9.
DANTE FERRAZ
Tomás slept in my arms for forty-three minutes.
I counted.
Not because I wanted the time to pass.
Because I was afraid that moving would wake him.
His body was warm from the fever. His breathing came heavily against my shirt, and one small hand remained closed near my chest.
Aurora sat on the other side of the table while Elisa ate rice with the concentration of someone performing an extremely important task.
Cecília separated her beans one by one.
Mrs. Lurdes pretended not to watch us.
No one spoke about the fact that I was holding my son for the first time.
Neither did I.
Any words would have been too small.
Tomás shifted.
My entire body tightened.
“Relax your arm,” Aurora said.
I looked at her.
“If you keep holding him that way, you’ll wake up in pain.”
“I can endure it.”
“I’m not concerned about you. He’ll notice that you’re uncomfortable.”
I relaxed my arm.
Tomás sighed and settled his head more comfortably beneath my chin.
Aurora looked away.
“Does he always sleep in someone’s arms when he’s sick?” I asked.
“Almost always.”
“And at night?”
“Sometimes in my bed.”
“All three?”
“When they’re sick together, yes.”
I tried to imagine Aurora in a bed surrounded by three feverish children.
“How do you sleep?”
Mrs. Lurdes laughed.
“She doesn’t.”
Aurora shot her a look.
“I sleep.”
“You sleep for five minutes and wake up to check whether they’re breathing.”
“That still counts as sleeping.”
Elisa lifted her face.
“Mommy checks my nose.”
“Only when you have a cold.”
“And puts her hand here.”
She touched her chest.
“To feel you breathing.”
“I breathe.”
“I know.”
“All the time.”
Aurora closed her eyes for a moment.
I studied the dark shadows beneath them.
Until then, I had seen her strength.
I was beginning to see the price.
“I can help tonight,” I said.
The kitchen became silent.
Aurora stared at me.
“No.”
“If Tomás’s fever continues…”
“I’ll care for him.”
“You didn’t sleep last night.”
“I’m used to it.”
“That doesn’t mean you should continue doing it alone.”
“You will not sleep in my house.”
“I can stay in the living room.”
“No.”
“I can remain in the studio and you can call me if you need anything.”
“Dante.”
“I’m not trying to invade your space.”
“That is exactly what you’re trying to do. You’re simply using a sick child to justify it.”
The accusation made me retreat.
“That wasn’t my intention.”
“I know that, in your mind, you’re offering help.”
“I am.”
“But help is only help when the other person accepts it.”
I nodded.
She was right.
Even so, leaving Tomás in that condition felt wrong.
“May I at least take them to the pediatrician if the fever returns?”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps is better than no.”
“Don’t become accustomed to it.”
Tomás opened his eyes.
It took him several seconds to recognize where he was.
Then he looked at me.
“You still here.”
“I am.”
“Didn’t go.”
“No.”
He raised his head.
“Water.”
Aurora was already standing, but so was I.
“Where?”
She pointed to a green cup on the counter.
I picked it up.
“Not that one,” Elisa said.
I stopped.
“It’s his.”
“Today is blue.”
I looked at Aurora.
“Why?”
“Because he asked for the blue one this morning.”
I exchanged the cup.
Tomás drank two mouthfuls and pushed it away.
“Done.”
“One more,” Aurora asked.
“Don’t want.”
“You have a fever.”
“Don’t like water.”
“You liked it five minutes ago.”
He closed his mouth.
Aurora attempted again.
Tomás turned his face away.
“May I?” I asked.
She hesitated.
Then handed me the cup.
“Tomás, does your dinosaur drink water?”
He looked at me.
“He drinks juice.”
“There’s no juice today.”
“Is too.”
“Where?”
He pointed to an empty bottle on top of the refrigerator.
“It’s finished.”
“Buy more.”
“Your mother says you need to drink water.”
“Don’t want.”
I thought for a few seconds.
“What if the dinosaur drinks first?”
I picked up the toy from the floor and touched its snout to the rim of the cup.
I made a ridiculous sound.
Elisa began laughing.
Tomás watched suspiciously.
“He drank it all.”
“He didn’t.”
“He drank a little.”
“Let me see.”
I handed him the cup.
Tomás drank three more mouthfuls.
Aurora looked at me.
There was no gratitude.
But there was surprise.
“It worked,” I said.
“This time.”
“That’s something.”
After lunch, Elisa insisted that I help her finish the painting she had begun at school.
It was a red circle surrounded by blue lines.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Us.”
“Who?”
She pointed to each line.
“Me, Cecí, T?mas, Mommy, Mrs. Lurdes, and the chicken.”
“And me?”
Elisa searched for an empty space on the paper.
She picked up the brush and painted a small black line far away from the others.
“You’re here.”
I studied the distance.
“Why am I so far away?”
“You live far.”
“I’m closer now.”
She thought about that.
Then added another black line beside the first.
“Your house.”
“I understand.”
She had not moved me closer to the family.
She had merely added my house to the drawing.
It was more than I deserved.
At two in the afternoon, Aurora said I should leave.
Tomás had fallen asleep again.
Cecília played quietly.
Elisa wanted me to continue painting.
“You coming tomorrow?” she asked.
I looked at Aurora.
“We haven’t arranged it.”
“You can come at nine,” Aurora said.
The answer surprised me.
“All right.”
“Only until eleven.”
“I’ll be here.”
“And don’t arrive early.”
“Why?”
“Because at eight they eat breakfast, fight about brushing their teeth, lose their shoes, and usually someone needs to use the bathroom at the worst possible moment.”
“I can help.”
“Not yet.”
Yet.
The word stayed with me.
I left the house and walked to the car.
Before entering, I removed the stone Cecília had given me from my pocket.
I had carried it since the previous day.
I placed it inside the center console.
Then I changed my mind and returned it to my pocket.
At the hotel, I found dozens of messages waiting.
My board wanted a meeting.
The expansion directors demanded my presence in S?o Paulo.
A contract in Lisbon required my signature.
I replied that everything would be handled by video conference.
My chief financial officer called.
“Dante, how long do you intend to remain in Minas?”
I looked through the hotel window.
The church towers rose above the rooftops.
“As long as necessary.”
“Does that mean days or weeks?”
“Months.”
Silence.
“Is there a problem with the historical development?”
“No.”
“Then what is in Santa Brígida?”
I thought about Elisa’s drawing.
The small black line placed far away from everyone else.
“My family.”
The word sounded strange.
Not because it was false.
Because I had not yet earned the right to use it.
“I didn’t know you had family there,” he said.
“Neither did I.”
I ended the call.
That night, I bought a paper planner.
I had not used a paper planner in more than a decade.
On the first page, I wrote:
Elisa — curious. Talks to strangers. Puts small things in her mouth. Likes painting.
Cecília — doesn’t like changes. Blue cloth. Hides when frightened. Be careful with milk.
Tomás — runs toward the street. Allergic to cashews. Cardiologist. Likes dinosaurs and cars.
Then I added:
Do not make promises.
Do not buy presents.
Ask before touching.
Watch them at all times.
I stared at the sentences.
I managed companies through rules, reports, and controls.
But this was not a company.
There were no indicators capable of measuring trust.
Even so, I had to begin somewhere.
On the final line, I wrote:
Arrive tomorrow at nine. Not earlier.
I circled it twice.