49
GAbrIELA DUARTE
Over the next few days, we arranged a separate outing for each child.
Heitor answered for all three whenever Luca asked a question. Camila almost always accepted her brother’s choice; Noah said he didn’t want to go before he’d even heard where. I wanted to find out what each would ask for with a whole outing to themselves.
“One hour each,” I explained. “In public places. I’ll stay nearby at first.”
Luca agreed. I’d spoken to Marina about starting with Camila, who already sought his company. Even so, I checked whether my daughter wanted the outing. She asked only that I come too.
She chose the small marine-life exhibition she’d visited with her school. She wanted to see the seahorses again. Luca arrived early with the backpack he’d learned to pack during the nurse’s guidance session. We checked the contents together.
“You’ve brought too much,” I said.
“Two of everything.”
“If it gets heavy, you carry it. Not her.”
“Of course.”
Camila heard.
“I can carry some things.”
“You can take the rabbit. I’ll carry this part.”
She took his hand.
“Let’s go before the fish fall asleep.”
I stayed close. Luca shortened his stride to match hers and crouched in front of the tanks. She wanted to know whether fish slept with their eyes open, why the shark wasn’t eating the others, and whether seahorses had hidden legs.
“It says the father carries the babies,” he read from a sign.
Her eyes widened.
“Would you carry us?”
He paused only a moment.
“In my arms? I think one at a time.”
She touched his chest with a fingertip.
“All three won’t fit.”
“Your mother carried all three in her belly. I couldn’t do that.”
“It’s different,” she explained.
He nodded solemnly.
“Very different.”
She smiled.
“She got huge.”
Farther along, she asked,
“Does looking at me make you sad?”
I stopped by the glass, waiting for his answer.
“I like being here with you. I was thinking how small the seahorses are up close.”
“Are you going to cry?”
“I don’t think so today.”
She squeezed his hand and looked back at the seahorses.
“But Mommy carried three. She’s stronger.”
“Much stronger.”
Near the jellyfish tank, Camila asked to sit. Luca settled beside her on a bench.
“Want to sit on my lap?”
She nodded. She fell asleep against his chest as blue light moved across the ceiling. He stayed still for twenty minutes. When he gave her back to me, I noticed a damp patch of drool on his shirt.
“Your suit would have fared better.”
“This is my favorite shirt now.”
The next day was Heitor’s turn. He chose the municipal sports court and spent the morning asking whether Luca had arrived. Cris had lent him a ball he wouldn’t put down even for breakfast.
He ran onto the court and set the ball between them.
“Can you play?”
“Yes.”
Over the next twenty minutes, Luca stumbled twice, took a ball to the stomach, and stood still when Heitor pushed the improvised goal sideways. I started laughing from the bleachers.
“You said you could!” my son accused.
“I should have said I played when I was little.”
“That was a long time ago,” Heitor observed.
Luca looked at me. I raised an eyebrow.
“I haven’t played in years. I’ll need practice.”
Heitor thought, then kicked the ball to him.
“Start by passing with the inside of your foot.”
He demonstrated three times, with different instructions each time. Luca didn’t correct the contradictions. He let the boy teach, get things wrong, and try again. When he finally made a good pass, Heitor threw up his arms as though they’d won a final.
“You learn kind of slowly,” he decided.
“My teacher keeps changing the rules.”
“Teachers can.”
“I see.”
“Students have to listen.”
Luca put a hand to his chest in mock offense. Heitor gave him no time to answer: he kicked again.
By the end of the hour, Luca was still bad, but scored a goal when Heitor flung himself dramatically the wrong way. They sat on the sidewalk with coconut water. I took a nearby bench, within earshot.
“Do you have a giant house in Italy?” Heitor asked.
“I do.”
“Bigger than the guesthouse?”
“Much bigger.”
“It must be hard to clean.”
“Lots of people help.”
“Can we go?”
“One day we can plan a trip. Right now, we still need to go back to S?o Paulo to take care of Camila.”
“On a plane?”
“That trip will be by car.”
Heitor sucked noisily on his straw.
“When I grow up, I’ll have a plane.”
“That’s an expensive ambition.”
“You’ll lend me money.”
“I can teach you how to earn it.”
“I’d rather borrow it.”
Luca laughed and ruffled his hair. Noah still hadn’t chosen an outing. When I asked again two days later, he pointed to the drawing board I took to the site.
“How long would you like to stay?” I asked.
Noah looked at Luca.
“Until I’m tired.”
“All right,” he replied.
He wanted to show Luca the old two-story house I was supervising. I arranged a short visit after the crew finished in the cleared area. We stayed in the section separated from the work, by the study samples. Noah handed Luca a toy drawing board and picked up his own.
“You can’t touch anything without asking.”
“Understood.”
“I’ll show you. Mommy’s shown me everything.”
Luca met my eyes by the sample table.
“I know.”
Noah pointed out the door, the window, and the marks he recognized. Luca waited for each explanation to end. When they reached the samples, my son asked whether there were broken walls in his hotels.
“Some need fixing,” he replied.
“You have to call Mommy.”
“I have. She worked on a house of mine in Italy.”
Noah turned to me.
“The one in the drawing?”
I nodded. He knew which one: I’d shown them the old drawings when we found the folder in the cabinet.
“Did you like it?” he asked Luca.
“Very much.”
Noah lifted his face.
“Do you still like her?”
I was close enough to hear. Luca knew it.
“I do. But that’s a conversation for your mother and me.”
My hand stopped on a mortar sample.
Noah looked back at the samples. I took my hand off the mortar and came closer.
“Will you fix this too?”
Luca followed his finger to the piece of plaster.
“Let’s ask your mother.”
I explained why we kept that piece and showed him the team’s mark. He bent to look for another.
“It’s hollow there.”
Luca tapped lightly, hearing the difference.
“How could you tell?”
“Mommy taught me.”
We checked the points already marked. Before leaving, Noah took a small, smooth tile from the study-materials box. It was a modern sample with no historical value, which I used to demonstrate colors. He asked whether Luca could take it to draw.
“Only borrowing,” he warned as he handed it over. “Bring it next time.”
“I’ll bring it back.”
“If you remember.”
Luca closed his hand around the piece.
“I’ll remember.”
At dinner, Heitor described the goal he’d scored and tried to demonstrate with a paper ball. Camila said Luca’s backpack was too big. Noah didn’t mention his visit until I asked where he’d left the blue tile.
“With him. He’ll bring it back.”
Later, Luca wrote to confirm the next visit. He added a question: was Noah usually so quiet after an outing?
Sometimes, I replied. Today he talked about the tile he lent you.
He wrote that he’d put it with the drawing. Only then did I notice how tightly I was holding the phone.
At the end of the week, we repeated the outings, for shorter visits. Camila chose the yard with a borrowed magnifying glass. She spent twenty minutes trying to rescue a ladybug that needed no help. Luca waited until she agreed to leave it on the leaf.
Heitor wanted the court again. Luca fell trying to save a shot, and my son announced to a boy beyond the fence that the Italian couldn’t play. Then he helped pull him up, laughing so hard he nearly fell too.
Noah chose the same site. Before they began, he asked for the tile. Luca took it from the backpack’s inner pocket, wrapped in paper on which he’d written the date.
“Did you remember because you set an alarm?” Noah asked.
“I did. I was afraid I’d forget.”
Noah checked the tile and set it on the drawing board for them both to draw.
At home, he said Luca had brought a blue pencil too.
Heitor wanted a drawing board. Camila asked to see the pictures.
While they argued over whose pencil it would be, I confirmed my mother would be at the guesthouse when Luca came to help with his first school morning.