Page 90 of Better Than Gelato
I look in his eyes and see pain, anger, and defeat shimmering behind a veil of tears.
“We can fight this,” I say again, but with less conviction.
“Diego’s been fighting this a long time,” Paolo says gently. “He’s ready to stop fighting.”
With those words, all the fire in me dies out, replaced with a hopeless sadness I’ve never known before.
* * *
The next two weeks go by in a blur. Jake flies Diego’s mom out and pays for a hotel by the hospital. Paolo and Jake take turns visiting Diego every day and give me updates.
Carmen and Valentina and I go to visit him on Sunday afternoon. His mom is there, a tiny woman with dark hair and bags under her eyes. Did Diego keep this from her too? I don’t know. We tell her we’ll stay with Diego for a few hours if she wants to go back to the hotel for a nap. She gratefully accepts.
Diego is asleep. He doesn’t look peaceful, like people do in movies. He looks exhausted, broken, small. It’s hard to reconcile the boy in the bed with the yappy puppy Carmen described the first night we met. We stay for two hours, but he doesn’t wake up.
A week later, I go back and visit him on my own. I sit in an aggressively uncomfortable chair holding Diego’s hand and sort through all the things I’ve learned about Diego in the last two weeks. His dad died three years ago, and he came to Milan to work and support his mom and two younger siblings. He worked at a hotel, which I knew about, and picked up extra shifts at a bar, which I didn’t know about.
The pain of losing him is combined with the regret of not being a better friend. Why didn’t I ask Diego about his home? His family? His work? Because I was too caught up in my own drama, fretting about my own dreams. What about Diego’s dream? I know making it in Hollywood was always a longshot, but doesn’t he at least get to try?
He squeezes my hand, and I nearly jump out of my seat.
“Diego!”
He gives me a weak smile, and I can see how much he hates this. Being here. People seeing him this way. So I shove down all the words of sorrow that are fighting to spill out. I give him a smile and shake a finger at him.
“If you didn’t want to get pizza, you could have just told us, instead of collapsing.” I shake my head and try to sound annoyed instead of anguished. “Diego, Diego, so dramatic. You actor types are all the same.”
His smile goes from weak to grateful. He gives my hand another light squeeze, and I prattle on about nothing. About Isa and her latest shenanigans. About my twin nephews who escaped my sister’s house and ran around the neighborhood naked. We ignore the fact that we’re sitting in a hospital room. We ignore the fact that he’s dying.
“How’s the food?” I ask.
Diego makes a face.
“It could be worse. They could make you eat Valentina’s cake.”
Diego laughs, which turns into a cough that wracks his whole body and contorts his face in pain. When he’s through it, he says, “You distracted her with that video, and saved me from her cake.” His voice is soft and raspy.
“I did,” I say.
I want to tell him that I’d sing and dance and juggle and tightrope walk if it would save him from this. Instead, I squeeze his hand and tell him a joke that Isa told me about a goose and a fox.
Two days later, he’s gone.
* * *
The funeral service is being held in Chile. Diego’s mom flew home yesterday with his body. We have our own memorial service of sorts at Paolo’s house. There’s a lot of crying, but there’s laughter too.
We share our favorite memories of Diego. Line dancing at Calypso. Sledding into the bushes in Switzerland. Telling our gang the plot of every single Spiderman movie over pizza one night. Building that huge sandcastle at the beach at Monterosso. His terrible ghost stories. By the end of the night, there’s a feeling of gratitude for Diego and the time we had with him. We didn’t know it would be this short. But looking back, I see we filled it well.
ChapterTwenty-Four
The first time I take my camera out it hurts a little. I haven’t taken a single photo since my rejection from the photography program. And after Diego’s passing, I didn’t really see the point.
But Isa has made a castle out of a set of blocks I found under her bed and demands that it be recorded. She’s been a good sport over the last three weeks. Not asking too many questions. Even giving me a hug when I started crying duringHarry Potterone night.
Isa stands next to her castle, like a game show hostess displaying the grand prize. She changes poses and facial expressions, each one more dramatic than the last. I turn on the camera, screw on the lens and adjust the settings. Then I start snapping. The first one turns out great, and I smile. I’d forgotten this feeling.
“When you’re a famous photographer, I’ll be your model,” Isa says.
