‘I bought you a little plush soccer ball when you were born. It was in the St John of God Hospital in Geraldton. You won’t remember. When you were toddling, in your little walker with the wheels on it, I’d put the soccer ball in front of you and say, “Figlio mio, veni ca!” And you’d flap your hands and scoot over and kick it.’ His eyes are shiny, fond of me in a way I don’t remember seeing before. ‘I had a plan. You were meant to be my soccer boy.’
‘Huh? I never knew that.’
‘I wanted Robbie to be my footy boy. I wanted my firstborn to play footy and you were going to play soccer.’ He splays his hands at me in the hospital bed, like I’m a punctured soccer ball. ‘Then Robbie liked soccer more than footy. And you didn’t like any sports. I tried to make you do them and you wouldn’t have a bar of it.’
A vague image tugs at me: Dad pressuring me to join some Auskick thing in year one and me clinging to his leg and refusing to go onto the oval.
‘It doesn’t matter anymore,’ he says, waving a hand that crumples into his lap, sad and weak, not a fist. ‘The dream has already gone skewiff. You and Robbie were both meant to live in Gero, have wives and kids, work for the family business. We’d play Briscola after work, sink beers, my footy boy and my soccer boy. We’d have pasta on Saturday nights. No matter what life threw at me, I thought that dream was simple enough to come true.’
‘Dad, I’m not dead,’ I say. ‘The pasta night could still happen. But one day I’ll bring a boy home, not a girl. If you’re never gonna let that happen, tell me now, and we’ll both have to move on with our lives.’
Dad looks at me all teary again. I don’t understand why he’s so upset: this whole walk down memory lane, he’s looked like he’s been told I’m dying.
Dad stands up from his chair and sweeps me into a massive hug, his salt-and-pepper whiskers scratching my cheek. ‘Youaremy son, and Idolove you,’ he says, echoing my false words to Siobhan earlier. ‘I’m sorry I hit you at Robbie’s wedding. It was a shock.’
I put my arm around Dad’s back and press my weight against his, feeling the strength of his body against me, warm and comforting and for once, not quickly withdrawing. I blink a sting out of my eyes.
Dad pats me firmly on the back. ‘So, tell me. How long do you have?’
I pull back. ‘Huh? In here? Just until my oxygen sats are normal …’
Dad stands up, clasping his hands in front of him in his funeral pose again. ‘No, I mean – how long do you have left …’ he says, struggling with the last two words ‘… to live?’
I blink back at him, utterly confused. ‘Um? I hope, like, until I’m eighty or ninety, I guess? What … did they tell you something I don’t know?’
Dad taps the chart beside my bed. ‘I saw this on your list of regular medications you’re taking. Truvada. I googled it.’ He looks away from me. ‘It’s a HIV medication. Why didn’t you tell us you had AIDS?’
Oh my fucking God.
‘Dad, no – you got the wrong end of the stick,’ I correct him. ‘Truvada’s used to prevent HIV infection, too. It’s called PrEP. We take it so we can have sex without a condom. I’m totally fine. And even if I wasn’t, HIV isn’t a death sentence anymore … they can treat it these days …’
‘Oh, thank God.’ Dad’s wiping his eyes, his shoulders shaking with relief. ‘Thank God.’
‘Wait, did you only apologise because you thought I wasdying?’
Dad winces. ‘S’pose so. But screw it, okay, fine. Life’s too short. You can bring a boy home for pasta one day, if that’s what you want.’
I never thought I’d live to hear him say those words. I look at my father’s ruddy, stubbled face and see him meeting my gaze, like we are finally reaching an understanding.
‘Thank you, Dad.’
‘I wish I knew why you ended up like that. I’m sorry if I did something wrong.’
‘You didn’t, Dad. Just how I am. Roll of the dice. I didn’t make a choice.’
‘Right. I know. Robbie’s always saying that.’
We fall into a silence that isn’t completely uncomfortable. I’m kinda touched that Robbie has my back even when I’m not in the room. I decide to ask him to watch a game of footy with me next time we’re in the same town.
‘What happened to your hands?’ Dad asks eventually, touching his own knuckles by way of asking about my bloodied ones.
‘I snapped at footy training. Had some kinda meltdown. Punched a wall.’
‘Huh. Always the quiet ones you gotta watch out for, ay?’ Dad whistles, looking me up and down like he’s meeting me for the first time. ‘Well, that was stupid, wasn’t it? Bet your hands hurt. Bloodystronzo.’
‘Yep. And I’ve done my dash at that club because of it. Sucks cos I really liked footy, Dad. I don’t care if you make fun of me for it. God, those times when I was a kid, I wanted to be one of those footy boys, even then. They were cool and confident and they had fun. But they always gave me a hard time and it would’ve been hell – no, impossible – trying to fit in with them back then. I knew that. Finally got my shit together in my twenties and now I’ve even fucked that up. Guess it wasn’t meant to be.’
Dad folds his arms, a cumulonimbus expression storming onto his face. ‘Well, that’s a bit stiff. Footy club shouldn’t kick you out for that. Plenty worse behaviour goes on at every club I’ve ever known.’
