10. #2
Tomás claimed his hand was already clean because he had licked his fingers.
Cecília refused to use the yellow soap.
“It smells bad,” she explained.
“It’s the same one as yesterday.”
“Today it smells bad.”
Dante remained beside me, waiting for instructions.
“Hold the stool,” I said.
He held it.
I placed Elisa on top.
“Rub between your fingers.”
She wet only the tips.
“More.”
“Already did.”
“You didn’t.”
Dante demonstrated.
“Like this.”
Elisa watched his hands.
“Your hand is giant.”
“Yours is small.”
“Will it grow?”
“It will.”
“How much?”
He looked at me.
I shrugged.
“A lot.”
“Like yours?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t want it.”
“Why?”
“It’s ugly.”
Dante examined his own hand.
“Thank you.”
“It has hair.”
“Adults sometimes do.”
Elisa looked at me.
“Mommy doesn’t.”
“Everyone is different,” I replied.
“Is Daddy Dante very hairy?”
I choked on air.
Dante turned off the faucet.
“I think we’re finished.”
Elisa still attempted to lift his shirtsleeve.
“Wanna see.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because no.”
“You say no a lot too.”
That time, I laughed.
I could not stop it.
Dante looked at me and began laughing as well.
It was only a child’s question.
An absurd scene.
But for a few seconds, we looked like two ordinary people caring for curious children.
The sensation frightened me more than it should have.
I stepped away from the sink.
“I’m going to put Cecília down for a nap.”
She was already leaning against my leg, rubbing her eyes.
“I can take Tomás and Elisa into the backyard,” Dante offered.
I hesitated.
The previous incident in the backyard had not happened yet. Until that moment, Dante had never been alone with two of them outside my field of vision.
“Stay near the door.”
“All right.”
“And no climbing on the laundry basin.”
“Did you hear that, Tomás?”
My son pretended he had not.
“Tomás.”
“I heard.”
“What did I say?”
“Don’t climb the basin.”
“And don’t put dirt in your mouth,” I added to Elisa.
She looked offended.
“I never do.”
“You did yesterday.”
“It was by accident.”
Dante led the two of them outside.
I took Cecília to the bedroom.
She lay down but would not release my hand.
“Mommy.”
“Yes?”
“Daddy Dante live here?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“In another house.”
“Why?”
“Because this is our house.”
She thought about that.
“He’s not ours?”
My heart tightened.
“He is your father.”
“But doesn’t live here.”
“Some families live in different houses.”
“Ms. Marta lives with her husband.”
“Some live together.”
“You don’t like him?”
Children’s questions always found the center of what adults attempted to hide.
“It’s complicated.”
“What’s compicated?”
“Difficult to explain.”
“Explain easy.”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Daddy Dante did something that hurt me very much.”
“He hit?”
“No.”
“Yelled?”
“He yelled too.”
“What did he do?”
“He left when I needed him.”
Cecília squeezed my finger.
“Like when Mommy goes to work?”
“No. I always come back.”
“He didn’t come back.”
“It took him a very long time.”
“Now he came back.”
“He did.”
“Then it’s done.”
The same logic as Elisa’s.
Returning solved the absence.
For them, perhaps it still could.
For me, four years did not fit inside one word.
“Go to sleep.”
“He leave today?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes opened wide.
“But comes back?”
“In a few days.”
“A lot.”
“It will pass quickly.”
“You stay?”
“I stay.”
The answer reassured her.
Cecília closed her eyes.
I remained until she fell asleep.
When I left the bedroom, I found the backyard door open and silence on the other side.
My entire body went on alert.
“Dante?”
No answer.
I walked quickly.
I found him sitting on the ground beside the wall.
Elisa sat next to him, covering stones with washable paint.
Tomás was asleep across his lap.
“What happened?”
Dante raised his head.
“Nothing.”
“Is he all right?”
“He’s asleep.”
“Tomás doesn’t fall asleep like that in the middle of the afternoon.”
“He said he was tired. Leaned against me and passed out.”
I approached.
My son’s mouth was slightly open, and there was a streak of dirt on his cheek.
“Is he warm?”
“He doesn’t seem to be.”
I touched his forehead.
Normal.
Dante kept one hand open across his back.
Too large.
Careful.
“I can take him to bed,” he offered.
“He wakes when you move him.”
“Then I’ll stay.”
“Lunch ended more than an hour ago.”
“I’m not in a hurry.”
“You always are.”
“Not today.”
Elisa held up a stone.
“This is Mommy.”
The stone had been painted pink.
“Why am I pink?”
“Because it’s pretty.”
She pointed to another, blue one.
“This is me.”
“You’re blue?”
“Today.”
There was a green one for Cecília and a yellow one for Tomás.
Beside them, separated from the others, was a black stone.
“And that one?” I asked.
Elisa answered:
“Daddy Dante.”
Dante looked at the stone.
“Why black?”
“Because your clothes are black.”
“My shirt is white today.”
She thought.
“But you like black.”
“I do.”
“Then it’s right.”
The black stone was far from the family, but less distant than the line in the earlier drawing.
Perhaps three centimeters.
An insignificant measurement.
Even so, I noticed.
So did Dante.
“She said she might put it closer later,” he explained.
“I didn’t,” Elisa protested.
“I thought you did.”
“I said maybe.”
“I’m sorry.”
Elisa returned to painting.
I sat on the step.
Tomás continued sleeping.
“You can hand him to me,” I said.
“He isn’t heavy.”
“He is.”
“I can manage.”
“You don’t need to prove how strong you are.”
Dante looked at our son.
“That isn’t it.”
“Then what?”
It took him a while to answer.
“I don’t want to lose the moment.”
His honesty disarmed me.
“There will be others.”
He lifted his eyes.
“Do you know that?”
The question carried more than it seemed.
He wanted to know whether I would allow it.
Whether there would be another lap, another nap, another day.
I was not ready to offer certainty.
“Maybe.”
Dante nodded.
He accepted the little I gave him.
Tomás shifted and opened his eyes.
“Where am I?”
“In the backyard,” Dante answered.
“You picked me up?”
“You lay down on me.”
“I slept?”
“You did.”
Tomás lifted his head.
“You stayed?”
“I stayed.”
My son smiled.
Then closed his eyes again.
And for the first time, Dante did not look at me for approval.
He simply continued holding him.
Perhaps he was beginning to understand.
Some moments did not exist to prove anything.
They existed only to be lived.