25.
OLíVIA SAMPAIO
Returning to Santa Serena after surgery should feel like returning to normal.
It doesn’t.
There are journalists near the square.
An unfamiliar car parks near the clinic.
The school has hired temporary security.
And Leonardo walks into our house carrying two suitcases as though this is perfectly natural.
“Where are you staying?”
“The inn.”
Manuela is holding his hand.
She decided that during the flight.
Didn’t ask permission.
Simply reached for him when we hit turbulence.
Leonardo took her hand as though she had handed him something fragile.
“But he’s having dinner here,” she informs me.
“If your mother allows.”
I look at the two of them.
“Tonight.”
“Tomorrow too,” Manuela says.
“We’ll see.”
“That means yes.”
“It does not.”
“Almost.”
Leonardo smiles.
The man is becoming far too comfortable.
So is my daughter.
For the first several days, he arrives in the morning and stays until Manuela goes to bed.
Helps with medication.
Walks with her around the garden.
Learns how to make the breakfast she will actually eat.
Gets the milk wrong the first time.
Burns the toast the second.
On the third morning, Manuela approves.
“It’s almost like Mommy’s.”
Leonardo looks at me.
“Almost?”
“Needs love.”
He pretends to be offended.
“I put in a considerable amount of effort.”
“Effort isn’t love.”
The sentence goes through him.
“You’re right.”
That afternoon, I need to return to the clinic for a few hours.
“I can stay with her,” Leonardo offers.
Fear reacts before reason.
“My mother can.”
“Marta has an appointment.”
“álvaro.”
“He’s finishing a job.”
“I can reschedule my patients.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I don’t—”
I stop.
Manuela is sitting in the living room listening.
“Do you want to stay with him?” I ask.
She thinks.
“You’ll come back?”
“Two hours.”
“And he won’t take me away?”
Leonardo goes pale.
“Never.”
“You promise a lot.”
“This one I can keep.”
My daughter looks at me.
“I can stay.”
The answer should reassure me.
It doesn’t.
I write a list.
Times.
Medication.
Pediatrician’s number.
Warning signs.
Food instructions.
Leonardo reads all of it.
“I know some of this already.”
“Read it again.”
“All right.”
“No going out.”
“All right.”
“If she complains of pain—”
“I call you and her doctor.”
“If her oxygen saturation—”
“Below ninety-four at rest, recheck. Below ninety-two, hospital.”
I look at him.
“You memorized it.”
“I’ve read her chart more times than I can count.”
“Reading is not the same as living it.”
“I know.”
Manuela comes in carrying Bento.
“You can go, Mommy.”
“You’re throwing me out?”
“I have something to do with him.”
“What?”
“Secret.”
Leonardo looks just as confused as I feel.
“Secret?”
“You’ll see.”
I leave.
I drive to the clinic with my hands tight around the steering wheel.
It is the first time I have ever left my daughter alone with her father.
The clinic greets me with hugs, questions, and an absurd amount of food brought by patients.
Camila cries.
Clara nearly knocks me over.
For one hour, I manage to work.
During the second, I check my phone every three minutes.
No messages.
I call.
Leonardo answers on the first ring.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m checking.”
“She’s fine.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“She’s busy.”
Fear rises.
“Busy doing what?”
“I’m not allowed to tell you.”
“Leonardo.”
“She forbade me.”
“Give her the phone.”
I hear footsteps.
“Mommy?”
“What are you doing?”
“Secret.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Yes.”
“Did you take your medicine?”
“He gave it to me.”
“On time?”
“The alarm went off.”
“And did you eat?”
“Yogurt.”
“Only yogurt?”
“And crackers.”
“Okay.”
“You can go back to work.”
My daughter hangs up.
I stare at the phone.
Camila smiles behind the desk.
“You’ve been dismissed.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“A little.”
I get home before the two hours are up.
Open the front door quietly.
Voices are coming from the kitchen.
“More to the left,” Manuela instructs.
“Like this?”
“No. Your braid is crooked.”
I stop.
Leonardo is sitting on a low chair.
Manuela is standing behind him, attempting to braid a tiny section of his hair.
On the table is a doll’s styling head covered in various failed hairstyles.
“What are you doing?”
They both turn.
Manuela smiles.
“I taught him.”
“To braid?”
“He needs to know how to be a dad.”
Leonardo has a pink bow clipped near one ear.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Did he learn?”
“Almost,” Manuela says.
“Almost is generous,” Leonardo adds.
“Show her the doll.”
I inspect the uneven braid.
Terrible.
“It’s… secure.”
“You laughed,” Leonardo accuses.
“No.”
“Your face did.”
The joke comes back around.
This time, all three of us laugh.
The scene enters me without permission.
Leonardo in the kitchen of the home I built.
My daughter happy.
A kind of ordinary we never had.
“How was the clinic?” he asks.
“Fine.”
“You’re early.”
“I finished.”
He knows I’m lying.
Doesn’t push.
“I can try on her hair tomorrow.”
“I’m not sure Manuela would survive.”
“My heart is fixed,” she says.
“That is not what I meant.”
“I know.”
The fear shoots through me anyway.
Leonardo tenses too.
Manuela rolls her eyes.
“You both need to stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Acting like I’m going to break.”
The word silences us.
She touches her chest.
“My heart isn’t made of glass.”
I sit in front of her.
“We know.”
“No, you don’t. You keep looking at me.”
“We’re worried.”
“I know how to take care of myself.”
“You’re five.”
“But I’m not a baby.”
Leonardo crouches beside her.
“What would you like us to do?”
“Ask if I’m okay less.”
“How many times a day?”
She thinks.
“Three.”
“Impossible,” I say.
“Five.”
“Ten,” I counter.
“Eight.”
“Deal,” Leonardo says.
I look at him.
“You cannot make agreements about this without me.”
“She made a reasonable offer.”
“You’re taking her side.”
“I’m new. I need to build popularity.”
Manuela wraps her arms around his neck.
The gesture is spontaneous.
Leonardo freezes.
Then carefully hugs her back.
I look at them.
I don’t feel fear.
I feel something worse.
Happiness.
Leonardo stays for dinner that night.
Then reads her a story.
When he gets ready to leave, Manuela takes his hand.
“Can you sleep here?”
My heart speeds up.
“He has a room at the inn.”
“There’s an empty bedroom.”
“We aren’t ready.”
“Who?”
“Us.”
“You and him?”
“Yes.”
Manuela looks at Leonardo.
“Do you want to?”
“I want to do whatever your mother thinks is best.”
Perfect answer.
Infuriatingly perfect.
“Not tonight.”
My daughter accepts that.
Leonardo leans down and kisses her forehead.
Then looks at me.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
I walk him to the door.
“Thank you for today.”
“For the braid?”
“For following the instructions.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do when you earn it.”
He takes one step closer.
“Olívia.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
We stand looking at each other.
The porch light cuts across half his face.
I remember the kiss on my forehead at the wedding.
The embrace outside the ICU.
Older nights.
“You can go,” I whisper.
“I can.”
He doesn’t.
I don’t close the door either.
Then Leonardo leans toward me slowly.
Enough time for me to move away.
I don’t.
His lips touch mine.
Soft.
Careful.
The kiss is brief.
Long enough to set fire to everything I tried to bury.
I step back.
“No.”
Leonardo closes his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“I let you.”
“Still.”
“This can’t happen.”
“All right.”
“It was a mistake.”
Pain flashes across his face.
“All right.”
The way he agrees irritates me.
“You’re not going to say anything?”
“You asked me not to do it again. I won’t.”
“So it’s that simple?”
“No.”
“It looks simple.”
Leonardo holds the edge of the door.
“If I tell you what I feel, you’ll think I’m pressuring you. If I say nothing, you’ll think it meant nothing. There is no right answer for me right now.”
“Then you shouldn’t have kissed me.”
“You’re right.”
He steps back.
“Good night.”
I close the door.
Rest my back against it.
My mouth is still burning.
On the other side, his footsteps fade.
From the living room, Manuela calls out.
“Did he leave?”
“Yes.”
“You’re red.”
“It’s hot.”
“It’s not.”
Children notice everything.
So do I.
The kiss wasn’t the mistake.
The mistake was wanting another one.