Ruben doesn’t see me at the door because he’s watching tv at the front desk, some gameshow or a telenovela. I should knock to get his attention, but he’s scratching the inside of his ear with the temple of his glasses, and it’s so far up there I’m afraid he’ll do some damage if I startle him. Everybody’s their own world,my grandfather used to say. He was always saying that, when people were strange, which around here was a lot. Cada persona es un mundo.

The elevator opens into the lobby and Ruben jumps, like he just remembered he’s at work. It’s the Dominican lady from the third floor, dressed to the nines as usual for her job at the tollbooth on Broad Causeway. She sees me waiting outside before Ruben does. Ay chico, she says when she comes through the door. I bend down for the hug she expects, and with her chin on my shoulder she says, Lo siento, Papi. Lo siento mucho. I thank her, and she gives me a sad smile. Then she beeps her car unlocked and heads across the parking lot.

I left my keys in New York, I tell Ruben.

He pulls my suitcase inside and then stands there. He has insisted on using English with me since I was a kid, and I’m pretty sure he only speaks it now when I come back here. I can see him trying to translate on the spot the condolences he has in his head.

Luis, he finally says. Is too sad, chico. Nothing it’s worse than this.

I nod my head a few times and look down at the floor. I should say something so he knows it’s okay to say the rest. So he can tell me how much Abuelo will be missed, how lucky I am that he raised me. But then he jumps in and says, Well the door is unlock for you.

To the apartment?

Sí, mijo. Yara watered the plants, and we knew you was coming soon, so—

Right. Well. Tell her thank you.

I reach for the handle of my roller bag, and Ruben makes a show of not letting me take it. He pulls it the four or five feet from his desk to the elevator, presses the button, and rolls it back to me when the door slides open.

Anything you need, he says. Okay? Anything.

The hallway on our floor is twice as hot as downstairs and it smells like frying oil. Bachata blares from two different apartments, and then I hear the chatter of Univision outside Gustavo’s place. Our door is across from his, and I’m quiet as I can be when I open it so his old pug won’t start barking. It goes nuts anyway, because I turn the lock once I’m inside, and it clicks closed pretty loud, and now I know they’ll be over any minute. It was Gustavo who found him yesterday. Slumped, from what I hear, over his breakfast plate.

The blinds are closed in the apartment to keep the sun out. And Abuelo’s sweater, the button-up he wears at home, is in a pile on the floor like it slipped off the back of his chair. I can hear the table fan swirling in the other room. It’s sending breeze in here, but just enough to ripple the edge of the tricolor flag that hangs over the doorway. Nothing else is moving. Nothing else makes a sound. Then there’s shuffling in the hall, a soft knock on the door.

Gustavo holds his ancient-looking bug-eyed dog under one arm, and with the back of his other hand wipes tears from his eyes. He’s much shorter than me, so when we hug it feels like I’m comforting him while he cries. He steps back with a sniff, but before he can say anything, Fina comes running out of the apartment next door in her slippers and robe.

Mi cielo, she practically shouts. Mi niño!

She whips past Gustavo, and the cross that dangles from the rosary in her hand hits his dog on its flat pug nose. Fina holds my face and kisses me hard on both cheeks, kisses both cheeks again, and pulls me into her chest.

Dios mio, she says. Que cosa más triste.

She pats my back and sways side to side, same as always when she greets me, except this time she calls me Pobrecito, like I’m nine again. Pobrecito, she says, stepping back to have a look at me. Then she asks if I’ve eaten anything today.

Sí sí, I lie. Ya comí

I don’t want them coming inside. Which I’m sure by now is obvious, because Gustavo starts in on the story right here in the hall. He says he was bringing him Lotto tickets—he always brings Lotto tickets on Saturday—and Fina grunts a laugh here, shaking her head. And while Gustavo ignores her and goes on, all I can I think is, I’ve never not known these people.

Gustavo is going into detail now, saying Abuelo had a cheese empanada sitting in front of him, sin carne, as if it matters what exactly he was eating when his heart stopped. Then he’s on about the EMT’s and how respetuoso they were when they showed up. I see Fina looking behind me into the apartment, and I feel like she’s looking for the same thing I’m listening for without even meaning to. The cafetera brewing on the stove. Abuelo coming out of the kitchen with his tray of little cups and his come-inside wave, A la mesa, mi gente!

Then Gustavo stops and locks eyes with me, all formal and earnest.

Luisito, he says, I promise you. He looked like peace, mijo. Puro paz.

There’s a pot in the sink with stuck rice in the bottom, soaking. I can’t stop staring at it. On the counter behind me is an open bag of sugar that feels like it’s staring at me. Abuelo meant to fill the sugar bowl I’m sure, then scooped a little spoonful out instead, just to stir into his coffee. I should put the bag away, and scrape that pot clean, but if I do, that’s two things gone. Two things he last touched.

I have the urge to check my email, log in at work. Then I remember it’s Sunday, and anyway the agency had said not to worry about my accounts this week. Just “focus on family” they told me, and only now do I really see the irony in that. Now that my family—because Abuelo was all of it—isn’t here to give me shit about working the whole time I’m home.

I leave the kitchen, slide open the balcony door, and step into the heat. There are more plants out here than I remember him having, potted palms and birds of paradise, some bright kind of flower creeping over the railing. I don’t know when he got rid of the table and chairs we had, but all there is now is a step stool, which I sit on and look down at the pool. It’s still a sad-looking thing, fenced into the corner of the parking lot, and so small that Abuelo used to call it El Sello. Today it’s a brighter blue than I feel like it has a right to be, and there’s a kid on the ladder, making spalshes with his hands. He makes a big one, and the old lady by the pool with him shouts Basta! without looking up from her magazine.

I turn back to Abuelo’s plants and picture Yara out here, just this morning, hosing them down before the sun got strong.

She caught me off guard when she called yesterday.

She said my name in a voice so low it was almost a whisper, the way she used to sound in my room, late at night, having snuck downstairs from her apartment and trying not to wake Abuelo. And that’s what I was thinking of, what her voice made me think of, when she called me to say he was gone. Her body in my bed, in secret, and the coconut smell her hair left on my pillow once she had slipped back to her parents’ place by dawn.

Back then I had no doubt that she’d come to New York, that she’d follow me. Maybe not while I was in college, but afterward, once I had my own place. Then on a Christmas visit home, she came clean about Manny and her. He was someone we’d known forever, from the neighborhood, and who knows how long it had been going on. He was just such an idiot I never took it seriously. But then she married him, and had his kid, all in the same apartment she snuck down from all those years, which is something I try as much as possible not to think about. I also try not to call Manny an idiot, because apart from his not being Cubano, Abuelo never had a bad thing to say about the guy.

It’s a nice name, he used to joke. Manuel. Es muy bonito.

Then he’d grin, But los Puertorriqueños! For every one a sissy nickname! he’d say, or something like it, and he’d crack himself up. These days, though, he wouldn’t even make a Manny jab like that one. Because since I left, they’ve been a help to him. Plus, Yara and me, that’s long gone now anyhow.

The sun is making me sweat through my shirt. And inside, the phone is ringing, for the second time since I came out here. I go in and start looking for the cordless, which is not in its cradle by the television. First I look under the blanket on Abuelo’s armchair. Then under the chair, and on the tv table where he liked to pile his mess. When the phone quits ringing, I have a few Miami Herald’s off the stack, and some unopened Social Security statements in my hands. But right where the papers were, next to a notice from the DMV, I find a plain manila folder with my name on it. My name. His handwriting. The way it makes my stomach clench, I think I’m going to be sick.

But I flick open the folder, no idea what this could be, and all that’s in there are a whole lot of clippings from The Herald. The ones on top are ads that I worked on. He’d call me whenever he found one in the paper, back when I was telling him more about work, our clients, the projects I liked. And underneath the ads are a bunch of real estate listings, all for places right around here. The first few are recent, all from this month, but there are so many more, there are dozens, mostly way out of date.

I sift to the bottom, where the listings are six years old, around the time I got my job. When they hired me, we couldn’t believe our luck; it was the only agency I applied to that also had a Miami office, which back then seemed like a someday possibility. All these clippings, though. I had no idea he’d been doing this.

The air in here feels thick now. I’m getting dizzy. I drop into Abuelo’s chair, the open folder in my lap, and right away I see him here, where I’m sitting, humming an old song while he goes through the paper. Then there’s a knock and I jump. I try to catch the clippings that slide off the pile, but most of them end up on the floor.

It’s Ruben at the door, but I can only tell that from his uniform. He has a vase in his hands, so big and full of white lilies that it covers his whole face. He turns to the side so we can see each other and he says, Flores. From your Tía.

I take them from him, and take in a whiff of that sweet revolting lily smell. I’ve never understood why people send these.

Why’d you open the card?

Just to see who is from, mijo. So I can tell you.

Why would I need you to tell me? I’m the one she sent them to, Ruben.

I think I might have shouted that; Gustavo’s dog is barking now.

Anyway, I say more quietly. She isn’t even my aunt.

Okay okay, says Ruben, holding his hands up in mime surrender.

He looks at me close, waiting for a smile I’m sure, or a handshake, or a sorry. Then he narrows his eyes like he’s got my number, and he asks, Did you eat today?

Jesus Christ. I turn around and shut the door.

I called Tía Lucha yesterday, right after I found out. She’s the first one he would have wanted me to tell, even though she’s ridiculous.

No me digas, she said, like she didn’t believe me. Then she started to wail.

As soon as she calmed down, she started asking about the funeral. She literally went from wailing to talking open or closed casket inside of a minute. And after that it became about her flight. How expensive it will be to fly last minute from San Juan.

Just let me get there, I said. Then we’ll talk about when you should come.

No, mi amor. No no no, I’ll be there mañana, are you crazy?

They were friends in Havana, way back when. And Lucha knew my mother, which I’m sure is the main reason Abuelo put up with her. I was a baby when he brought me over, on the same boat as Lucha, which to a lot of rafters means you’re family. Mis queridos, Lucha called us, her dear ones, even though she’s been married three times, seven kids of her own.

I can’t put the lilies down, I can’t decide where they should go. I don’t want them in the center of the table, that seems wrong, but so does the counter in the kitchen, and all I can think of is to leave them where I’m standing—set them right down on the floor. Grab the keys, Abuelo’s house keys from the hook, and then get out of here.

Ruben’s not in the lobby when I get downstairs, thank God. But Fina, still in her slippers, is standing just outside the front door. She’s talking to the mailman, who looks like he might take the rest of the day off just to lean against his truck and gossip with her. I know I’ll lose it on Fina if she does her “you poor thing” on me again, so instead of the parking lot door I slip out through the one that leads right to the pool.

I wonder where the old lady went, because I see only the kid, still sitting on the ladder, still splashing. He doesn’t look up, but I know right away, just from the shape of his face, that he’s Yara’s boy. I can see her long lashes from here, and her tiny perfect ears on his head. A man surfaces from underwater then—head barely visible above the pool’s brick siding—and I just know for sure it’s Manny.

He hoists himself out of the water once he sees me, and his strong build makes me immediately self-conscious. I could work out all day and all year, and I’d never look that kind of ripped. But I know they’re all he has for a resume, those muscles. And it’s a good thing I remind myself of that before he gets to me, because he goes in for a hug, and it seriously feels like some tan marble statue wrapped its arms around me.

I’m so sorry, he says. Your Abuelo was gold, man.

Thanks, Manny. That means a lot.

You must be in shock, no?

I just sort of nod and put my hands in my pockets. But what I want to say is, Let’s skip all this. Please. And Please, I want to ask, will you please just put a shirt on already. But then Manny says, Come. Sit a minute.

He pulls up a pool chair for me, and another one for him, at the table where he’d left his shirt and towel. The kid keeps looking at the water, splashing. He has one of those sun shirts on, long-sleeved but his uncovered hands and his face are a smooth shade of baked brown. He got big, I say to Manny. What is he, five?

He doesn’t talk, Manny says. I’m sure you know.

Oh, I say, but nothing else. I didn’t know. And now I’m filing through my head for anything Abuelo might have told me. But all I can remember is they named him Santiago.

He did learn, Manny says. When he was little. But then he stopped.

Shit, I say, not quite on purpose.

Yeah, so this is what he’s into. Watching the water splash.

We both have our eyes on him while he pushes out a little wave with one hand, watches it, waits for it to slosh the other side of the tiny pool, then sends out another one.

It’s good to have a thing, says Manny. You know, for a non-verbal kid, so he can deal.

Deal with what?

The world, I guess, all the noise. Tigo just can’t process.

It feels nuts I didn’t know this, and it seems like I should ask Manny more, but it also feels like I should change the subject. So after a minute I say, It’s a good nickname. Different. Since there are so many Santi’s.

Well, you know Yara, Manny says. If it’s been done, she’s not doing it.

I snort a laugh at that, even though this feels weird—us admitting that we know her in the same kind of way. She felt bad about missing you, he says.

She had a route today?

Yeah, they have her doing Brazil now. A few round trips usually, then a couple days off.

Must be tough when she’s away, I say, looking back at the boy.

We do alright, Manny says. Then goes quiet, distant, which makes me notice how relaxed we’d been till now. I should be minding my own business.

Then he says, She’s no good at the pool, actually.

No? I ask, though I’m not exactly surprised.

Me, I’m just glad he has something, even if it means I’m here on my ass all day. But for her, I don’t know. I guess for her, it’s too depressing.

I can see that, I say.

My last time alone with Yara was in the elevator, a couple years ago now. She had on her tight maroon airline skirt and day-old makeup. She said she was tired, and leaned her head on my shoulder while we rode to my floor. She said I should come up for dinner, and I never did.

Tigo’s bouncing both hands on the water now, making two little splash spots, and two sets of ripples that spread wider and wider as they move across the pool.

You know who was great with him, says Manny. Your Abuelo. He liked to sit over there right next to him, copying whatever he did. And Tigo, sometimes he’d catch on, like he knew they were playing a game.

I picture Abuelo in the faded green shirt he liked to wear when he swam. Then a cloud passes over, and the pool deck goes shady. Manny looks up at the sky.

Rain would be good, he says. I could take him inside for a change.

I look up too, then out past the pool fence where the mail truck is only now exiting the parking lot. That’s when Manny turns to me, eyes wide, like something big just came to him, and says, Yo, your commercial! That commercial was great, man. Really great.

Sorry. My commercial?

From the Superbowl. With the squirrels, and that actor, and the airplane? Your Abuelo made us all watch it, he got us together. Not for the football, just the ads, just to see yours.

Oh, yeah? That’s so nice. Yeah. Thanks.

I didn’t work on that commercial. I honestly don’t remember mentioning the project to Abuelo, and he for sure never told me about a Superbowl party. I’m ready to get up and go, but then Manny shakes his head and he says, God, it really sucks they never transferred you here.

At first I’m not sure if I heard him right.

What did you say?

The Miami office.

He told you about that?

He told everybody, you know that. When Luisito moves back, it was like his whole thing.

I hate the sound of my name when he says it, and I don’t like the look on his face, as if we’re pals, as if there’s something to be smiling about.

Well. He shouldn’t have.

He was hoping, says Manny. That’s all.

It was never that likely.

Okay, but something to look forward—

Loudly then, to cut him off, I say, Well, anyway. They closed the place they had here a long time ago.

Manny sits up in his chair. Looks me right in the eyes, as if we’re playing that game where you’re not allowed to blink. No way, he says. That can’t be.

Listen, I tell him. Let’s not.

A long time ago? And you never told him?

I suddenly want him to disappear. I just want the pool deck to split open, and I want Manny to drop down into the crack and not to ever come out again.

He lived on that. What’s the matter with you?

Alright man, that’s enough.

Tigo! Manny shouts. Nos vamos, let’s go.

The boy stops his splashing.

Are you serious?

Manny stands up and puts his shirt on. He looks me over, down in my chair, like he’s appalled that we were sharing a table. You know what your problem always was? he says. All you do is whatever you want.

Okay, Manny. That can be your version.

Oh, you think there’s more than one version?

Another cloud blocks the sun. Manny slowly shakes his head.

Then lo siento, he says. Because there’s not. There’s just this one, where you’re alone in the world and it’s too late to change it.

And there it is. A blow that I should have seen coming. I just sit there with my mouth open till Manny walks away, toward his son.

Tigo, vámonos.

When he gets to him he takes hold of his arm, and the kid starts flailing. Trying to shake his father’s grip, shouting too, a super loud high-pitched screech. It’s such a scene that I expect Manny to back off, to let Tigo have what he wants, let him stay. But instead he wraps his arms around him so he can’t keep thrashing, and he lifts him up out of the water. Tigo is kicking his legs now, but Manny’s strong and he keeps hold of him and starts walking. He doesn’t even look at me, just takes one wide step after another toward the door, while Tigo struggles and shrieks all the way.

Then they both disappear into the building.

It’s quiet once they’re gone, just for a second, because then I hear talking from behind me, up above. Neighbors on their balconies, wondering what caused all the fuss.

I never lied to him. That’s not how it was. I just thought there was going to be time, to see how things would turn out. I reach in my pocket for Abuelo’s keys, and squeeze them hard into my palm, trying to think of a time—a single time—that he had asked me for anything.

In the pool, the water has gone still. And I remember there were beach days like that, when I was small, when the water was so flat that it looked glassy. So flat that Abuelo would say he could swim back to Cuba if he wanted to go. I can see him there clearly on one of those days, holding my hand, looking out across the sea. And then it’s at the pool that I see him. In the water next to Tigo so the boy won’t be alone. Sending ripples out and watching them grow.

In the lobby, Ruben’s into some show again. He’s in his chair, leaning out over the armrest, and when I come in, he makes a gesture at the screen and shakes his head.

On the table where deliveries go, there are three more vases of lilies and greens.

He has no memorias! Ruben says, waving me back behind his desk.

I come around and it’s a hospital room scene. A diorama stage set, like they use in all these cheesy novelas. A healthy-looking dude with a spray tan is sitting up in bed, bewildered.

He don’t remember, says Ruben. Nada. Nada at all.

The next shot is a bunch of other people, arranged at the foot of the bed. A woman with beautiful hair and gold jewelry dabs her eyes. The old man beside her, costumed like a true campesino, clutches a straw hat to his chest.

I haven’t been behind this desk since the Marlins won the World Series—2003. Because Ruben was on duty and couldn’t leave the lobby long, Abuelo had insisted that we watch the game down here. I was in high school that series, but I remember watching games on this tv way younger. Afternoons when Abuelo was at work, I spent hours in Ruben’s extra chair, bragging stats to him and hooting out the front door every time we scored a run.

I sit down now in the same old chair.

Ruben shifts a bit so I can see the show.

A young doctor strides up to the bed with a clipboard.

Soon Lucha will be here, and she’ll arrange all the lilies around the apartment. She’ll order trays of pastelitos and croquetas. The neighborhood will all come through, in Sunday clothes, poor Tigo forced to wear a shirt and tie. Like usual, Fina will get people singing, some even dancing, and when Yara sees I’m low on patience, she’ll come up to me and squeeze my arm. Eventually they’ll trickle out, everyone will be gone, and things will all have gotten moved around—unstuck from when he was with us—without me being the one to do it.

The amnesia guy’s family are exchanging worried looks. They’ve been asking him questions that might trigger something, but so far it’s a blank. He’s getting worked up, pleading with them to let him be, but the doctor insists this will help.

Ruben shakes his head some more, completely glued.

Él lo resolverá, he says.

All Spanish for once, but the English is what echoes with me after. He’ll figure it out. The family take turns at the bedside, with stories, jokes, all meant to bring him back to them. Music sweeps into the scene and it looks to be over for now. Ruben says it again, He’ll figure it out, as if it were only a question of trying.

Then he swivels in his chair and turns his smile on me.

Tu verás, he says. You’ll see.