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“I said maybe. I didn’t promise anything! And Grazi?”
“Yes?”
“I am home.”
I hold one of my father’s hands steady while, on the other side of the hospital bed, my mother holds the other. Any second now. After more than twenty-four hours since stopping medication, it is impossible to cope with anxiety.After all, it’s been over twenty-four hours that he can wake up at any time and he hasn’t woken up yet.
His serious face during sleep does not hide the marks of time.The marks of a whole life well lived, but which still has many years ahead of it.There have to be. I lower my head, resting it on the edge of the bed and close my eyes.I ask any deity to help us, to make him wake up.I can’t, I just can’t lose him.I’m not ready for that, and if my dad never forced me into things I wasn’t ready for before, he just can’t start now.
“Please. Please. Please” I murmur quietly to myself, to the universe, to God, to my father, but I don’t get any answer.
Time drags on slowly, and everything remains exactly the same.In the midst of all this, it is impossible to stop my thoughts from going to Antonella.The last few days have been terrible, but they would have been much worse if she hadn’t been around.
It sucks that I still can’t decide where to take my next steps.I raise my head, determined to stand up and stretch my legs a little.I find my mother sleeping on the other side.I let go of my father’s hand just to turn around the bed and make Giovanna as comfortable as possible in an armchair, and at no time does her hand let go of my father’s.
I look at their hands together, admiring their gesture, their partnership, their companionship in the most difficult moments, exactly the same that throughout my life I have seen them share in the easiest and happiest moments.I exhale deeply and turn in the direction of the door, but I am stopped by a dry sound that makes me turn, again, in the direction of the bed. Holy shit!
I run, grabbing, sure, harder than I should, the hand I had just released.My father opened his eyes.
“Dad?” I call quietly and press the button next to the bed. “Dad?” I call again, eager for an answer.
The doctor comes in and smiles when he sees his eyes open.
“Welcome back, Joaquim!”
?
“Why does it look like a truck ran over you?” my father asks hours after he woke up.After all the necessary procedures and examinations, despite being clearly exhausted, he can finally talk freely, in moderation, of course, but he can.
“It probably has something to do with the fright you gave me,” I answer sincerely, and the smile on his face brings tears to my eyes. Fuck! I thought I’d never see that smile again.
“I’m fine, Marcos.It was just a scare!” reassures me, understanding the reason for my emotion.
“You are! Thank God! Now you are!” I bring his hand to my lips and leave a kiss on its back.
“Where is your wife?”
“At home with Isabella. She’s coming later.She thought it was best to drop Isabella off at the ballet first.” He shakes his head, nodding.
“And what’s wrong between you two?” I raise my eyebrows, surprised.It can’t possibly have been that obvious.I mean, I only answered one question.
“There’s nothing wrong, Dad. It’s just… Some rough days.” A raised eyebrow is the only answer I get. “You’re tired, Dad. Everything is fine.” I lightly squeeze his hand.
“Have you convinced yourself?”
“What?”
“I want to know if you convinced yourself, because you didn’t convince me. And, honestly, Marcos! Have a little pity on this tired old man!I’m going to sleep for the next ten minutes, so you don’t have much time.” A sound of incredulity leaves my lips, and I sigh.
“I love my wife, Dad,” I say the words, and just as I knew it would happen, a huge smile is drawn on his face. “But things have happened and I’m wondering if love is enough.” He frowns in confusion.
“Why are you talking as if love can be exhausted? Consumed?”
“And it can’t?” I protest and both his look and the tone he uses in his next words could be directed at a child, so condescending.
“Love is a choice, Marcos.A daily choice.Love is not exhausted.What is exhausted is your willingness to love someone.Your willingness to keep choosing that person every day.Think about it.You said you love your wife.And how did you get here? How did this love build itself?” I frown as I do what he asks and realize that every step of the way was always a choice.Everything I did, everything I saw in Antonella and loved, was only seen and loved because I made choices that led me to those moments.But what about her choices?Love can be a choice, but so can building a relationship of trust.
“But what if I’m the only one choosing this? What if I’m the only one who’s choosing to love, Dad?” I run my free hand through my hair and squeeze the back of my head.
