07. When he opened his eyes, his sister was crying on his chest. The room, a blur, revealed a paramedic frozen by surprise, rolling the EKG equipment back, electrodes dangling, eyes wide behind thick glasses. Another EMT murmured, What the fuck. Joanie, visibly shaken, let out a simple "Dios mío" as the paramedic pulled her away. What just happened? Zero asked. The paramedics resumed their work, and the body became a patient once more. Intravenous immunoglobulin, one said. We gotta take him out of here.
08. The ambulance rushed to the nearest hospital. Joanie rode with him, occasionally smiling when the ride smoothed out and she wasn’t nauseous. "You’ll be fine," she whispered, remembering all the times Zero looked after her when she was little. He used to pick her up from school, walking to the bakery at the corner of the old plaza, letting her choose any pastry or slice of cake she wanted. The most colorful, neon-frosted slice, adorned with honeysuckle icing flowers or sugared red umbrellas. "Just the one you want the most," Zero would say, and Joanie felt like the luckiest girl in town. Then they’d walk home, to silence and sadness.
Days without their father meant Zero had to care for his sister, since Yamila, the eldest, had gone to New York to pursue an acting career after a trivial movie, Times Square. She saw Broadway as an amusement park thrill. Living in the Lower East Side, she worked as a singer-waitress, falling in and out of love, crashing at strangers' places. A small part in Chicago felt like her Lady Macbeth role. Yamila dreamed of musicals because she loved singing, had the talent, the voice, the hunger, but also a soft spot for drugs. Cocaine mostly, but whatever rocked her boat. Joanie had called her a week ago when Zero fell ill, the cancer he wanted to hide turning into a nightmare. Fears crystallize terribly into tumors.
Death shines on us all, Zero said when he told Joanie about his condition. Joanie cried because he was more than a brother; he was a friend, a father. They greeted each other every morning with a meme shoot-out, better than good morning, though the first meme always wished for a happy day. A fraternal token, a sign they were alive. God bless WhatsApp, they both acknowledged.
In the hospital, he was diagnosed with respiratory arrest. Certain cancers, like those affecting the brainstem or leading to paraneoplastic syndromes, can impact breathing, the doctor said. No surprise, right?
Zero didn’t answer.
No, it’s not, Joanie replied. But it was a hell of a scare.
Of course. Cancer cells can have systemic effects. Severe fatigue before the episode?
He didn’t say anything, Joanie reproached.
I was… tired, yes… I thought it was the trip from San Juan to Rincón.
The West is the best, the doctor said. Are you eating well?
Define well.
Healthy? Vitamins? Following cancer treatment?
Yes, Zero replied. Both chemo and radiation.
It’s aggressive. Mad. It can impair respiratory function. I found lung inflammation, scarring, compromising breathing.
Yes, but I’m done with that.
You can’t.
Exactly. You can’t, Joanie intervened.
I just want to go back to the beach house, Zero said.
Silence filled the air. The nurses’ carts echoed down the hall. The window shades were baby blue. Zero liked them.
How long? he asked.
The stillness was cold, wordless. Everything had been stated. Agreed. Decided.
09. It took more than two hours to reach Rincón safely. The sun pulled them into its center. They listened to Tommy Torres, Joanie’s favorite. Besides pop ballads, she needed salsa. Zero loved music, but not TT or salsa. I’m the worst Puerto Rican, he used to say, quoting a dark character from a novel, The Gravity of Loss. He preferred Miles Davis, Charles Mingus, Marvin Gaye, Al Green, ‘70s soul like The Spinners or The Ohio Players. Not TT.
In the half-light of evening, Zero Ghilucci felt the weight of a debt he owed to a man who had taken bread from their mouths: his father, Mateo Ghilucci. A disciplined, loyal soldier, Mateo had navigated life in Germany, Sicily, and Naples. Zero's father, a figure who boasted of military precision, would come home inebriated, his stories flowing freely. He could metamorphose at will, from breakfast to dinner, to the Sunday night family gatherings when the whole family sat around Zero's mother, Rita, who devoted Sunday evenings to going to church first, and watching Walter Mercado's astrology show, later.
In those days, the family had two television sets: the Alpha piece of living room furniture that meant communal viewing, and a more clandestine set in the master bedroom where his father indulged in uncensored films, away from Rita's discerning eye.
Yet, Zero was always probing, casting his inquiries like fishing hooks into the depths of his father's concealed life.
The day his father died, Zero was engulfed by a sense of estrangement, as if he had never truly known him. His emotions churned—a repressive pain, an obstructive hatred, a profound anguish. Yet, beneath it all, there was love, a love that had carried him through.
Zero thought of this throughout much of their journey, silence prevailed, a heavy, unspoken presence between him and Yamila.
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