Learning How to Come Back

I called the next evening at seven.

Sofia answered on the fourth ring.

"You're punctual."

"I had someone remind me."

"Someone?"

"My phone."

She laughed softly.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Tired. Elena thinks recovery means arguing with every restriction until it gets embarrassed and leaves."

"That sounds familiar."

"It should."

I heard a cupboard close. A television murmured in the background.

"Have you eaten?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Something that required a plate?"

"A bowl. Enzo brought soup and complained until I ate it."

"I'm beginning to like him."

"He's unbearable."

"You need someone unbearable."

We talked for twelve minutes. I knew because I looked at the screen after she hung up and wondered how twelve minutes could alter the entire evening.

The following weeks were less graceful.

Once, I called during Elena's therapy appointment and sent three messages before Sofia could answer. She told me that a delayed reply wasn't an emergency. I apologized and stopped checking the screen long enough to finish a meeting.

Another time, Sofia asked me to bring groceries during a planned visit. I bought twice what she'd listed.

"Two people live here, Luca. This isn't a siege."

"Rosa and Mateo are still visiting."

"Four people still don't need fourteen oranges each."

I helped her carry half the food to a neighbor.

The neighbor called me her husband. Sofia corrected her.

I carried the bags without correcting Sofia.

Her rented house was small, with a front step that wobbled and a kitchen where two people had to negotiate passing each other. I had offered to repair the step, and she had agreed after asking whether I knew how.

"I know someone who does."

"Then say that."

I arranged it for the day she chose. Nothing else in the house was replaced.

Elena had covered one wall of her room with photographs and postcards. When she invited me in, I stood in the doorway until she told me I could sit.

"You don't have to look like you're visiting a museum."

"I don't want to touch something I shouldn't."

"It's a chair."

I sat and looked at a photograph of her wearing a green dress.

"School dance?"

"Eighth grade. My shoes hurt."

"You look happy."

"I was. Until I tried to walk."

She pointed out the friends beside her. I asked their names and remembered them badly enough that she quizzed me the next time I visited.

One afternoon, six weeks after discharge, Sofia had to work late because a colleague was ill. Rosa had taken Mateo to an appointment. Elena was allowed more movement now but still tired easily.

"Can you stay until nine?" Sofia asked.

"Yes."

"Dinner is in the fridge. Instructions on the counter. Don't convince her the doctor meant something else about lifting."

"I won't."

"And no restaurant delivery. She needs an ordinary evening."

"You make that sound more difficult than it is."

She looked at me.

"Fine," I said. "I'll follow the instructions."

Elena watched from the kitchen doorway.

"She's checking whether you're trainable."

"Apparently."

"Don't ruin it."

The food needed warming. I managed to burn the edges while leaving the middle cold. Elena laughed so hard that she had to stop and catch her breath.

"Don't tell your mother."

"I'm taking a picture."

"Of course you are."

We fixed it with a second pan and more patience. Mateo returned in time to announce that it looked like prison food. Then he ate two servings.

Rosa sat at the table with us, watching me distribute plates.

"You can stop supervising," I told her.

"I could."

She didn't.

After dinner, Mateo washed dishes under protest. Rosa went upstairs to call a relative. Elena sat with me beside the living-room window.

"You don't have to keep visiting," she said.

"I know."

"You keep coming anyway."

"Yes."

"Why?"

I looked at the postcards visible through her open bedroom door.

"Because I want to know you. What you like. Which friends make you laugh. Why you take pictures of my cooking instead of helping."

She smiled, then grew serious.

"When I was little, I thought you had another family."

I stayed still.

"A better daughter. Someone you wanted."

"There wasn't anyone else."

"I know that now. I didn't then."

"I'm sorry."

She turned her hands over in her lap.

"Sometimes I don't want to be fair about it."

"You don't have to manage my feelings."

"Mom says that too."

I waited.

"When I was eleven, she stopped using her old number and told Grandma to contact her through Daniel. I thought she was hiding from us."

"Was she?"

"She told me this week that someone had contacted her employer asking about me. She didn't want the calls going straight back to Grandma's house. They still talked, but not the way I thought they should."

I nodded. It explained the broken contact Rosa had described at the hospital. It didn't make the years less painful.

"Are you still angry with her?"

"Sometimes. She's letting me be."

"Good."

Elena studied my face.

"Are you going to marry her?"

"Your mother hasn't agreed to date me."

"You've been here every weekend."

"That's different."

"I know. I'm asking if you want to."

"Yes," I said. "But wanting something doesn't mean someone else wants it too."

She leaned back carefully.

"You're learning."

Sofia returned just before nine, carrying a laptop bag and looking as though someone had borrowed every ounce of her patience.

Elena showed her the photograph of the burnt food.

"Nobody died," I said.

"An excellent standard for dinner," Sofia answered.

She checked on Elena, spoke to her mother, and returned to the kitchen while I wiped the counter.

"Thank you for staying."

"You asked."

"I know."

Her hand rested beside mine on the counter.

"Elena seems comfortable with you."

"Sometimes. She's angry sometimes too."

"Does that upset you?"

"Yes. But she doesn't need to make it easier for me."

Sofia looked at me for a long time.

"What if I never come back?"

I put down the cloth.

"I'll still be her father. I'll still do the things I said I'd do. And I'll still want you, which I'll have to learn to live with."

Her eyes filled.

"I don't want you waiting because you think I owe you something."

"You don't."

I reached for my keys before I could ask her to give me hope she hadn't offered.

"I'll call tomorrow. If that's all right."

She caught my sleeve.

"It's late."

"I've driven later."

"There's a sofa. It doesn't cost more than my entire house. You might find it uncomfortable."

I looked at her.

She swallowed.

"Stay until morning, Luca. We still have things to talk about."