, the door that goes to the kitchen opens with a bang. My heart skips, and I jump, sitting straight. Dad winks at me. He is wearing his “Best Dad and Cook” apron as he holds a plate. I tickle my hair, trying to cover my right ear, which is probably red. Dad thankfully doesn’t notice; he smiles and raises the plate towards me. Before I can see what is on the plate, the aroma already gives it away. I smell freshly cooked tamales. Dad shows them to me with a ridiculous bow.

      “Dinner is served,” he sings. “My lady, do you want to be escorted to the table?”

      I try not to roll my eyes. He has cooked before and has never been so dramatic. He reminds me of a needy actor being over the top, trying to impress his audience. Well, I can say that this audience isn’t impressed. Of course, I’m not brave enough to tell him that. Not when he looks at me with those bright eyes consumed by the puffy bags. I can see his effort trying to hold the plate steady as his arm shakes. He holds onto the door with his free hand, maybe to keep his body balanced. I pretend to ignore all this and stand up with a smile, walking towards him as bravely as I can. Dad hugs me with his free arm and takes me to the kitchen.

      I do feel escorted, a prisoner escorted to the execution stand. Mama is already sitting on the round table in the middle of the kitchen. She is moving some plates around that mix Latino and American food. My parents constantly try to raise me with both of my heritages, so that includes the meal. Although they do alternate when it comes to cooking, today, they decided to do all cultural meals at once. I see from the Cuban side ropa vieja, which is shredded beef in tomato sauce, rice, and beans. Dad puts the plate of tamales on the table next to the mashed potatoes. I also see Cobb salad and apple pie on the table. I frown as I take a seat next to Mama. Dad sits next to me. 

      “I can see you guys managed to finally unite Cuba and the United States,” I comment.

      Dad and Mama laugh, but I just smirk. I look at the pack table and I already feel full. It is like an entire marathon is joining us for dinner. I can’t pull my ear in front of my parents, so I hide my arm under the table and pinch the palm of my hand as strongly as I can. Dad stares at me, and I clear my throat, sitting straight again. Usually, with Mama, I can hide discomfort, but Dad is different. His eyes penetrate my mind, and I know he can read my thoughts. He has that intense stare I hate, but I never dare to tell him.

      “Maybe we went over the top,” Dad giggles, staring back at the table. I smile. I don’t have to agree. He already knows what I think about it. “I just want this dinner to be special.”

      Dad pauses at the word special and stares blankly at the table, his chin twitching. I look at him, still not used to seeing him with his head shaved. He made Mama shave off all his hair. He told me that he didn't want the disease to take away his hair little by little, saying that he would look too funny. But I think he actually wanted to have a little control over his own body. That he was tired of the cancer dictating everything about his life. At least with his hair, he decided when to lose it; that was a win for him. But I miss his tanned curls; I bring my hand to my own hair, holding it tight. I imagine what it would be like to yank it so hard that a strand of hair would stay in my hand.

      “Should we pray?” Dad says.

      He puts his hands on the table and looks at me to join in. We always pray while holding hands. It is like a family tradition. I stop playing with my hair and look at the bruised palm that hides under the table. I frown and look at Dad.

      “Do we have to?” I ask.

      Dad's smile drops, and he glares at me. Mama clears her throat and grabs my arm, pulling it to the top of the table. I wince and look back at her, but she doesn’t seem to care. She just gives me a silent look, saying, “Do this for your father.” I roll my eyes and grab Dad's hand. He closes his eyes and starts praying. He always asks me to pray, but he doesn't this time. The prayer is shorter than usual, and Dad just repeats the exact words from our last prayer. He and Mama keep their eyes closed so I can keep mine open. 

      Dad thanks God for his life and asks for forgiveness for his sins. I frown since that is a new addition to the prayer. But Dad finishes the prayer before I have to think over the words. He and Mama whisper an amen.

      “Let’s eat,” Mama says. 

      I put my hands under the table again as quickly as I can. Dad takes the jug with juice and starts pouring it into my glass. I stare at Dad’s trembling hands as he pours the juice inside and mainly outside the glass. Dad grunts and holds the jug with both hands. I see drops of sweat appearing on his forehead. I have to look away, unsure if he wants me to help. He manages to fill my glass and sigh, giving me a smile. He puts the jug on the table and slides it to Mama. Mama pours her own juice. Dad always pours it for her. 

      Mama finishes and slides the jug back to Dad, but he is already filling his cup with water from the plastic bottle on the table. Mama takes her cup full of juice like it is about to break. I stare at her as I sip my juice. Mama smells it for a reason and then gives a little sip. She catches me looking at her, and she smiles. Before her eyes settle on the table again, she takes a look at the kitchen cabinets. She probably needs something stronger than juice right now. Knowing Mama, she always needs something stronger. 

      Dad had made sure to hide all alcohol in the house, and Mama had been sober for months now. Of course, she always comes back to the bottle. Mama is obsessed with the famous Cuban rum, just like her dad was before her. And maybe one day I’ll be too. Dad takes a bite of the mashed potatoes, making delightful sounds that make Mama roll her eyes. I glare at the full cup on Mama's side. Dad will not be here anymore; soon, it will be just Mama and me. As soon as Dad is gone, Mama will be handling the pain as best as she can with her friend, rum. So it will actually be just me. I pinch my palm harder. 

      I look at the table and grab as much food as possible. I fill my plate with rice, beans, and ropa vieja, leaving space for the salad. Mama frowns as she sees my plate, but she says nothing. I scoop inside the beans, fill my spoon to the top, and eat. I have never eaten so desperately, so quickly. I feel my stomach grumbling, my throat closing as it tells me to let her swallow first. But I don’t listen to her. I just keep eating. 

      Dad is so concentrated on staring at me that he doesn’t even pretend to eat. The only thing on his plate is a tamal. Lately, he hasn’t been eating that much. I feel full already, but my plate still has food. I fill the spoon with so much beans that it spills down my chin. I clean it with my hand as Mama shifts uncomfortably in her seat. 

      “Can you please eat normally,” she snaps.

      I look at her, taking my hand away from my lip. I squint my eyes, hearing Dad sighing beside me. Mama also looks at me; her look is severe, but her eyes have a flushing spark. I keep looking at her as I take the spoon full of meat and shove it into my mouth. 

      “I am eating normally,” I answer with a full mouth,

      Mama grabs the corners of the table. 

      “You’re eating like a pig,” she says slowly.

      I want to laugh, but I don’t. I just shrug and turn back to my plate, sipping the juice.

      “This is how people eat, Mama,” I say. “You would know if you spent as much time eating as you do drinking.”

      And with that, Mama slaps the table. I look at her momentarily before she stands up, storming out of the kitchen. I sigh and look back at the plate. I try to grab my spoon again, but my stomach twists, and just the smell of the food makes me nauseous. Then Dad squeezes my shoulder. I gasp since I had forgotten about him. I can’t even look him in the eyes, feeling like an ungrateful child, which I probably am. I’m ready for the scolding, but Dad tackles my hair behind my ear. He puts his hand away and keeps looking at me. I wonder if he is about to yell. Maybe he doesn’t even have the energy to do that. Instead, Dad sighs and rests his arm on the table. 

      “I’m sorry I have to leave you, Jocy,” he says. “You know that I would stay if I could. You know that, don’t you?”

      I gulp and look up at him. He has lost so much weight since the last chemotherapy. His shirt looks all loose like Dad had gotten down at least two sizes since he last wore it. I nod and look away. Dad sighs and takes my hand. He looks at my bruised palm and rushes his fingers delicately over it.

      “After I’m gone, you and Mama must be strong,” he says. “The only way I can rest in peace is knowing I will not take happiness away from both of you. I will never forgive myself. Promise me you will be strong.”

      I sniff to hold the tears that want to break free from my eyes. I want to laugh, too, but I’m afraid it will end up in a scream. I’m always the strong one. I always hold Dad's hand before his chemotherapy sessions. I always put Mama to bed after she ends up drinking. It is always me. I have always been the strong one in the family; that hasn't changed, and it will not do it now.

      “Jocy,” Dad repeats. “I don’t want you harming yourself.”

      I pull my hand away and look at him. I feel guilty as I look at his expression of pain. I don’t know for how long I will have my dad. That is what the doctor said: at this point, it could be a matter of months or days. That is why this dinner is happening. This is his goodbye. I will not be the one who ruins his last moment, so I do what I have always done: I smile and lie. 

      “You don’t have to worry, Dad,” I hold his hand again, squeezing it gently, “Mama and I will be fine. I will make sure of that.”

      Dad smiles, but he keeps looking at my eyes. I can decipher in his looks that he doesn’t believe me. But he doesn’t want to ruin his goodbye either, so he just pulls me toward him and hugs me. I hug him back, standing like this for a while without saying anything. I rest my head on his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat, trying to memorize the rhythm before it stops forever. 

      Later, Mama comes back, but she doesn’t say anything either. She just joins us in our hug. We stay like that for a while until Dad is so tired that he leaves the table early to get some sleep. Mama and I volunteer to check on him, but Dad says he will be fine. 

      “Don’t let me spoil the night,” Dad smiles. “Just enjoy the dinner even if it is without me.”

      Mama and I accept but we don’t manage to enjoy the night without Dad. We give up after eating a little of the pie. Mama puts the leftovers in the refrigerator, saying she doesn’t want the food to go to waste. I help her, but as I carry the food to the fridge, I have the feeling that the food is already wasted anyway.