“There’s nothing left for them to do,” I said, getting straight to the point.
Ricky wiped down his face with both hands. His left leg bounced, and I listened to the sound of his jeans jostling for a long minute.
Then: “So this it, then?” he said. “He’s dying.” When I nodded, he let out a shuddering breath. “Shit.”
“I know,” I said.
“There’s nothing else they can do,” Ricky said, his tone taking on a frantic edge. His hands delved into his hair and gripped, and I watched him, helpless. “They can’t just . . . suck whatever is in his lungs out?”
I bit my lip, shaking my head. It’s the inflammation, I thought. His lungs attacking themselves. They’re supposed to expand, like little balloons. Right now, they’re like pumice. You can’t suck that out. There’s no reversing it.
“It doesn’t work like that,” I said lamely instead, but Ricky didn’t seem to hear me, still lost in his anguish. Eventually, he braced his elbows on his knees, folding his hands together in front of him.
“Okay,” he said. “So now what?”
After a deep, weary sigh, I told him what was left to be done. The longer I spoke, the queasier Ricky looked, his body tight and still with tension. When I was finished, he crumpled forward, dropping his face into his hands.
“You think we should tell them,” he said.
“I can say it in English,” I said. “You can translate. We can have the interpreter on the line to help out if you get stuck.” I looked at my feet, doubt burning the back of my throat. “Unless, you think we should get the team to do it first—”
“No,” Ricky said quickly. “They can come after. They should hear it from us first.” Then he added, quietly, “They trust you. It’ll be better this way.”
I looked up at him, watching his knee begin to bounce again. I remembered a story he’d told me, not long ago, after we’d finished the first season of One Punch Man. I’d been sitting on my couch, he on the floor next to me. The story featured an eight-year-old Ricky, chubby, naive, and, like many little boys, completely obsessed with his father. Back then, Gabriel had seemed like the coolest person on the planet: suave, stylish, capable of giving Abuela what-for when she was being unfair. Gabriel had picked Ricky up and taken him on a rare trip to Chuck E. Cheese, setting him loose on the arcade with an unlimited pass. Ricky had set his sights on a scooter high up on the shelf of prizes, worth more tickets than he could have dreamed of earning, but somehow at the end of the day, Gabriel had procured it.
“He made me think he was a whiz at arcade games,” Ricky had mused. “But turns out he just slipped the kid working the counter forty bucks to hand it over.” He’d laughed humorlessly, lifting his arm to cover his eyes. “And of course, it was Abuelo’s money, so, technically, not even a gift from him.”
Still, Ricky had ridden that scooter until it fell apart.
I wondered whether Ricky was remembering that day in Chuck E. Cheese now, thinking of the last time Gabriel had felt like his father.
“Okay,” I said. My hands itched to reach for him, and so I clenched them at my sides, gritting my teeth, and stood, moving to give him space. “I’ll give you a few minutes, then. I’ll be back—”
Ricky’s arms snaked around my waist.
I stared down at the crown of his head in shock, my shins knocking against the base of the couch as he tugged me closer in between his legs. From this vantage point, I could see that his shoulders were trembling. He pressed his face into my stomach, leaving it warm and wet. It took me a moment to realize that he was crying.
Fuck. The tears that I’d been holding back for days rolled down my cheeks, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him close as his tears turned into body-racking sobs. I’m sorry, I wanted to say. I’m sorry this is happening to you. I’m sorry your dad is dying. I’m sorry that I wasn’t here to help from the start.
But sorry wasn’t enough, so I didn’t say anything at all, just balanced precariously on the balls of my feet and rubbed circles into his back as he broke into pieces in my arms.
Eventually, his breathing evened, and his hold on me loosened. I stroked his hair idly, knowing that he would be shy.
“Are you ready?” I asked softly. I knew it was premature, but I’d seen Gabriel’s blood pressures. There was really no more time to waste.
Ricky cleared his throat, avoiding my gaze. His eyes were still glazed with tears, and I wanted nothing more than to kiss them away. But instead, I settled for giving him a comforting smile and a small pack of hospital-issue tissues. He accepted them silently, wiping off his face.