Dezanove Estrelas

Cristiano put his car in park, killing the engine. He sat back in his seat, and sighed. Just another day. He glanced out the window to see the parking lot, nearly empty. Just a few cars, counting three or four, scattered around the lot. Cris ran a hand down his face - not so much out of frustration, but ponder.

Lately his life just seemed to be…there. He felt purposeless. He woke up every morning. Went to practice. Then came home. Of course, there were game days, which altered some daily habits. But for the most part, that lifestyle he once craved for - the parties, the spotlight, the fame and fortune - was gone. It no longer existed.

Sure there were times when he craved it. These were times usually spent sulking. When he was depressed or glum.

But there were times when he just didn’t want it; and killed himself inside for ever thinking of wanting it. Like right now.

“Papa?” a child’s voice sounded from the backseat.

Cristiano turned his head to make eye contact with the young man, he was proud to call his son. The little boy of only four year’s of age sat, buckled up in the backseat of Cristiano Ronaldo’s Audi. Right by the window. Around three and a half feet tall, the boy’s legs dangled over the edge of the seat. Dark brown hair, cut into a faux-hawk just like his father’s. Bone structure like his father’s. Lips, just like Cris’s too. The boy was dressed, head to toe in Nike gear, as he had just been picked up from practice with his own team. No doubt, that this was Cristiano’s boy. But one distinction that brought the greatest feeling to Cris’s heart, was that Andres Ricardo-Rey Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro, had eyes like his mother’s. Dark brown, open soul, filled to the brim with love, eyes.

“Sim Andres?” Cristiano responded.

He may have looked just like Cris, but his spirit and personality was just like Camilla’s. Always polite. Never gets angry. Undeniably forgiving. Maybe that’s just the way any child his age would act - but Camilla had the golden heart of a child.

“O que é este lugar?” (“What is this place?”)

Since the day he was born, Cristiano knew that one day, he’d have to talk to his son about this place. He just hoped it wouldn’t have happened for maybe another year. But Andres was a smart boy, like his mom. He caught on quick.

Cristiano winked at his son, “Venha em, eu o mostrarei.” (“Come on, I’ll show you.”) Cris then got out of the car, then walked over to where Andres sat, and helped him out. Andres held his hand out for his papa, who gladly accepted, and the two began walking. Cristiano, obviously leading the way.

-X-

Cristiano stared intently at his reflection in the mirror. His all black suit was tailored to perfection. His hair done perfectly. And his posture, tall and confident. His hands, at the moment were busy tying his white tie. Though he may have looked composed in the mirror, inside, he was nothing but a nervous wreck.

His heart was pounding, his palms were sweating, and his breathing was out of control. Needless to say he was scared. Though he tried to forget, and though every one of his peers tried to convince him otherwise, he still could not forgive himself for all that has happened: Camilla’s endeavored childbirth, especially, and for the days, weeks and months prior.

He sighed, took a deep breath and tried to picture life ahead. After today everything will be different. Much, much different.

A knock was sounded at the door and a minister of the church snuck his head through the open door, “Quince minutos Sr. Ronaldo. Entonces el servicio empezará.” (“Fifteen minutes Mr. Ronaldo. Then the service will begin.”)

Cris nodded his head and thanked the man. It was only him in this small church office. He had spent the last hour greeting guests outside, all dressed for this formal occasion.

Once Cristiano’s tie had finished he took a seat on one of the leather chairs of the room.

One. Two. Three.

He counted silently to himself.

One. Two. Three.

There was another knock at the door, Cristiano called to whoever was on the other side, to just come on in. His back was to the door, so he did not know who had entered until he heard the soothing sound of his mother’s angelic voice, followed by a baby’s tiny whimper. Cris immediately smiled and stood from his seat to greet his mother and son.

“Cristiano,” his mother whispered, so as not to irritate the child more, “Ele tem estado alvoroçando-se todo o dia, e ele dobra o seu terno.” (“he has been fussing all day, and he is wrinkling his suit.”)

Cris only smiled and took his son from his mother’s arms, “Ele só quer ir para casa. Ele teve um muito longa e semana cansativa.” (“he only wants to go home. He’s had a very long and tiring week.”)

Cristiano sat down, and tried to settle down the little boy in his arms, while his mother sat beside him on the arm of the chair. “¿Entonces cómo hace usted?” (“So how are you doing?”) she asked Cristiano.

“Bueno.”

But Dolores wasn’t having it, she raised her brow in disbelief. “Realmente? O nada rolando por sua mente agora mesmo?” (“Really? Nothing rolling through your mind right now?”) Cris just shrugged as he tried to get his son to stop fidgeting. He honestly had nothing to voice. Even if he had, he probably wouldn’t voice it out loud. His mother rolled her eyes at her son and went to pick up her grandson, but Cris shook his head.

“A mamã, eu posso ter algumas palavras com meu filho, rápido, antes que o serviço começa?” (“Mom, can I have a few words with my son, quick, before the service begins?”)

Dolores kissed Cristiano on the forehead, “Você pode ter tantas palavras como você gostaria de com seu filho.” (“you may have as many words as you’d like with your son.”) she whispered softly, before exiting the room.

Cristiano sighed, and stared down at the baby in his arms. Big, brown eyes, identical to his own, bore back to Cris. “Você pronto para isto?” (“You ready for this?”) he asked his son. Still in his infancy, this child before him had a nearly full head of hair, and a continuously developing body and face. When he was first born, he looked so similar to Cristiano but now, and everyday, he began to look more and more like his mother - which is exactly what Cris wants.

He stood with his baby still in arms, “Eu sei que coisas não foram fáceis em você ultimamente, mas deste atacante de dia, eles estarão melhores. Depois de hoje, tudo será melhor filho. Eu prometo.” (“I know things have not been easy on you lately, but from this day forward, they will be better. After today, everything will be better son. I promise.”)

A knock sounded at the door. Dolores once again popped into the room, “Cristiano, é tempo.” (“Cristiano, it’s time.”) She walked over to take the baby. A single tear slipped from his mother’s eye. “Você pronto?” (“You ready?”)

Cris nodded, “Tão pronto quanto eu pode ser mamãe.” (“As ready as I can be.”)

-X-

“É um dia belo hoje pai,” (“It’s a beautiful day today papa,”) little Andres looked up at his dad with squinted eyes, as to not make too much contact with the sun. This broke Cristiano from his thoughts, and he smiled. It was a lovely day out. The Madrid sun shone high in the sky. Birds chirped. And a cool breeze would blow by just when needed. “Então o que é este lugar?” (“So what is this place?”)

His innocence only made Cris fear that this was going to be much harder than he originally thought. But there was no turning back now. They were almost at their destination when Cris looked down at his son and responded, “Isto é onde você é mãe é, Andres.” (“This is where you’re mother is, Andres.”)

At that, Andres’s eyes had ignited with a light Cris had never seen before. “Realmente? Eu posso encontrar mamãe hoje?” (“Really? I get to meet mama today?”)

Cris inhaled sharply, trying not to let the tears escape. “Bem eu sempre tomava-o aqui. Quando você era só este grande,” (“Well I used to always take you here. When you were only this big,”) Cris made the motion with his hands to indicate how little Andres once was. Obviously at four years old, everything before that age seemed pretty fuzzy. “Da mamãe de dia moveu aqui, você sempre esteve correcto aqui demais. Ultimamente embora, coisas estiveram ocupadas com trabalho e eu não achei o tempo até agora.” (“From the day mama moved here, you’ve always been right here too. Lately though, things have been busy with work and I haven’t found the time until now.”)

Andres nodded his head. Slight confusion taking over as he tried to connect the dots. Just a few more steps, and Cristiano had found the spot. Their spot. Camilla.

“Isto é mamãe?” (“This is mama?”) Andres asked, still confused.

Cristiano nodded, giving his son’s hand a small squeeze, “Isto é mamãe.” (“This is mama.”)

Before the two of them, displayed a long rectangular shaped, bed of daisies, and behind that, a mini, four-foot tall statue of an angel, holding a gravestone. On it, etched:

Camilla-Rey Verano.
6 Marzo 1987 - 12 Agosto 2010
Amada Hija y Bendijo Madre
En el Cielo y en la Tierra, será para siempre nuestro ángel.

Camilla-Rey Verano.
6 Marzo 1987 - 12 Agosto 2010
Beloved Daughter & Blessed Mother
In Heaven and on Earth, you will forever be our angel.

Cristiano crouched down so he was leveled with his son. “Quando você nasceram Andres, sua mamãe tinha passado longe.” (“When you were born Andres, your mama had passed away.”)

Andres always knew something was wrong. Even at four years old, he had picked up on the fact that he did not have a mother. He just could not understand why, until now. “Porque?” (“Why?”) he asked, with a shaking voice.

Cris bit his lip, not really knowing how to put together his next words. “O seu corpo estava doente. Ela só teve suficiente energia dar me você, antes que Deus tinha-a tomado a céu-” (“Her body was sick. She only had enough energy to give me you, before God had taken her to heaven-”)

“Então é minha culpa?” (“So it’s my fault?”) Andres interjected.

But Cris stopped him before he could make himself believe any other such nonsense, “no.” He told the boy, “Número não era seu culpa Andres. Era somente o tempo da mamãe. Os anjos necessitaram-na.” (“No. It was not your fault Andres. It was just mama’s time. The angels needed her.”) Andres got quiet after that. The look on his face tore Cristiano’s heart in two. Maybe Andres was too young, but he needed to know now, before he gets frustrated later in life. “Eu trago-o aqui, cada semana Andres, então você, eu e a posso conversar. Então nós podemos passar tempo junto como uma família. Então você pode contá-la sobre seu dia, e ela pode contá-lo sobre o seu…” (“I bring you here, every week Andres, so you, I and her can talk. So we can spend time together as a family. So you can tell her about your day, and she can tell you about hers…”)

“Mas como?” (“But how-?”)

Cris pointed to the boys heart. “Tudo ela já deverá contá-lo em sua vida, você sentir-se-á em seu filho de coração.” (“Everything she’ll ever need to tell you in your life, you will feel in your heart son.”)

For some odd reason, Andres was able to comprehend that. With those words, he knew exactly what his father was talking about. He adverted his gaze from his dad’s eyes, to the bed of daisies and the gravestone. Andres rounded the flowers, and walked over to the gravestone. He was just beginning the learning process of reading and phonics. So in his head, he put together the words on the gravestone. Cristiano, still kneeling, watched silently.

Quietly, Andres put the letters, sounds, and words together. Until finally, he said:

“Camilla.”

He looked at his father who smiled, “Camilla.”