“It’s eleven in the morning, so…no,” I tell him.
“No need for the attitude,” Bowe says. “Just say lunch.”
I turn back to look at my father. “Are you hungry, Dad?” I ask, but before I even finish the sentence, I can see he’s stopped walking. He’s holding up the line of passengers behind him. He’s lost all the color in his face.
“Carrie…” he says.
“Dad?” I take a step to where he’s standing.
He collapses on the jet bridge just before I can catch him.
The cardiologist, Dr. Whitley, is a woman with curly red hair and what appears to be a moral opposition to good bedside manner. She looks up at my father and me. “This is an extreme case of cardiotoxicity,” she says.
My father is sitting up in the hospital bed. I’m in a chair next to him. Bowe tried to stay, but we both insisted he go home.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
Dr. Whitley does not look away from my father. “It means you are in stage three heart failure, Mr. Soto. Most likely a side effect of the chemo treatment you had last year.”
My father gives the slightest scoff. “What doesn’t kill you…might still kill you.”
I grab his hand and squeeze it, offering him a smile.
“Have you been experiencing light-headedness? Shortness of breath?” she asks.
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.”