Page 97 of Carrie Soto Is Back
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.”
“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, cariño.”
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 mightliketo 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 sayingif—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, niña,” 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. Isink 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.
