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!”
“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.
“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.