5.
DANTE FERRAZ
I bought three car seats.
Aurora had forbidden presents.
Car seats were not presents.
They were safety equipment.
That was how I justified the purchase to myself.
Then I bought children’s cups, outlet covers, cabinet locks, and a first-aid kit.
At seven in the morning, my hotel room looked like a store specializing in children’s products.
At seven twenty, I realized I did not know how to install the car seats.
The manual was forty-two pages long.
I watched three videos.
I called the manufacturer.
At eight thirty, a hotel employee found me kneeling beside the back seat in the parking lot.
“Do you need assistance, sir?”
“No.”
She looked at the car seat facing the wrong direction.
“Are you certain?”
“No.”
Forty minutes later, all three had been installed.
I paid for a certified specialist to verify my work over a video call.
One of the bases was still loose.
I began again.
I arrived at the studio three minutes before the agreed time.
Aurora opened the door.
Her hair was pulled into a loose, disordered bun. There was a white stain on her shirt and exhaustion beneath her eyes.
“Did you sleep?” I asked.
The question escaped me.
She looked at me.
“That doesn’t concern you.”
“Is Cecília better?”
“Her fever is down.”
“And the others?”
“No symptoms.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No.”
Behind her, I heard a shout.
“It’s mine!” Elisa screamed.
“No, it’s not!” Tomás answered.
Something struck the wall.
Aurora closed her eyes.
“Come in.”
The studio had been rearranged.
One area was enclosed by a low gate and filled with toys, cushions, and board books.
Elisa and Tomás were fighting over a yellow truck.
Cecília was lying on a small mattress, hugging a doll.
“Good morning,” I said.
Elisa released the truck.
“You came back.”
“I said I would.”
“Brought anything?”
Aurora crossed her arms.
“No.”
“Nothing?” Elisa asked.
“Your mother said I can’t bring presents.”
She made a face.
“She says no a lot.”
Aurora pointed at her daughter.
“I heard that.”
Elisa laughed.
Tomás resumed pulling the truck.
“It’s mine.”
“I had it first,” Elisa said.
“You can play together,” I suggested.
They both looked at me as if I had said something absurd.
“Can’t,” Tomás explained.
“Why?”
“Because there’s one.”
“You can take turns.”
“What’s take turns?” Elisa asked.
I looked at Aurora.
She offered no assistance.
“One of you plays for a few minutes, then gives it to the other.”
“How many minutes?” Elisa wanted to know.
“Five.”
“I don’t know five.”
“I’ll time it.”
I picked up my phone.
Tomás hugged the truck.
“Me first.”
“Me first!” Elisa shouted.
“Who had it before?”
They both pointed to themselves.
Aurora released a quiet laugh.
“Welcome.”
I knelt.
“All right. We’ll decide another way.”
“How?” Elisa asked.
“Rock, paper, scissors.”
They did not know how to play.
I attempted to teach them.
Tomás only made rock.
Elisa changed her gesture after seeing his.
Five minutes passed and neither child had played with the truck.
“This takes too long,” Elisa complained.
“I agree.”
Aurora moved away to work.
I remained with the children.
I had commanded mergers involving billions. I had negotiated with governments. I had faced hostile boards.
Within twenty minutes, I was defeated by a yellow truck.
Tomás decided to play with something else when he noticed a box of blocks.
Elisa kept the truck.
The crisis ended without any connection to my efforts.
“You lost,” Aurora commented from the table.
“I noticed.”
“They aren’t logical problems.”
“I’ve noticed that too.”
Cecília coughed.
I stood by reflex.
She looked at me.
I stopped.
“Would you like some water?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Mommy.”
Aurora set down her brush and went to her.
I watched as she lifted Cecília into her arms, offered her water, checked her forehead, and smoothed the hair stuck to her skin.
Everything appeared natural.
But I could see the cost.
Aurora moved like someone who never completely relaxed. One ear was always listening. One eye was always following a child.
Even while she worked, she counted footsteps, sounds, and silences.
“Has she had many health problems?” I asked.
Aurora stroked Cecília’s back.
“No.”
“And the others?”
Her expression changed.
“Tomás did.”
The boy was stacking blocks.
“What happened?”
“A congenital heart defect.”
The floor seemed to tilt beneath me.
“Is he all right?”
“Yes.”
“Did he need surgery?”
“At five months.”
I looked at Tomás.
He laughed as he knocked down his own tower.
“What type of surgery?”
“Repair of a ventricular septal defect.”
“Was it serious?”
“It was heart surgery on a premature infant.”
“You were alone?”
Aurora looked at me.
“Yes.”
The word destroyed something inside me.
“I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
“If I had known…”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
“I would have gone.”
“We don’t know that.”
“I would have.”
“You didn’t believe he was yours.”
“I know now that he was.”
“Now it’s easy.”
Cecília began to squirm.
Aurora returned her to the mattress.
“Are there any lasting effects?”
“He sees his cardiologist once a year. He’s fine.”
“Who is the cardiologist?”
“That isn’t necessary right now.”
“I want to know.”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“Aurora…”
“Respect my answer.”
I closed my mouth.
She returned to the table.
The following minutes were uncomfortable.
Elisa showed me a drawing of circles and informed me it was a princess.
Tomás asked me to help with a puzzle, then became irritated when I tried to fit a piece into place.
Cecília fell asleep.
At eleven, Aurora announced it was time for a snack.
She placed three plates on the small table.
Banana for Cecília.
Cut pieces of cheese bread for Elisa.
Papaya for Tomás.
“Don’t they eat the same thing?” I asked.
“They do when they agree to.”
“Tomás doesn’t like cheese bread?”
“He does. He doesn’t want it today.”
“How do you know?”
“He threw it onto the floor at breakfast.”
Tomás pointed.
“The bread fell.”
“Three times?” Aurora asked.
“It was slippery.”
She did not argue.
I sat on the floor beside them.
Elisa chewed slowly.
Tomás pushed his finger into the papaya.
Cecília was still sleeping.
“Can I ask something?” I said.
Aurora did not answer.
“Which one was born first?”
“Elisa.”
The girl raised her hand.
“Me.”
“Four minutes before Cecília,” Aurora explained. “Tomás was born seven minutes later.”
“I came last,” he said.
“You did.”
“I was hiding.”
“You weren’t.”
“Was too.”
Elisa pointed at him.
“He lived in Mommy’s foot.”
“I didn’t.”
“You lived in her belly.”
“That.”
Tomás looked at me.
“Where did you live?”
“Inside my mother’s belly.”
He laughed.
“Big?”
“I imagine it was.”
“Mommy got big.”
Elisa opened her arms.
“This big.”
Aurora smiled.
It was involuntary.
For a moment, I saw the woman from before.
The woman who laughed with her entire body.
Then the smile disappeared.
“Were they born in Rio?” I asked.
“Belo Horizonte.”
“How long were they hospitalized?”
Aurora became still.
“No.”
“It’s important to me.”
“Not to them.”
“I want to know what they lost.”
“You lost something. They survived.”
The correction was precise.
“How long?”
She stared at me.
“Elisa stayed twenty-six days. Cecília, thirty-four. Tomás, fifty-nine.”
My chest constricted.
“Fifty-nine days.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“I went every day.”
“Where did you sleep?”
“In a boardinghouse near the hospital.”
“Alone?”
“Mrs. Lurdes stayed with me part of the time.”
“And your family?”
“My uncle was a fugitive. My parents were dead. You had given orders that I was not to contact you.”
Every answer was a sentence passed against me.
I did not defend myself.
There was no defense.
Tomás abandoned his papaya.
“You’re sad again.”
I looked at him.
“I am.”
“Say sorry.”
“I already did.”
“Say it again.”
Aurora turned her face away.
I rose.
She noticed the movement and stiffened.
I did not approach her.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Not only for the altar. I’m sorry I never tried to find out whether you were alive.
I’m sorry for every appointment, every fear, and every night you spent alone.
I’m sorry Elisa was born without me. That Cecília spent thirty-four days in a hospital without me ever knowing her.
That Tomás underwent surgery while I remained unaware my son even existed. ”
Aurora kept her back to me.
Her shoulders were rigid.
“Don’t do this in front of them.”
“They don’t understand.”
“I do.”
Her voice broke.
She walked toward the back of the studio.
Seconds later, I heard a door close.
I remained motionless.
Elisa looked at me.
“Mommy is sad now.”
“I know.”
“Was it you?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I did something very bad.”
She frowned.
“Worse than juice on the couch?”
“Much worse.”
Elisa thought about that.
“Then you gotta help clean.”
I looked toward the closed door.
“That’s what I’m trying to do.”
But I was beginning to understand that some stains could not be removed.
The only thing one could do was prevent them from spreading.