23.
OLíVIA SAMPAIO
Manuela leaves the ICU two days later.
The first thing she does in her regular room is ask for real food.
“I want p?o de queijo.”
The dietitian explains that they’re starting with lighter foods.
“P?o de queijo is light.”
“Not exactly.”
“It’s small.”
Leonardo turns his face away to hide a laugh.
“Do not encourage her.”
“I did nothing.”
“Your face did.”
“My face always looks angry.”
Manuela sighs.
“That joke is old now.”
Silence.
Then all of us laugh.
Even her.
The sound is weak.
But it is there.
Leonardo stays throughout the hospitalization.
Not only for the dramatic moments.
He is there for medication schedules.
Short walks through the hallway.
Breathing exercises.
Even when Manuela complains because she has to sit down in the shower.
He learns.
Asks before helping.
Listens when I say no.
Makes mistakes.
He still tries to turn every difficulty into an order for somebody, but now he catches himself when he sees my face.
On the third day, I find him sitting on the floor doing a puzzle with Manuela.
“That piece is sky.”
“It’s the dress.”
“It’s blue.”
“There are lots of blues.”
“That is unnecessarily complicated.”
“You don’t know how to play.”
“I’m learning.”
“You say that all the time.”
“Because apparently I’m always learning something.”
Manuela places the piece correctly.
“See?”
“I was misled.”
“You lost.”
“It wasn’t a competition.”
“It is now.”
I stop in the doorway.
Leonardo looks up.
His expression changes when he sees me.
Not only desire.
Something far more dangerous.
Tenderness.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“My mommy says nothing when it’s something,” Manuela explains.
“Thank you for the translation.”
“She was smiling.”
My face heats.
“I was not.”
“Yes, you were.”
Leonardo doesn’t comment.
He simply looks back at the puzzle.
That bothers me more than teasing would.
When Manuela falls asleep after lunch, I go downstairs for coffee.
Leonardo comes with me.
“You don’t need to.”
“I want to walk.”
“There’s a café downstairs.”
“I’m not asking for directions.”
“I know.”
We enter the elevator.
It is the first time we’ve been alone since the surgery.
The space feels smaller than it is.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Tired.”
“Besides that?”
“You don’t have to assess me.”
“I’m not assessing.”
“You’re looking at me like you’re searching for cracks.”
“Maybe I am.”
“To fix?”
“To make sure I don’t press where it hurts.”
The answer leaves me without words.
The doors open.
We go to the café.
I order coffee even though I usually avoid it when I’m anxious.
Leonardo orders chamomile tea.
I stare at his cup.
“Is this a joke?”
“I need practice.”
“The tea you made the other night was terrible.”
“You said it was fine.”
“I didn’t want to waste it.”
“You lied.”
“Protecting someone’s feelings isn’t lying.”
“I need to write down that definition.”
We sit at a table away from the crowd.
“What happens when Manuela is discharged?” I ask.
“We go back to the apartment.”
“Then?”
“We stay in S?o Paulo until her first follow-up.”
“And the clinic?”
“You can work remotely.”
“I can’t treat children remotely.”
“You can hire someone temporarily.”
“I already have a team.”
“Then trust them.”
“Interesting advice from you.”
Leonardo accepts that.
“I can take Manuela to Santa Serena for a few days when you go back to work.”
The suggestion catches me off guard.
“Alone?”
“You said parenting time could evolve.”
“She just had surgery.”
“I don’t mean now. Once she’s recovered.”
“I don’t know.”
“All right.”
“That’s all?”
“You don’t know.”
“And you want to know right now?”
“I do.”
“Do you trust me to follow her medication schedule, routines, and limits?”
“With medical issues, yes.”
“Do you trust me not to take her away from you?”
The question hits.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Then there is already some trust.”
I look at him.
“Very little.”
“It can grow.”
Manuela’s words.
“Proud of yourself?”
“A little.”
Despite myself, I smile.
Leonardo smiles too.
For a few seconds, it feels familiar.
The two of us at a café.
Talking.
Before the church.
Before the evidence.
Before Manuela.
Fear rises immediately.
I move my hand away from my cup.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Act like before.”
His expression closes.
“I was just talking to you.”
“Exactly.”
“Are we not allowed to talk?”
“We are. I just don’t want to forget.”
“Neither do I.”
“It seems easy for you.”
“None of this is easy.”
“You smile. Make tea. Read stories. Show up for a few days. Suddenly everything starts to feel simple.”
“I don’t think any of it is simple.”
“Then stop looking like the man I loved.”
The words escape before I can stop them.
Leonardo goes completely still.
“Because you might still love him?”
I stand.
“This conversation is over.”
He doesn’t grab my arm.
Doesn’t follow immediately.
When he steps into the elevator several minutes later, he keeps his distance.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t ask me things like that.”
“I won’t.”
“And do not interpret my gestures.”
“Fine.”
“And don’t wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For this to end differently from what the contract says.”
Leonardo looks at the numbers above the elevator doors.
“I won’t demand anything from you.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“It’s the only promise I can make.”
The doors open.
Manuela is awake when we return.
“You took forever.”
“Your father doesn’t know how to choose tea,” I explain.
The word slips out.
Father.
Leonardo stops.
Manuela catches it too.
“You called him my dad.”
“He is your dad.”
“But you always call him Leonardo.”
“I can use both.”
She looks at him.
“Did you like it?”
“Very much.”
“You’re almost crying.”
“Allergies.”
My daughter laughs.
His joke.
The smile on Leonardo’s face becomes my greatest risk.
That night, he sleeps in the chair beside Manuela’s bed.
I wake in the middle of the night and find his head tilted to one side, one hand resting near hers.
I take a blanket.
Cover his shoulders.
Leonardo opens his eyes.
Our faces are too close.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
“Go back to sleep.”
“You’re taking care of me.”
“It’s cold.”
“Still.”
I step away.
“Don’t make it into something.”
“I won’t.”
But it already is.
Everything is becoming something.