Carrie Soto Is Back(67)

“So when can I go home?” he asks.

Dr. Whitley shakes her head. “You have to stay here and recover. The surgery was long, the repairs have to heal. We need you here for observation.”

“For how long?”

“Dad, you need to focus on getting better,” I say.

He holds my hand and ignores my words. “How long?” he asks again.

“A week at least,” she says. “Maybe more.”

“Okay,” my dad says with a nod. “I understand.”

When the doctors leave, I start to ask my dad if he wants me to bring him anything else from home. But he cuts me off.

“If we can’t train together, you are wasting your time on the home court. You need to go to London and practice on grass.”

“Dad—”

“No,” he says. “You know that I’m right. We would have left for London by now anyway. You need to go on your own.”

“I know, Dad, but I’m not leaving for London yet, not with you still in the hospital.”

“Yes, you are, and don’t fight me on it. I’ve been thinking about this for days now. This is the new plan.”

There is a gentle knock at the door. I see Bowe standing in the doorway, holding a fern and a balloon that says Get Well Soon.

“Hey, Jav,” he says. “Hope I’m not intruding. I just wanted to check on you.”

“Come in, come in,” my father tells Bowe, who smiles at me. “Actually, I have a great idea,” my dad says. “Bowe can come check on me while you’re in London. You’ll do that, won’t you, Bowe?”

Bowe nods. “Absolutely. As long as you need. With my ribs, I can’t play tennis. I have nothing to do. You could even argue nothing to live for. So yes. It would be a favor to me if you let me check in on you.”

I look at the two of them.

“This is a setup,” I say.

“It is not a setup,” my father says.

“We discussed it prior to today,” Bowe says. “If that’s what you’re saying.”

My father rolls his eyes at Bowe. “Don’t give up information that hasn’t been directly requested.”

“Okay,” Bowe says. And then he looks at me and mouths, Sorry.

“You agree with me that she needs to go to London to train,” my father says to Bowe.

And to that, Bowe’s answer is clear and appears perfectly honest. “There’s no doubt about it. You know damn well you need to go to London.”

I hate that they are right.



* * *



—

That Saturday, I’m in a black town car, headed to the hospital to visit my father one last time before my flight. There’s a ticket from LAX to Heathrow in my bag. I can barely believe I’m doing this.

When we pull up to the front entrance, the driver drops me off and tells me he’ll be waiting in the hospital parking garage.

None of this feels right.

“You’ll practice with a hitter every day and then call me each night to talk about the strategy for the next day,” my father says after I give him a hug. “We have this under control.”

“Don’t worry about all of that right now, Dad,” I say. I take his hand. “You have one job right now and that is to get healthy.”

My father nods. “Ya lo sé, pero no es el trabajo que quería.”

“I know.”

I rub the back of my father’s hand. I can see that the years have gained on him. His skin is papery, his knuckles swollen. The hair on his wrists is nearly fully gray.

“Be well,” I say to him. “Do everything the doctors tell you. Be the best patient they have. I’ll be home in a little more than a month.”

In this moment, it feels absolutely impossible that I could leave. For a moment, I wonder if maybe I never really planned on getting on that plane this afternoon. I’ve just been going through the motions so we’d both feel better.

Of course I can’t go. Of course I’m staying.

“I don’t know about this, Dad.”

“Go play Wimbledon, cari?o.”

I frown.

“Please,” he says. “What would make me happiest is to watch you do something you love. So please, go play tennis. Play it like you used to. Play it like you love it, please. Hacelo por mí, por mí corazón.”

“Bowe is coming to the hospital this evening,” I say, looking at my watch. “In about an hour. So he can get you anything you need.”

“Okay. You’re going to be late. So go ahead.”

I breathe in deeply. And I kiss him on the head.

“Try to enjoy it, pichona,” my father says. “That’s the one thing you have forgotten.”





JUNE 1995


    Three weeks until Wimbledon


As I get off the plane at Heathrow, two teenage girls are standing with their mother and staring at me. I do not know what comes over me but instead of ignoring them, I wave. Their eyes go wide and they each wave back, their mouths agape. I laugh.

When I get into my car at the airport, I ask the driver to take me to my hotel by way of Wimbledon. He gives me a nod. And something about the way his eyes pass over me in the rearview mirror, the way he holds back a smile on his face, I can tell he is excited to do it.