“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—”