36. #2
“Do not touch his shoulder,” I repeated.
“I know,” Elisa answered, already climbing onto the sofa.
Tomás found the toy cars.
Cecília went to inspect the moon stickers.
Dante sat.
He appeared tired.
“Pain?”
“Four.”
“Truth?”
“Six.”
“Medication.”
“In thirty minutes.”
“Now.”
“Interval.”
I checked.
He was right.
“Lie down.”
“The children.”
“I’ll care for them.”
“In my house?”
“Yes.”
Dante smiled.
“Don’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
He lay down.
Tomás appeared and placed the dinosaur against his chest.
“He takes care.”
“Thank you.”
Elisa brought a blanket.
Covered his legs.
Cecília placed the stone inside his healthy hand.
“Medicine.”
Dante looked at me.
His eyes shone.
“Do not cry,” Elisa warned. “Then wet sofa.”
“I’ll try.”
The three children settled nearby.
No one jumped.
No one shouted for several minutes.
A miracle.
Dante closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He slept for almost an hour without moving.
The children did not.
The brief solemnity of the “hospital” ended as soon as Elisa decided sick kings also needed a party.
She scattered blocks over the rug, transformed two cushions into cake, and placed another paper crown on Tomás’s head.
“I’m king too,” he announced.
“No. You’re guard.”
“Don’t want guard.”
“Gotta care for sick king.”
Tomás looked at Dante.
“He sleeping.”
“That’s why.”
“I care with eyes closed.”
He lay on the floor.
Closed his eyes.
In fewer than two minutes, he truly fell asleep.
Elisa was outraged.
“He not caring.”
“He is tired,” I said.
“Everybody is tired.”
“Exactly.”
Cecília remained beside the sofa, watching Dante’s breathing.
The stone was still inside his hand.
“Cecí, come play,” Elisa called.
She shook her head.
“I’m caring.”
“He doesn’t need three.”
“He does.”
“I put blanket.”
“I put medicine.”
She pointed to the stone.
Elisa crossed her arms.
“Rock isn’t medicine.”
“This one is.”
“Isn’t.”
“Is too.”
The argument began growing.
“Each of you cared in a different way,” I interrupted. “Now you may play quietly.”
“What is quietly?” Elisa asked.
“Without shouting.”
“But party needs music.”
“Then there is no party.”
She looked horrified.
“King without party dies.”
My body tightened.
The word still carried the gunshot.
The blood.
The ambulance.
Cecília reacted too.
“Daddy doesn’t die.”
“Elisa is only playing,” I said.
“Don’t say die.”
Elisa looked at her sister.
“But everybody dies.”
The sentence probably came from school.
Or an overheard conversation.
Three-year-olds absorbed everything, even when adults believed they did not.
Cecília began crying.
“Not Daddy.”
I knelt in front of her.
“Daddy is recovering.”
“But after?”
“After, his shoulder gets better.”
“And after?”
I knew what she asked without knowing how to phrase it.
After he healed.
After he grew old.
After everything.
“He will remain with all of you for a long time,” I answered.
It was not an absolute promise.
Even so, I felt the risk.
Cecília pressed her lips together.
“How long?”
“Many birthdays.”
She understood birthdays.
“Mine?”
“Many of yours.”
“And T?mas and Elisa?”
“Theirs too.”
“And yours?”
I stopped.
“I hope so.”
Elisa approached.
“You get married before?”
“We are not discussing marriage.”
“But king needs queen.”
“Daddy is not a king.”
She pointed to the crown on Dante.
“He is.”
“It is paper.”
“Paper king.”
Tomás raised his head without opening his eyes.
“I’m guard.”
“Sleep,” I said.
He immediately passed out again.
Cecília wiped her face with the cloth.
“Mommy is queen?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because there is no king.”
“But he there.”
I would not win.
“All right. In the game, Daddy is the sick king.”
“And you queen.”
“I do not want to play.”
Elisa wrinkled her nose.
“Adults don’t play.”
The accusation affected me unexpectedly.
I played with them.
Told stories.
Invented voices.
But there was truth in it.
Most of the time, I organized, cared, prevented, corrected.
Playing without watching for danger was nearly impossible with three children.
There was always a risk.
Always a task.
“I play,” I said.
“You only boss.”
“I do not only boss.”
“You say no a lot.”
The phrase they repeated.
Dante had recently joined the category of adults who said no.
I had held the title for years.
“What would you like to play?”
Elisa smiled immediately.
“Wedding.”
“Something else.”
“You said you play.”
“I did not say I accept every game.”
“Then you don’t play.”
I sighed.
“How does this wedding work?”
She picked up two cushions.
“This is you.”
“Why am I a cushion?”
“It’s dress.”
The yellow cushion was me.
The gray one, Dante.
Elisa pushed them together.
“Now kiss.”
“Cushions do not kiss.”
“These do.”
“No.”
“Mommy.”
“Another scene.”
“There’s party.”
“Without kissing?”
“Only hug.”
“Not that either.”
Elisa looked at Cecília.
“Mommy doesn’t know wedding.”
Cecília agreed.
“She didn’t marry.”
The sentence stopped my heart.
They knew I was not married.
Knew Dante had gone away.
But they did not understand the altar.
Not yet.
“I almost got married,” I said.
Elisa’s eyes widened.
“To who?”
I looked at Dante sleeping.
“To Daddy.”
Both girls followed my gaze.
“He was sleeping?” Elisa asked.
“This was before you were born.”
“In belly?”
“Yes.”
“Then why not marry?”
I could evade.
But the questions would return.
“Because something very sad happened.”
“The bad man?”
“In part.”
“He stopped it?”
“He told lies.”
Cecília squeezed the cloth.
“And Daddy was silly.”
The expression Elisa had used since the first day.
“He was.”
“Now knows.”
“He does.”
“Then marry.”
Simple.
Like returning.
Like apologizing.
Like discovering the truth.
“Adults need more time.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tomorrow?”
“More.”
“Day after tomorrow?”
“Elisa.”
She rolled her eyes.
My gesture in her.
“You talk difficult too.”
“I learned from Daddy.”
“Then you agree.”
The girls resumed arranging the wedding.
I did not ask them to stop.
The cushions remained side by side.
Dante’s crown remained crooked.
I sat on the floor.
“What do I do?”
Elisa handed me the yellow cushion.
“You walk.”
I made the cushion walk.
“Prettier,” she instructed.
“How does a cushion walk prettily?”
“Like this.”
She took it from my hand and moved it in small jumps.
“That looks like a frog.”
“It’s bride.”
“All right.”
Cecília held the gray cushion.
“Daddy waits.”
The sentence struck me.
At our first ceremony, Dante had waited at the altar.
But not to receive me.
To condemn me.
Now he waited differently.
He did not ask for marriage.
Did not ask for forgiveness.
He waited for visits.
Permissions.
Small steps.
Perhaps the child’s game unsettled me because it showed a possibility I could not yet face.
“Now hug,” Elisa ordered.
Cecília pressed the cushions together.
“Done.”
“And party!” Tomás shouted, finally waking.
He stood.
Kicked part of the blocks.
Elisa complained.
Cecília began crying because Dante’s cushion fell.
The brief marriage ended in chaos.
Appropriately.
“Quiet,” I reminded them.
“Party!” Tomás shouted.
Dante moved on the sofa.
We all froze.
He opened his eyes.
The crown slipped over his forehead.
“What is happening?”
Elisa pointed toward the cushions.
“You married.”
Dante went still.
He looked at me.
“While sleeping?”
“Apparently.”
“To whom?”
“Mommy.”
Tomás raised his arms.
“I’m guard.”
Dante sat slowly.
“I missed quite a lot.”
“Nothing happened,” I said.
“Cushion kissed,” Elisa explained.
“It did not,” I corrected.
“Hugged.”
Dante attempted to hide a smile.
“Then it was a chaste wedding.”
“Do not use difficult words.”
“All right.”
Cecília picked up the gray cushion.
“Daddy waits.”
Dante looked at her.
Then at me.
“I’ll wait.”
My chest tightened.
He did not ask how long.
Did not request a promise.
He simply accepted the position the child gave him.
“Do not encourage this,” I said because I needed to say something.
“I’m not.”
“Your face is.”
“I cannot control it.”
“Discuss it in therapy.”
“Noted.”
Elisa came to him.
“You want marry Mommy?”
Dante did not look at me before answering.
Perhaps because he knew any search for permission would feel like pressure.
“One day, if she wants.”
“You want?”
“I do.”
My body became rigid.
He was honest.
Without theatrical declarations.
“And her?”
Elisa pointed at me.
“She decides,” Dante answered.
“Mommy?”
Three pairs of eyes.
Even Tomás waited.
“I will not decide today.”
Elisa pouted.
“Why?”
“Because Daddy and I are still learning.”
“What?”
“To trust. Talk. Not hurt each other.”
“Kiss,” Tomás added.
“Who said that?”
“Mrs. Marlene.”
Of course.
“Kissing also needs to be learned,” Dante said.
I looked at him.
The answer was good.
“And you know?” Elisa asked.
Dante breathed.
“We are remembering.”
The past appeared.
Our kisses.
Our former intimacy.
What had happened recently.
“Time to put things away,” I said.
The children protested.
Dante attempted to stand.
“You stay.”
“I can help with one hand.”
“No.”
“Queen bosses,” Elisa commented.
“She always does,” Dante replied.
“Careful.”
He smiled.
He remained on the sofa.
The children put away very little.
I put away the rest.
When I bent near him, Dante spoke quietly.
“I didn’t know we were engaged.”
“We aren’t.”
“The cushions disagree.”
“I can throw them away.”
“Violent.”
“Dante.”
“All right.”
I continued collecting blocks.
“You answered well,” I admitted.
“To Elisa?”
“Yes.”
“I told the truth.”
“That you want to marry me.”
“It is true.”
“You did not need to say it.”
“She asked directly.”
“You could have said it was an adult matter.”
“Did you want me to say that?”
I thought.
“I don’t know.”
“Then I cannot answer correctly.”
“It isn’t about answering correctly.”
“I know.”
“And stop.”
He closed his mouth.
For several seconds.
“What would be correct for you?” he asked.
“Not asking now.”
“I didn’t.”
“Or acting as though it is inevitable.”
“It isn’t.”
The answer surprised me.
“It may not happen,” he continued. “Even if we become a couple. Even if you love me. Even if we stay together.”
“You accept that?”
“I don’t like it. But I accept marriage must be a choice, not an obligatory result.”
I looked at him.
“And the children?”
“We remain their parents.”
“Living separately?”
“If it is best.”
“You would truly accept that?”
Dante took time to answer.
“I would suffer.”
Honest.