Alien

 The beeping of her cardiac monitor melded with her father's sobs to punctuate the man's soliloquy. Inês didn't get to hear him speak Portuguese often, so, in spite of the dire circumstances, she was enjoying the moment.

“És a minha âncora,” he said. “Não sei o que seria de mim sem ti.”

His anchor, she repeated to herself; no pressure.

Though she couldn't exactly say that came as a shock to her; since her mother's passing, her grandmother and she had pretty much been the only two people outside of his work that her father had kept in regular contact with. Wait, she thought. Her grandmother... Had her father told her what had happened? She would be beside herself once she found out. Inês' next Christmas holiday would hardly be restful – if she made it there.

She was quickly thrown from her train of thought to the earth as a piercing pain pulsated in her groin. She couldn't move to feel what it was, but it felt like she'd been punched or stabbed. Around her, the thick cocoon-like cover still surrounded her up to her clavicles. On her mouth, the same kind of oxygen mask she had worn in the ambulance was still present, providing a constant supply of warm, humid air. Finally, a poking sensation in her arm led her to believe that she was still receiving some kind of perfusion, although she couldn't see it because of the blanket.

Inês' dad hovered over her for the first time since she'd come back to her senses that night. He was the same tall, handsome man as she remembered: dark and serious, with brunet hair and chestnut eyes; a sight for sore eyes. Inês felt immense relief as she saw him. She wasn't sure why, but she immediately wanted to let herself scream and burst into tears. She wanted to speak, to tell him what had happened, and that it wasn't her fault; that she hadn't done anything wrong. She wanted him to hold her and to tell her it would all be alright in the end.

Her father placed his hand on her forehead and brushed her hair out of her eyes.

“Sabes por que é que a tua mãe e eu te pusemos em aulas de música?” her father asked. “Era porque eras tão tímida quando eras pequena… tínhamos tanto medo de que o mundo te devorasse e te cuspisse fora, de que não conseguisses sair viva. Queríamos apenas tornar-te mais forte.”

She shed a tear for the third time that night.

The nausea was overwhelming. The idea of a hot bath had been an oasis of solace for Inês; she had imagined a deep, steaming plunge, in a restful room, with a calming ambiance, but in practice: the lukewarm bath was cold and clinical; the bathroom walls were white, the tub was white, the harsh, glaring light was white, and the smell was the same as the rest of the hospital: antiseptic and monotone. At least, they had started to give her strong analgesics for the pain, so she didn't feel it quite as bad as she had on the first night. The frostbite and ECMO insertion sites felt merely sore and uncomfortable, now.

The bath itself seemed to take an eternity. She was stuck in a room with no stimulation. There was a nurse with her, but Inês wasn't in a state to talk, so she might as well have been in solitary confinement. The water felt oddly hot for thirty-seven degrees Celsius. Her skin prickled quickly. As a male nurse carried her out of the tub, she began to feel a kind of alien sensation from deep within her: it was as if a kind of sinkhole had caved in in her stomach. She felt more nauseous, too; but it was the end of her first full day at the hospital, so she didn't have anything to give up.

The evening nurse came to wrap her hands and feet in sterile compresses. She also applied Aloe Vera on her damaged skin. For the first time, she put Inês on a glucose IV. It felt different from the saline, but not fulfilling. That's when she finally understood the emptiness, the hole: she was hungry. She couldn't yet talk, or she would've begged for food.

That night, she dreamed of fresh, crisp bread and rich, sweet chocolate.

It was early September in the afternoon; more than two months had passed. The tourists had deserted Porto, so the São Roque park was largely vacant. Under the cool, late summer sky, Inês strolled casually with her father among the lush greenery. They paused along a small bridge that overlooked shallow, muddy waters.

“How have your medical appointments been going?” asked her father as he leaned on the quaint, wooden guardrail.

Inês let her shoulders fall.

“Do we really have to speak English?” she sighed.

He looked at her dissatisfied.

“Language…”

“... is power, I know.” she rested against the railing, rolling her eyes as her back was turned.

A married couple passed them, each holding one of their little boy's hand. On her back, the wife was carrying a chubby baby, who smiled at Inês as they traversed the bridge. Her gaze lingered on the happy family as a flock of ducks quacked in the pond below.

“It's been going well,” she finally answered, her arms crossed. “The social worker is nice and the psychologist… Well, I won't have to see the psychologist again, so…”

Her father seemed to hesitate an instant, looking down at his hands. He turned to face the same way as Inês.

“Can I ask what you told her?” he asked. “The psychologist, I mean.”

Inês stared straight ahead, gazing at the waltzing branches of the oak trees. Their sweet, earthy aroma was soothing to her lagged mind. She turned to her father, the wind pushing her wild, untamed hair over her face.

“You know what I told her,” she said. “It was in the letter I wrote to you.”

He tapped his hand on the railing, biting his upper lip, and walked away. She followed.

They stopped a little further away, sitting on stone benches around a stone table. The scene was serene, crowned by an ancient pergola and besieged by thick flora. Inês was glad she had chosen to wear her simple canvas shoes that day, all that walking in her Doc Martens would have made her feet bleed. A soft breeze passed through her brown linen trousers. Fall would be here soon, she thought.

“You know, a lot of dads are set on having boys, but I didn't care. My only hope was always for a healthy child,” he said, wet-eyed. “When you came into this world, you instantly became the most important thing to me; same thing for your mother.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder. His eyes glimmered. The tears streamed down his face.

“I just want to make sure you're doing well,” he continued. “I love you.”

He kissed her on the cheek and embraced her. She hugged him back. Inês couldn't remember the last time she had felt this warm. They stayed fixed in this enduring hold, the wind murmuring around them.

“It's OK if you want to talk about it,” he said. “But... you know it was only a dream, right?”

Inês didn't offer a response. The only thing she could say that would make her father happy in that instant would be a lie because she didn't, in fact, know that it had all been a dream.

She looked down at the ground; on the stone tiling, a fawn-colored cat was playing predator, chasing a blackbird for supper.

Inês got up and walked away.

“Come on!” she exclaimed with a quick look back. “It's already past six! I wanna see the chapel before the park closes.”

The São Roque park's chapel was a small, almost square building, attended on its left side by one row of three arches. In front of it, there were short rose bushes, and, behind the structure, stood tall, lanky eucalyptus trees.

There was a group of three children playing and laughing in the low orange sun; chasing each other as the gulls' keening echoed over the tranquil park.

Inês and her father stood silent looking at the little white chapel.

“I didn't know you had put me in music lessons because I was shy,” she said after a beat.

“What?” asked her father, confused. “Oh, you heard that? Yeah, you were a very introverted little girl, your mom and I wanted to make sur you wouldn't clam up.”

“But why music?”

“It seemed beneficial,” he said. “Like it might make you not just more confident, but also smarter and more cultured.”

Inês analyzed the details of the chapel's architecture carefully. She smiled.

“This all time, I thought you wanted me to learn about our culture,” she said.

Her father looked at her, puzzled.

“Fado, I mean,” she added.

“Well, that's a nice sentiment, but Portugal is in the world's rear view mirror,” he said. “That's why I worked hard for you to speak English; to give you a competitive edge.”

Inês gazed into her father's eyes. There was a moment of latence.

“Não.”