26
DANTE
I kept holding the phone after the call ended.
The screen went dark. My reflection appeared in the glass for an instant, and I moved the phone away as though I’d come across someone I couldn’t bear to look at.
I could remember pieces of my life that month. Meetings, a short trip, a business dinner at a restaurant where I’d complained about the service. I could open my old calendar and find every appointment. I didn’t.
Nothing on that list would tell me what I needed to know about the early morning when Dalva had looked for the glasses she was already wearing.
I went to the window. The street was bustling, headlights crossing the intersection, a person waiting near a building entrance.
I thought of Cecília sitting on the bed with her phone in her hand.
I had created that distance and then lived within it as if it were a natural consequence of what she had done.
There was no announcement lost somewhere along the way.
I’d known about the pregnancy. I’d chosen to convince myself it had nothing to do with me.
I sat down again.
What hurt most about the call wasn’t one scene I could grieve in some orderly way. It was the succession of small things. A hand in a onesie. A folded ear. A baby laughing at a bag while I went through a day that didn’t even hold his name.
Cecília had also given me a warning: their life hadn’t been nothing but suffering. I could miss what I’d lost without turning every happy memory into an accusation against myself.
I stayed up longer than I intended.
Before bed, I checked the time of the visit. The gesture felt inadequate, almost ridiculous. Even so, I got everything ready so I wouldn’t be late.
***
On Saturday, Cecília suggested walking to the little square near the play space.
The week before, Bento had seen a vendor selling pinwheels. He wanted to know if the vendor would be there. It was a short walk, the streets were quiet at that hour, and she knew the way.
“Is that okay?” she asked when we met up.
“Sure.”
She was wearing jeans and a light-colored T-shirt. She looked like she hadn’t slept much. I wanted to ask how she was doing after our conversation, but Bento was already showing me a folded piece of paper he’d been carrying in his pocket.
It was a drawing of the pinwheel, or his memory of it. Cecília said he’d drawn it that morning so he wouldn’t forget the color.
We walked on together.
I walked on the street side. Cecília carried the backpack, and Bento walked between us, alternating long strides with little runs his mother stopped before the corners. We didn’t talk about the birth. I needed to learn to let the present have other subjects.
At the square, the vendor wasn’t there.
Bento stopped near a bench and looked around.
“Did he move?” he asked.
“Maybe he didn’t come today,” Cecília replied.
“But I brought it.”
He took the drawing out of his pocket. The paper was crumpled, with a purple streak running across the front.
My first thought was to look for a place to buy a pinwheel. I reached for my phone on autopilot, felt its weight, and put it back in my pocket.
“We can check out the rest of the square,” I suggested.
Bento didn’t seem impressed with the alternative. He stood still for a few more seconds, then agreed to move on because he saw pigeons near a flower bed.
Cecília came closer to me while he watched the birds.
“You don’t need to find another one,” she said quietly.
I looked at her.
“I was going to look for one.”
“I know.”
There was the beginning of a smile in her voice. No contempt. She was recognizing a habit she’d known before I’d noticed it myself.
“I’m becoming predictable.”
“You already were a little.”
I smiled, and she smiled back for a moment.
Bento called us over to look at a feather. Cecília explained that he could look at it without picking it up and suggested we look for fallen leaves. He found a huge one, bigger than his own hand, and decided it would make a good boat.
We needed water, according to him. There was no suitable water nearby. The leaf turned into a hat, then ceased to be anything at all when he spotted a dog on the other side of the path.
I was beginning to like how quickly a topic could come to an end.
Near the exit, there was an uneven spot on the sidewalk, with a root pushing up the pavement. Cecília was a few steps ahead, searching her backpack for the pack of tissues he’d asked for.
Bento reached out his hand toward mine.
He didn’t look at me. He simply opened his fingers, waiting for me to take his hand.
I took it.
His hand was warm and smaller than I’d expected, even though I’d seen his hands dozens of times before. He squeezed two of my fingers, stepped over the bump, and kept walking without letting go.
My whole body seemed to focus on that single point.
I kept walking with his hand in mine.
Cecília looked at us.
Then her eyes moved to my face. Her expression changed in a way I couldn’t read. There was emotion, but caution too, a part of her that still needed to make sure of what was happening.
Bento started talking about the dog. It was too small to be old, according to him. I asked how he knew a dog’s age and received an explanation that involved height, paws, and a rather firm conclusion.
I listened until the end.
At the corner, he let go of my hand to take the tissue. He wiped his nose, handed it to his mother, and took her hand to cross.
The switch was quick. No ceremony, no declaration of what it meant.
I continued walking alongside the two of them.
***
We went back to the play space for coffee and so Bento could use the bathroom before leaving. Cecília went with him. I stayed at a table with the backpack, still feeling pressure against my fingers that was no longer there.
When they returned, she handed me a glass of water.
“You’ve gone quiet,” she said.
“I was thinking about our conversation.”
Cecília sat down. Bento took the chair next to her and began to open his pencil case.
“It was a lot,” she said quietly.
“It was.”
I looked at our son before continuing.
“But I’m glad you told me about the good parts, too.”
She ran her thumb along the rim of the glass.
“I needed you to know that they happened.”
I nodded.
I kept thinking about the baby Cecília had described. Beside us, Bento was lining up his pencils on the table.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked.
I understood she was referring to the rest of Saturday.
“Have lunch. Read some documents this afternoon.”
“We’re going to my mom’s. She promised to teach Bento how to sew a button onto a piece of cloth.”
“A plastic one,” he said, without looking up.
“The button is plastic,” Cecília explained. “So is the needle—and it’s really big.”
“And I know how,” Bento added.
“Then tell me about it later,” I said.
He nodded, absorbed in the drawing he had started. It wasn’t a pinwheel this time. There was a dog with long legs and a large leaf next to it.
After we said goodbye, I watched them go to the car only until Cecília put the backpack inside. Then I headed to my own.
On the way home, I didn’t call anyone.
I wanted to tell someone that my son had reached for my hand. I wanted to hear another person’s joy and confirm that it had really happened. But I managed to hold onto the memory without immediately turning it into a story.
When I parked, I found a dry leaf caught in the hem of my pants. I pulled it free, recognizing the shape Bento had chosen in the square.
I placed it near the flower bed by the entrance and went upstairs.
That morning had been his, too.
27
CECíLIA
I wrote the same information twice.
First on the note stuck to the fridge. Then, in the message I hadn’t sent to Dante yet. Lunch was on the middle shelf. Bento liked his broth kept separate until it was time to eat. The extra clothes were in the second drawer.
I deleted the message.
He’d be here in twenty minutes. He could read the note.
It was Saturday, a week after our walk to the square. I’d arranged to go look at work counters and talk about adapting the bakery kitchen. Two small steps in a project that still exceeded the money available, but was finally beginning to have actual dimensions.
On Wednesday, I’d asked Dante if he could stay with Bento at my apartment for the morning, until I returned after lunch. He’d checked his schedule before accepting. I’d explained the plan to my son, who wanted to know if he’d have to go to a different house.
“No. You’ll stay here. I’ll go out and come back.”
He thought for a few seconds.
“And will Dante stay?”
“He’ll stay.”
“Until you come back?”
“Until I get back.”
That explanation seemed sufficient that night. On Saturday morning, I had to repeat it as I zipped up my bag.
Bento was sitting on the couch, with two books beside him and his body still sluggish from sleep. He’d woken up late, something I’d been hoping for all week and that now complicated my plans.
“You don’t have to change yet,” I said. “You can choose your clothes later.”
He nodded, relieved to be able to stay in his pajamas.
When Dante rang the doorbell, I was still checking my bag. I opened the door and found him empty-handed.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning. Come in.”
Bento looked up from the sofa.
“Today it’s here.”
“Today it’s here,” Dante agreed.
I showed him the food, the bottle of water, the clothes, and the contact information I’d left next to the note. We talked about the return time and what I wanted him to do if he needed anything. I’d already told him some of that over the phone. He listened without reminding me.
Then he asked:
“Where are the dishcloths for wiping down the table?”
That specific question helped me more than any assurance that everything would work out.
I pointed to the cupboard.
Bento showed up with a box of washable paint.
“Is it okay?”
I looked at Dante’s light-colored T-shirt. He looked too, then turned back to the boy.
“Does your mom let you paint here?”
“At the table, with it covered,” I replied. “Not on the sofa.”