Furia

by Yamile Saied Méndez

  After that, he’d sent a link to an article about famous couples who were both successful in their careers. The first picture was of Shakira, no introduction needed, and Gerard Piqué, the Barcelona defender. She was by far the more famous of the two. To compare Shak and Geri to us was totally apples and oranges.

  And that’s what I texted him: emojis of apples and oranges and a meme that said keep trying.

  Instantly, he replied with a laughing emoji.

  It was midnight in Turín, four hours ahead of Rosario. He should be in bed, especially if he was sick.

  What about the other couples? he asked.

  I scrolled down.

  Mia Hamm and Nomar Garciaparra had been retired for years. They didn’t count. When I told Diego, he sent me a picture of his laughing and dismayed face. I brushed my hand over the screen, longing to touch him.

  The next couple was Alex Morgan and her husband Servando Carrasco.

  How did those two make it work while playing on teams on opposite coasts? Would Diego and I ever be able to pull that off?

  I replied with a picture of me wearing just the Juventus jersey and a caption that said, I like this couple much better. She’s a world champion, and hardly anyone knows who he is.

  The three dots at the bottom of the screen made me nervous. Maybe I’d offended him. It had been a joke, but not really. Was it really so outlandish to suggest that maybe one day I’d be more famous than he was?

  Finally, his answer came, I won’t be able to go to sleep now knowing you’re wearing my jersey in your dark room. You’re cruel, Furia.

  I sent him a laughing emoji, and he replied with, Soooo jet-lagged. So tired. Dream of me.

  He hadn’t really said anything about my comment.

  I missed his lips on mine. His strong arms around me. The smell of his hair.

  Dream with the angels, I texted him and put the phone away.

  24

  My father’s voice thundered from the kitchen and woke me with a start. I pulled the phone from underneath my pillow: it was three a.m.

  Witching hour, when demons come out to wreak havoc, babies’ fevers spike, and Death calls to collect her souls.

  “What I don’t understand is what she went there for,” my father yelled.

  “Andrés, please,” my mom begged. “Let’s talk tomorrow, mi amor.”

  “You, shut up!” My dad’s voice reverberated through the house.

  I held my breath so he wouldn’t know I was awake. Would the new doorknob and chain protect me?

  “Leave her out of this.” Pablo sounded exhausted. When had he gotten home? “Mami, go to bed.”

  I listened to my mother’s footsteps rush through the hallway, but I didn’t hear her go into her room. She must have been waiting, ready to jump back into the kitchen. I should have gone to comfort her, but I stayed in my bed like a coward. We’d been so happy with him gone.

  “Just explain to me why she went to Santa Fe. Don’t you turn your back on me!”

  I clung to my covers. Pablo was a man, but since he still lived at home, he had to take this. I strained to hear my brother’s answer.

  “She just went to the game. Is it so hard to imagine that she wanted to see me play?”

  “But why, Pablo? You already spend all the time you’re not playing with her. Do what you want with her! I don’t blame you if you’re constantly fu—”

  “Stop talking about Marisol like that!” my brother snapped, but my father just laughed at him.

  “So it’s true. You were just with her.”

  Pablo didn’t answer. I imagined his anguished face, his tight fists, all the words stuck in his throat, choking him.

  My dad continued, “She’ll leave you if you aren’t on the first team, if you don’t make enough money. You know that, right? Save your little meetings for after the games, or you won’t last another season. Do you want to end up working in the factory with me, like Luciano Durant?” If I listened carefully, I could find a hint of concern in my dad’s voice. “When she runs to Diego because you’re a nobody, don’t come crying to me.”

  “¡Basta!” Pablo yelled.

  I threw my covers off and stood next to my closed door.

  Stop, Pablo. Go to bed. Go to Marisol’s.

  But Pablo remained in the kitchen.

  “The news is all about him. Diego this, Diego that, and he wasn’t even playing!”

  Pablo was crying now. The sound pierced me, and I unlocked the door, my breath ragged and painful.

  Finally, my brother managed to say, “He’s the pride and joy of the city, me included.”

  His voice was like ground glass in my ears.

  “He’s a nobody! No family, no past. I’ve always been beside you, Pablo. Always!” My dad changed tactic and said softly, “Don’t throw this talent away, son. Think of your poor mother.” As if he ever thought of my poor mother. “You will break her heart. Control that girl. Put fútbol first. Don’t be the idiot I was, letting a woman ruin your life.”

  “She’s pregnant,” Pablo said. “It’s done. Marisol’s pregnant.”

  I hoped against all reason that my mom wasn’t listening to this.

  “She finally got what she wanted!” my father yelled, making me shudder. “She’s only after you for the money. You’re an idiot, Pablo, just like I was an idiot when your mother ruined my life, tying me down with a baby. Why, why did God curse me with such useless children!” He huffed like a bull. “Mark my words, Pablo—Marisol won’t see a cent from your contract. Not one coin!”

  Without thinking, I stormed into the hall. The despair on my mom’s pale face turned into horror when she saw me. “No, Camila. Go back to your room.”

  She tried to pull me back, but I shrugged off her hands.

  No more, Mami. No more.

  “Pablo,” I said, my voice stronger than I felt. “Go. Go now. You don’t have to take this anymore.”

  My dad laughed, but I was ready for him.

  “And you? You talk about my brother being an idiot when you . . .” I couldn’t catch my breath. I was drowning. “How could you? How dare you?”

  The ridicule died on his lips. He knew what I was talking about. He’d seen me at the kiosco, hiding behind my umbrella. He knew what he’d done. And he also must have known I wasn’t the weak girl he could manipulate and abuse anymore. I had things to tell. With a sneer, he walked past me as if I were a thing too insignificant for him to care about.

  Instead, he towered over Pablo and in a dismissive voice said, “Go to your room, Pablo. We’ll speak more tomorrow. I can’t deal with your sister’s hysterics.” But my father was the one who headed to his room, slamming the door behind him, the lock turning ominously.

  Pablo turned to me, outrage on his face, and said, “I had everything under control!” He shook like a wet duckling. This terrified boy was going to be a father. And everything he knew about being a father was based on the man who had just stormed away.

  Behind me, my mom stood like a salt statue. Nico stayed next to her, and he whined before curling up at her feet.

  We were all safe, but my brother and my mom didn’t thank me for stepping in. Instead, they both looked at me like I was deranged.

  Without another word, I went back to my room. I lay on my bed in silence, regretting the burst of courage that hadn’t really accomplished anything.

  At five in the morning, my period started after not coming for two full months. I peeked out my door to make sure it was safe to go to the bathroom and put a pad on. I rolled up my stained underwear and put it inside a plastic bag, which I placed on top of the bathroom window. I’d have time to wash it in the morning.

  I stayed awake, watching the shadows on the wall fade as dawn approached. I tried to pray for my brother, for my mom, even for my dad, but the words died on my lips. I didn’t have e
nough faith. Getting away from this, far from my dad’s reach, was the only way I could survive. I wouldn’t be like Pablo.

  My brother left before dawn. I’d hoped for a chance to talk to him, to make sure he was okay. But he surprised me.

  I imagined him packing his brand-name clothes and his Dragon Ball Z figurines before he vanished like a ghost at the sight of the sun. I was happy for my brother and proud of him, but part of me seethed. Now that he was about to have his own family to take care of, he’d left me behind.

  My underwear was gone from the bathroom window. I hoped it hadn’t fallen, because then Nico would’ve for sure found it. Slowly, I ventured out to the kitchen. Although my leg felt better than it had yesterday, my whole body was sore from bracing for my father’s explosion.

  The expectation had been worse than the actual fight.

  My mom sat on her throne, Nico at her feet. She and I looked at each other. It felt like we were both washed-up shipwreck survivors. She wasn’t sewing today. She just sat by the window, nursing the mate in her hands. Usually after one of her fights with my dad, she looked wounded, teary, but now she just looked defeated.

  A cramp stabbed me, and I pressed my hand against my belly.

  My mom smiled, and her eyes turned velvety, soft, grateful. “Gracias a Dios your period came. I was praying you wouldn’t be pregnant, too, mi amor . . . I don’t want you to go through what Marisol will suffer. Stupid girl!”

  My face went hot. If I were a cartoon, steam would have been coming out of my ears. “Why would you be afraid I was pregnant?” My voice cracked. “My period’s always irregular.”

  She shrugged one shoulder and waved my embarrassment away with a hand. “Camila, I was seventeen once and in love with a boy everyone wanted. The difference was that I gave in to the love, and I fell.”

  “I’m not stupid,” I said. She hunched her shoulders, and immediately I wanted to take the words back. But it was too late.

  My mom passed me a mate, a gesture to show me my comment hadn’t offended her. “No. You’re not like me,” she said, tapping at her phone. “You’re smart enough to go to the university. And because you were born under a star, you also have the chance to play fútbol. Fútbol, of all things. You have many opportunities . . . don’t waste this chance.”

  Maybe if someone else had said those words, I would’ve accepted the advice. But coming out of her mouth, it sounded like an accusation.

  She rose from the chair and headed to the bathroom. Her phone was unlocked, resting by the thermos. I looked at it, and blood rushed to my head, making me dizzy.

  On the screen was a picture of Diego and me at the beach a few days ago. We were on our knees, my head was thrown back, and his mouth was on my neck.

  A picture was supposed to be worth a thousand words, but this one didn’t contain the beauty of finally being with him, the thrill of feeling him tremble when I touched him, or the glimpse I had into a limitless future in which we could dominate the world together.

  Instead, it showed a girl selling herself for a chance with . . . what had my mom said? A boy everyone wanted.

  All the other girls, las botineras whom I’d always looked down on—what were their stories, their feelings and intentions? What got erased by scandalous pictures?

  I clicked on the screen and saw the picture had been posted on one of those wives and girlfriends gossip blogs that twisted every relationship a footballer might have for clicks and likes.

  I ran to my room and grabbed my phone. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of accounts dedicated to footballers’ romantic lives. I found whole profiles devoted to Diego’s every move, and the picture of us by the river was on all of them.

  Working-class boy, one of the accounts described him. Workhorse who doesn’t party like the rest of the players his age. Who’s el Titán hiding? Who’s that girl?

  I felt sick.

  Before I could make myself stop looking, I got a text from Roxana.

  Really, Camila? You weren’t going to tell me at all? What game are you playing, huh?

  I called her four times, but she never answered.

  25

  By the time I made it to Doctor Gaudio, the master healer of torn muscles and other athletic afflictions, a week after my injury, my leg was almost back to normal. I didn’t really want to go, but Coach Alicia wouldn’t even let me practice again without a doctor’s note. My mom was too busy pining after Pablo, who refused to come to the house even if my father wasn’t there, to come with me. So I skipped school and went to the polyclinic by myself.

  I sat in the hard plastic chair, trying to ignore the nurses and receptionists as they drank mate and chatted. They didn’t seem to notice the line of people who had gotten up before the sun to see a doctor.

  Diego texted, encouraging me and trying to distract me. This clinic couldn’t possibly compete with the photos he sent of his medical checkups at the Juventus headquarters. The brightness of the futuristic facilities dazzled me through the screen. And I didn’t want his pity. He’d sat in this waiting room plenty of times before, but time and distance softened the sharpest edges of even the worst situations. When he said he actually missed the polyclinic, I told him I’d text him later.

  I caught the eye of a mom sitting across from me, holding her crying baby on her lap. I couldn’t tell how old the little boy was, but he had big brown eyes and even darker hair. He cried in a monotone, yellow snot running from his nose to his chin. His chubby cheeks were chapped from the cold. I wondered what Pablo’s baby would look like, and I imagined Marisol here with him. Or her.

  My mom thinking I’d ever want to become a doctor was proof of how little she knew me. I wasn’t made for this calling.

  It was almost noon by the time the receptionist called my name. A nurse weighed me, measured me, and then led me to an examination room. Like the reception area, the walls were covered in peeling eggshell paint. It smelled like creolin, antiseptic, and humidity.

  “Come in, Hassan,” said Doctor Gaudio, a white man who looked to be in his late forties. His salt-and-pepper hair was long for a guy his age. His smile was tired, and his fingers and teeth had the characteristic yellow tinge of nicotine.

  “Good to meet you, Doctor.”

  He got straight to the point. “What’s going on?” After visiting Miriam, I could see why my mother found him abrasive. He leaned against an examination table covered in a gray sheet that should’ve been retired long ago. He motioned for me to sit on the table and took a seat next to an ancient computer.

  “I . . . got injured playing fútbol, and my coach won’t let me play without a doctor’s note.”

  His eyes brightened. “You play fútbol? Following in your brother’s footsteps?”

  “I wouldn’t say that . . .” I realized that if I were following in anyone’s footsteps, it was my father’s. Both Pablo and I had devoted our lives to our father’s sport. I didn’t know what that said about us.

  After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Doctor Gaudio said, “Show me the injury. I didn’t notice you limping or favoring one foot when you walked in, but I’ve been surprised before.”

  I didn’t know how to do what he was asking, so I just stared at him. After a minute, he understood, and his face softened. “Just a second.” He walked toward the door, opened it, and hollered, “Sonia! Come here for a minute.”

  Sonia came straight away. She’d been one of the nurses drinking mate and laughing behind the counter, but now she seemed attentive. “What do you need, Facundo?”

  “Please stay here while I examine her.”

  Sonia nodded, and after a quick glance in my direction, she stepped into the room.

  I pulled down my warm-up pants and sat on the examination table. Although the leg didn’t hurt anymore, the bruise still looked like a rotten steak. I caught the look that passed between the doctor and Sonia and
felt the need to explain. “I got cleated during my championship game,” I said too quickly. “This girl was a steam engine . . . and then I stepped in a hole . . .” I stopped talking before I sounded more ridiculous than I already did.

  He pressed his lips into a hard line, but his eyes remained soft. “May I?”

  Sonia observed from the corner of the room with a somber expression on her face.

  I nodded, and he inspected my thigh. I hadn’t noticed him putting gloves on. The doctor pressed softly on the bruise and asked, “Does this hurt?”

  “No,” I said, suddenly terrified that the reason it didn’t hurt anymore was because it was injured beyond repair. The doctor checked my ankle next, turning my foot, but that didn’t hurt either.

  He exhaled and smiled tightly. “I think it’s a good idea to do some X-rays to rule out any fractures, especially in your ankle, but I’m pretty sure that it looks a lot worse than it actually is. I guess a truly gifted curandera did her job right.”

  I knew better than to admit I’d gone to a curandera in front of the doctor. Still, I felt like I owed him an explanation. “My brother and Diego Ferrari and even Luciano Durant, remember him? They told me to come here. Luciano is my coach’s assistant . . . and . . .”

  “And Diego Ferrari is your ‘friend’?” Sonia asked. The way she said friend made me want to curl up like a potato bug.

  “Sonia will take you to the radiology room,” the doctor said, and I could tell he was trying not to smile.

  I pulled my pants back up, but before I left the room, he coughed softly. I turned to look at him.

  “Camila . . . if there’s something other than fútbol going on, know that you have options.”

  “I got cleated and then I fell,” I said, dismayed that after everything I’d said, he still hadn’t believed me.

  The doctor turned his palms up in a conciliatory gesture. “In the case that these injuries are the result of a particularly vicious opponent and mere distraction, I advise that you warm up and cool down properly. Eat plenty of protein. Sleep well. Drink water. But then, Pablo, Diego, and Luciano will have already told you all this. But in case there’s something else a curandera can’t cure with a handful of rice or a measure of ribbon, then know that there is help out there. Regardless of the way the news makes it seem, there is help for girls and women like you . . .” He paused, swallowed. And then he added, “There is help for you and your mother.”