Dad is hospitalized for the second time with pneumonia.
But, this time you’re around.
It was two in the morning.
You had just drifted off to sleep when Mom bursts through the door huffing, panicky, trying to speak between sobs.
‘Something’s wrong with Dad.’
You throw off your covers and go to check on him.
He’s suppressing worry.
His breathing is dangerously shallow, Mom turns the oxygen machine to a much higher setting.
You call the emergency services.
Soon the burning red lights flicker through the blinds from the depths of a new morning and two large men carry Dad away.
This is the first time you see him in a sterile room. He will stay the week.
You did not know it at the time, but in the near future, too near, there are two more rooms.
He’s jovial, he’s on the lookout for the Brazilian nurse with frog’s disease.
Mom wears a brave face like an ill fitting mask.
You ask her how she’s doing.
She tells you ‘I’m fine sweetie. Everything’s fine.’
But you know her mind is an abstract painting.
You watch a few Bruins games with Dad in the hospital. The B’s season is coming to an end and they’re first in the Atlantic Division. Dad hopes they will once again hoist the Stanley above their heads.
‘It’d be nice to see the Bruins win.’ he says, through tubes and forced breaths.
They will! Antonio, they’re going to win the cup this year.’ Mom says.
‘That’s nice.’ he says.
‘Tell him, tell your father they’ll win.’
Your mother looks right into your eyes. Pleading with you to keep his spirits up.
Her eyes demand ‘Tell him they’ll win the Stanley Cup.’
You smile at your father.
He winks at you.
During that week Mom talks privately with the parade of lab coats that enter and leave.
You hear her say to a few of them:
‘I don’t want my husband to know how bad the cancer is. Please, just don’t say anything.’
You spend the last month in hiding.You know why. Then again, perhaps you don’t really.
The time is divided between the bedroom and the living room.
One day, you and Dad watch Manchester United play.
You point out your favorite player, Bernardo Silva.
‘You know he’s Portuguese.’
You have to repeat things often and loudly.
‘He’s Portuguese!’
‘Oh yeah?’ he responds.
He asks you about living in Italy.
You tell him it’s like Portugal with worse food.
He laughs.
These days laughter turns into bouts of intense coughing.
He remains still and quiet for a while. You both do as you watch the match.
He eventually asks you to open the tablet and search for a video online.
‘Type this into the machine,’ he speaks slowly and spells the words, but halfway through you know what he wants.
You pull up the Festa do Senhor Santo Cristo dos Milagres.
‘I want to see the one from last year,’
It’s a well known religious festival celebrated in São Miguel.
Strong men are chosen to carry a large, life-like statue of Christ throughout the village’s streets.
Christ is often depicted bloodied and bruised, wearing a crown of thorns and a crimson velvet cape.
The throne on which he is held aloft is decorated with garlands of colorful flowers.
You gave him the tablet and he watches the festival intently.
Every so often he asks you to show him another video from the Açores.
‘Do you miss it?’
‘I went back once since I moved here. To sell the old family home and visit friends. It was so beautiful. This is a beautiful island.’ He points to the images on the screen.
He puts the tablet down. ‘You know my best friend from the old country died this week. Your mother told me. She saw it on Facebook.’
‘I’m so sorry dad.’
‘He did-’ he holds up an imaginary noose above his ear.
‘Oh.’
‘He had cancer too. His wife found him in the garage.’
‘Dad, I’m so sorry. That’s awful.’
‘He didn’t want to-’ his arm danced around hoping to dislodge the word from the air. ‘-bother people.’
He looks at you.
‘I’m sorry this vacation is no fun.’ he jokes.