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I let the air out slowly through my mouth and pull through my nose, eager to have control over something, since, over my own thoughts, clearly, it will not happen.
“Big shit. Very, very large indeed.Much bigger than you already are…” Despite the words, the tone is serious and I couldn’t disagree even if I wanted to, and I don’t want to.
“Exactly...”
“But being shitty was never a problem for you, what changed?” That’s an important question.I take some time to reflect on it, and João Pedro waits patiently, in silence.
I never bothered to be seen as a son of a bitch, but I always made sure that whoever got involved with me knew this from the start.I warned Antonella, though, I had no idea that by being involved with her in any way, I would be indirectly be involved with a three-year-old who has no idea what means someone being a son of a bitch, except for her father, it seems to me.
And that already seems too much for her.A son of a bitch in just under four years of life really should be far more than enough for anyone to bear.She doesn’t know, and if I give up what I proposed to her mother, she may never know that someone once promised her that her life would be very, very different from her current reality.But that doesn’t make the whole situation any fairer to her, not even a little fairer.
“I have never been shitty to a child who does not have access to even a decent hospital, João...” I summarize my thoughts in a conclusion of a few words.
“You have a good point...”
“Only good?”
“A great point. An excellent point, but... What are you going to do with it?”
“I have no idea, João. I have no idea...”
?
I look away from the road to the rearview mirror for a moment, checking for the thousandth time since we left the hospital, Antonella and the child in the backseat of the car.
The child has a name, Marcos! It’s Isabella!
Whatever!
Ellaholds the sleeping girl in her arms and holds her clutched to her as if releasing her, even if only a little bit, could make her disappear.
She’s a mother. At twenty-one. She’s a mother. Holy shit.
As I drove to the hospital, logically, the environment around me caught my attention, after all, we were far from Morumbi or Jardins.The location of the hospital is not the best, as nothing in it is, by the way, but it was just a hospital.However, now, driving to Antonella’s house and plunging into streets farther and farther from the city’s most recommended housing neighborhoods, I can’t help but wonder how it’s possible for her to live here and work in my home.
Antonella probably takes at least an hour and a half to commute between work and her home.And the realization is just another slap in my face.Again, I knew she was poor and took it as a guarantee that I would accept my proposal, but knowing and seeing are different things, especially when seeing, rubs in my face how selfish I would be if I withdrew my proposal for no reason other than my own stupidity.
I should have fucking known!
I should have cared to know her your age before I made an offer, but I didn’t, and now here we are.The GPS tells me to turn right and warns me that in a hundred yards I will reach my destination.I follow the orientation, arriving at a small, grimy building that doesn’t seem like a good place to live.I hear the movement in the back seat and, again, through the rearview mirror I look at Antonella.She has already unbuckled her seatbelt and now tries, on her own, to pick up Isabella’s bag, hers, and the girl, before getting out of the car.
I frown. Why doesn’t she ask for help?
Antonella doesn’t even give me a glance.It’s like I’m some fucking unknown Uber driver.I shake my head, denying it, unbuckle my seat belt and get out of the car.I go around the car and open the back door next to Antonella.Her eyes finally meet me and she frowns, as if she only now remembers my existence.
“Do you need some help?”
“Sorry, I was distracted. But... no. I’m fine, I.. I can do it” she says, again struggling to organize two bags and a child in her arms and still get out of the car without leaning anywhere.
“You know, Antonella, it’s okay to accept help when people offer...” I comment, stretching my arm and reaching for the bags, taking them out of her hands.My skin touches hers, and it feels weird, right, wrong, weird, I don’t know.But I don’t pay attention to her.
I take them from the car seat and put them over my shoulders, then reach out to an Antonella who looks at me suspiciously.For the second time today, she seems to wonder whether or not to accept my outstretched hand.I am about to tell her that my touch won’t transmits a contagious disease, when she finally accepts my help.And although it’s the second time I’ve had her hand in mine in less than twenty-four hours, it’s the first time I’ve really paid attention to it.
Her touch is not soft or smooth.Her palms are rough and her small hand, compared to mine, is warm.I look for Antonella’s eyes, wondering if the touch also caught her eye, but she has her eyes focused on the ground as she carefully gets out of the car.What the fuck, I think I need to drink, or sleep.I’m definitely not in my normal state.
Finally, on the sidewalk, my eyebrows rise as I stare at my reflection on the glass door of a shop.There’s a pink backpack on my shoulders and a women’s handbag on my hands.
Fuck! Definitely not what I had in mind this morning when I woke up.
