DISCLAIMER: Nope, don't own them.
THE JOURNEY HOME – PART 3
After a week here in Croatia, I've settled into a kind of surreal routine. I get up early, before everyone else is up, and go for a walk outside. If my father knew, he would have a fit because, even though it's safer than when I was here last, you never know when there's going to be a sniper or an unexploded land mine in your path. But sometimes I just have to get out of the house, and the morning is the only time I can be alone. I come inside in time to eat breakfast with my father, Alek, and Melisa, who have been staying here so they can spend more time with me.
For the rest of the day, I go visiting with my father. Mostly we go to his friends' houses. He is so happy that his wayward son is back that he wants to show me off, I guess. They all ask me about America, about the hospital, about where I live…everything except my personal life. They skirt around the issue, as if I don't know that my wife is dead and at the mention of another woman I might go completely nuts. My father is no better – no mention of Danijela, Jasna, or Marco has been made since I got here. I suppose I should be grateful, because I don't exactly know what I would say. But once, just once, I wish someone would ask me how I'm really doing. I wish someone here could see through me and try to get it out of me, no matter how hard I resist. That's the thing I miss most about Abby when I'm here. She always knows when something is bothering me, and asks me about it. Even if I don't tell her, it helps knowing that she cares.
After the day's visits are over – I'm beginning to feel like a circus side show or something – we return to the house for dinner with Alek and Melisa, and then play cards until it's time for bed. I never sleep very well. I end up lying in bed for most of the night, finally falling asleep when the sky is beginning to get light, only to wake up an hour or two later. It's beginning to wear on me, but so far I've been able to shrug my fatigue off by blaming jet lag and the adjustment to being back here.
I know the real reason I haven't been sleeping. It is so hard to get to sleep without the warmth of Abby lying beside me. It's different than when, in Chicago, she has a night shift and isn't there. Here, without her, I almost feel bereft, not unlike the feeling I had after Danijela died and I slept alone. More than once I have awakened, reaching out for Abby only to remember where I am. I wonder if she's sleeping well in the empty bed in Chicago.
Tonight, like every other night since I've been here, I can tell that I will not be sleeping for some time. I crawl out of bed and walk to the kitchen, trying not to step on the creaking boards in the hall. So intent I am on being quiet, I do not notice the light on over the kitchen table.
My father looks up as I enter the room and doesn't look surprised that I'm not asleep. "What are you doing up, Tata?" I ask. Dumb question, Luka, he could ask the same of you.
"I am worried about my son," he replies, looking straight into my eyes. When he's ready to talk, he sure doesn't waste any time getting to the point. He continues. "Why did you come back, Luka?"
I stare at him for a moment, dumbfounded. I have been asking myself this question since I arrived, but never before has anyone asked it of me. I sit down across from my father, not sure what to say. He seems to sense this, too, and goes on.
"When you left Croatia years ago, you were running away from what happened to your family." He holds a hand up for silence when I open my mouth to protest. "I'm not saying that it was a bad idea for you to go to America. I think you have been happy there, yes?" I nod, as there is nothing else to do. I'm going to let him keep talking, see where this is going. "So, what are you running from now?"
All this time I thought my father was oblivious to the turmoil going on inside me, when all along he was just waiting to find out what it was. I am amazed, and ashamed of the way I have been thinking of him. Even when I was growing up, he always could see right through me, so I should have known better. But at the same time, I don't know if I'm ready to talk about this, to dig around and try to figure out what's been going on with me lately. I am frightened, frightened of what I might find out, frightened of how much this might hurt. "Ahh…" I try to begin, but have no idea how to continue. I make a helpless gesture with my shoulders and wait for my father to speak. He does, and again he surprises me.
"Who is Abby?"
That's my father. He doesn't say much, but when he does, it's straight to the point. It shouldn't shock me this much after all these years, but it does. "How…" I wonder.
He knows what I'm asking. "Your phone call. I cannot understand the English words, but Alek heard. He asked me if I knew anything. Is this a woman?"
I can only nod, flabbergasted. My father is going to have to do all the talking here tonight, because I don't know if I can clear my mind enough to find words. "Do you love her?" At first, I think that this question is only in my head, but one look at my father tells me that he is waiting for an answer. And this time, he's not going to speak for me. The moment of truth.
Suddenly, I have an overwhelming urge to climb into my father's lap, as if I were a little boy again, and cry. I take a deep breath and, looking down at my hands clasped in my lap, I notice that they are trembling. I decide to go the safe route. "She…ah…works at the hospital with me. A nurse. We're…ah…friends." I mentally kick myself as soon as I say that, because my father surely knows better.
"And she is the reason you left." It's a statement, not a question, but I decide to answer as if he had asked me.
"No. I wanted to see you. Do I need an excuse to visit my father?" This is getting too much for me, too close to the painful parts, and I just want to get out of here. "Tata, it's late. Can we talk some other time?"
He smiles sadly at me. "You're not going to sleep, anyway." When my head snaps up in surprise he responds, "You think I don't know that you haven't slept since you've arrived? Luka, you've been away for too long. You don't know your father anymore."
With that, I've been defeated. I know that he will sit here all night and all day if he has to. He's that stubborn. Like me, I guess. I am trying hard to resent my father's prying, but I know that he's doing it out of love. And wasn't this what I was longing for during all our daily visits – someone to ask what's been bothering me? The urge to cry comes again, and this time I give in. Laying my head down on the hard table, I let the tears come. I cry for everything – for Danijela, Jasna, and Marco, who I will never see again. For Abby, who I've hurt more than she lets on. For my father, who has to deal with a son in the middle of a breakdown in his kitchen. And for myself – the love, the pain, the sorrow all come pouring out as I sob.
My father comes around the table and gathers me into his arms. Kneeling on the floor, he rocks me back and forth as I cry. I cling to him, listening to his soothing voice. "Ah, my son, my Luka…" he whispers, "If I could take your pain…"
I cry for what seems like hours, but what must be only minutes. As the tears subside, I begin talking. I tell my father about Abby, about the shaky start of our relationship, about wanting to take away the pain she feels every time someone hurts her, about the way she knows something is wrong before I say anything…and finally, about the ring that is in my dresser drawer. "I…love her. But I can't love her," I finish heavily, feeling exhausted.
"Why?" he asks simply. You know why, I think. But I answer, my wife's name coming out like a sigh. "Danijela."
What kind of answer can he possibly have for that? It is hopeless, loving two women. There is no answer, is there?