Carrie Soto Is Back(65)
A couple of college-age girls approach us early in the flight and ask us for our autographs. We agree, but then more people start coming down the aisle.
Soon enough, Bowe starts telling people that he’s a Bowe Huntley impersonator, and I stare—mouth half-open—when they actually seem to believe him. I try it on the next woman who comes up, and she just frowns at me and says, “You can’t just sign one lousy piece of paper? Unbelievable.”
When she storms off, Bowe rolls his eyes and then puts his head on my shoulder. I push it away.
“Everyone on this flight recognizes us,” I say.
“So?”
“So when this thing between us goes tits-up, I don’t want to have to answer questions about it in a post-match.”
Bowe looks at me, his eyebrows high and furrowed. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I just mean…” I add.
“No, I got it,” he says, shifting his weight to the window. “Enough said.”
“I’m just saying we don’t know what we’re doing yet.”
“Okay,” he says. “I got it. Let’s drop it.”
He’s quiet for an hour or two. But when the flight attendants come by offering chocolates, he wordlessly hands me his.
The plane lands a few hours later, and Bowe reaches for my dad’s carry-on from the overhead compartment, despite the fact that it clearly kills his ribs.
“Here you go, Jav,” he says.
“Jav?” I say. “You’re on a nickname basis now?”
“Of course we are,” my dad says. Though he’s joking around, he seems tired. “Thanks, B.”
“Bowe is already short for Bowen,” I say. “You don’t need to shorten it again.”
My dad waves me off. “Mind your own business, Care.”
Bowe laughs, and I throw up my hands.
The line begins to move, and the flight attendants gesture for us to go. The three of us exit the row and get off the plane.
“What is our next meal?” Bowe says. “Is it dinner?”
“It’s eleven in the morning, so…no,” I tell him.
“No need for the attitude,” Bowe says. “Just say lunch.”
I turn back to look at my father. “Are you hungry, Dad?” I ask, but before I even finish the sentence, I can see he’s stopped walking. He’s holding up the line of passengers behind him. He’s lost all the color in his face.
“Carrie…” he says.
“Dad?” I take a step to where he’s standing.
He collapses on the jet bridge just before I can catch him.
The cardiologist, Dr. Whitley, is a woman with curly red hair and what appears to be a moral opposition to good bedside manner. She looks up at my father and me. “This is an extreme case of cardiotoxicity,” she says.
My father is sitting up in the hospital bed. I’m in a chair next to him. Bowe tried to stay, but we both insisted he go home.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
Dr. Whitley does not look away from my father. “It means you are in stage three heart failure, Mr. Soto. Most likely a side effect of the chemo treatment you had last year.”
My father gives the slightest scoff. “What doesn’t kill you…might still kill you.”
I grab his hand and squeeze it, offering him a smile.
“Have you been experiencing light-headedness? Shortness of breath?” she asks.
I answer “No” on his behalf just as my father speaks up. “Yes. Both.”
I look at him. “I’ve been feeling weak too,” he adds. “More and more.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask.
He ignores me.
“Your oncologist should have told you those were symptoms to watch for,” Dr. Whitley says.
“They did,” I say. “They did tell us that last year.”
Dr. Whitley nods. “If you had spoken up sooner, we could have put you on beta-blockers,” she says. “Now the damage is done. You will need surgery to fix the tear and put in a pacemaker.”
I stop breathing for a second. I stare straight ahead at the poster on the wall, an ugly still life of a vase of flowers. I try to control my breath and focus as best I can on the mauve plastic picture frame. I swallow, hard. “When do you plan on doing that?” I ask. “The surgery.”
Dr. Whitley closes the chart. “Within the next few days. And, Mr. Soto, you will need to stay in the hospital until then. And some time after, as we monitor your progress.”
My father shakes his head. “I do not have time for this. We play Wimbledon in three weeks.”
“Dad—” I say.
Dr. Whitley’s face does not move. “I urge you to listen to the medical advice you’re paying for. We have reached a point of life or death.”
My father quiets and then nods, and Dr. Whitley leaves the room.
I stand up and wait for the door to close, and then I look at him. “For crying out loud, why didn’t you say something?”
“Eso no es tu problema,” he says.
“?Todos tus problemas son mis problemas!”
“Puedo cuidarme solo, Carolina. Sos mi hija, no mi madre.”
“?Sí, y como tu hija, si te mueres, yo soy la que sufre, papá!”