Carrie Soto Is Back(66)

“No quiero pelear con vos. Ahora no.”

I look at him and shake my head. I already know why he didn’t say anything, and the reason barely matters now anyway.

His face is pale. He’s hooked up to machines. He looks so small. I feel another rush of anger. I press my lips together and close my eyes.

“Bueno,” I say. “So we will get ready for you to have the surgery, then.”

“And I’ll recover quickly and be back on the court with you in no time,” he says.

“Dad, let’s not get into that now.”

“There’s nothing to get into. This doesn’t set us back at all.”

“Dad…”

“Say they get me in tomorrow for the surgery; it goes well. What’s recovery time? A week?” He takes my hand. “This is a minor setback. By July we’ll be ready for London.”

“Bueno, papá,” I say.

He picks up the remote control and turns on the television and pretends to watch it. So I sit back in the chair and let him.

Then, suddenly, he’s yelling. “I am not missing Wimbledon! We may never have another Wimbledon together, and I will not miss it!”

I put my head in my hands. “Ya lo sé, papá,” I say.

“The last time we were there, back in ’78, I didn’t know it was our last. I didn’t know that I might never coach you again. And I’m not letting this one slip through my goddamn fingers.”

“Está bien, lo entiendo,” I say. “Te amo, papá.”

He looks at me and for the first time in this conversation, he lets a frown take hold in the corners of his mouth. “Yo también, cari?o.”

And then, after he takes a breath, “Perdoname, hija. Realmente lo siento.”



* * *



—

That night, I ask the nurse to help me pull out a cot.

“De ninguna manera,” my father says to me. He turns to the nurse. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Dad, I’m not leaving you here alone,” I say.

“Has it ever occurred to you I might like to be by myself?”

“Dad—”

“Sleep at home, Carrie. Please. And in the morning, please go out onto the court with a ball machine,” he says. “Do not stop training. You cannot afford to right now.”

“I don’t know about—”

“You’re playing Wimbledon, Carolina María.”

The nurse excuses herself, and I sit down for a moment.

“Por favor, no te pierdas Wimbledon. Por favor.”

“Dad, I’m not sure—”

My father breathes out, a long and deep breath. He shakes his head. “Even if—I’m saying if—I can’t be there,” he says.

I have to stop the corners of my mouth from pulling down.

“Pero, por favor, play it one more time. Te encanta jugar Wimbledon. Por favor, hacelo por mí.”

I cannot imagine leaving him. But I also know, right now, I’m not going to fight him.

“Está bien,” I say. “Lo jugaré.”

“Gracias, ahora, andá. Go home.”

He seems so determined. “Bueno,” I say, grabbing my bag. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Come see me in the afternoon,” he says. “Every day, first you train. And then you can come see me after.”

I shake my head as I smile at him. “Okay, I’ll come tomorrow after I train.” I grab his hand and squeeze it.

“Buena, ni?a,” he says.

I walk down the hall and hit the elevator button.

As I wait, I can see out of the corner of my eye that there is a nurse at the station whose gaze lingers on me. She either knows who I am or is trying to figure out where she recognizes me from. I let her wonder as I get in the empty elevator.

When the doors finally close, I lean my back against the wall. I sink down to the floor. “Please let him leave this hospital,” I say. It is barely more than a whimper, and I hate the sound of it.



* * *



—

That night, Bowe comes over, and as I’m falling asleep, he puts his arm around me and says, “Everything is going to be okay.”

“Everyone always says that,” I tell him. “And no one ever knows if it’s true.”



* * *



—

A couple of days later, my father goes in for surgery. Instead of staying home and training like he has told me to do, I spend the entire day in the waiting room so I can hear the results the moment the surgeon is done.

When Dr. Whitley comes out, she has no smile on her face. For a moment, I feel as if life as I know it is ending. My chest constricts; the room grows hot. But then she says, “He’s doing fine.” And suddenly I can breathe again.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You should go home,” she tells me. “He will probably sleep the rest of the night.”

But I don’t.

I wait until he’s moved to recovery and then fall asleep in the chair beside him. Just hearing his breath is enough to allow me to sleep soundly.

In the morning, when he wakes up, he is groggy and confused. But Dr. Whitley says that his pacemaker is operating properly.