Nanda

Nanda
Five Years Ago

Although I had fun with my parents on New Year’s Eve, something that hadn’t happened in a long time, being at a party without my boyfriend by my side felt so wrong and incomplete.
Shortly after the midnight toast, when the party moved to the resort’s dance floor — the moment when the older guests head back to their rooms and the young start enjoying the real party — unlike every previous year, I also withdrew.
I had that typical feeling that both excited and terrified me because I came to the conclusion that Hermes really was the only company I needed. It was only then that I understood why I was more interested in going to sleep early to enjoy the calm morning at the beach’s first hours than in the wild lights following the DJ’s rhythm.
“What was I going to do there without my boyfriend?” I thought as I arrived in the room.
I grabbed my phone and, after a long sigh, resigned to my fate of being with him, I sent a message:

“I love you, babe.”

I was already used to Hermes disappearing from his phone, which always happened when he was in the middle of some operation. It was all part of the package of having a boyfriend in the police; I knew I’d have to wait to receive his reply sometime the next day.
So I took a quick shower and went to bed, still with my heart swollen from the memories of our early New Year’s celebration.
When I woke up the next morning, silence still lingered through the halls, exactly how I wanted it. I would enjoy the beach before it got crowded.
I got out of bed, opened the curtains, and let the morning sunlight fill the room. The silence was so intense that, to break the echo, I turned on the TV to some random channel and went to the bathroom to get ready.
I had a morning ritual: shower, creams... I chose my favorite bikini and went to get the sunscreen I’d left inside my beach bag.

“Reports of thefts and small incidents were recorded, but Florianópolis had a peaceful New Year’s with tourists toasting on the beaches.

In São Paulo, however, the civil and military police were busy, and the city paid a sad price.

After an armed confrontation during a robbery at a cash transport company on New Year’s Eve, the joint operation ended in tragedy in the capital. Two GARRA officers were injured, one in serious condition.”

“Hermes!” I let the sunscreen tube drop to the floor, overwhelmed by the worst feeling in the world. “Hermes!”
Invaded by a cold sensation in my chest, I felt my heart race, and despair ruled inside me.
Cold blood ran through my veins, leaving me breathless. It was as if, without knowing, I already knew—and I couldn’t stop the panic growing in my chest.
He had cut our conversation short minutes before midnight when he rushed off to respond to a call. I grabbed my phone, and the message I had sent him was still unanswered, not even read.
The beating in my chest grew stronger and faster; I trembled holding the phone, searching for his number through my favorites list, but the call didn’t even connect.
I scrolled through the contacts and found his mother’s number, which was answered on the third ring, though a male voice came through instead.
“Mr. João?” I asked, unable to hide my desperation.
“Nanda, how are you? Happy New Year!” He sounded calm. “My wife’s upstairs; do you want to talk to her?”
“Happy New Year, Mr. João,” I forced myself to stay calm. “Actually, I want to know if you have any news about Hermes. His phone is off.”
I wasn’t sure if I was overreacting, causing a storm in a teacup, or if my sudden panic was justified.
“We spoke with him yesterday, shortly before he left for his shift,” he said—and I almost collapsed.
“He’s not answering his phone, and I just saw on the news that there was a shootout involving GARRA.”
“Calm down, my daughter,” his voice remained steady. “Stay calm. Give me a minute; I’ll call the chief superintendent.”
“I need to know, Mr. João,” my throat tightened, my voice trembling.
“Nanda, stay on the line. I’m calling from my cell.”
I heard some indistinct comments and others whose words I couldn’t understand.
The conversation was very distant, and those minutes felt like an eternity. I barely managed to stand on my own legs, still hoping I was just being a neurotic mess, wishing everything would be resolved soon so I could realize nothing had happened, that I was just jumping to conclusions.
“Nanda,” Mr. João spoke again, maintaining his tone. “Hermes was admitted early this morning to the Public Servant Hospital. We have no information on his medical report.”
Those milliseconds of tension, when I heard but no longer processed anything, my heart racing so much I was short of breath.
“No!” A tear rolled down my cheek despite my fight against all my emotions.
The report said one officer was in serious condition. What if it was him? How could he be in a hospital bed while I was here on the beach celebrating?
“Stay calm. We know you’re not in the city, but I’m heading up the mountain now and will keep you informed.”
“I’m going too, Mr. João,” I was determined. “No matter how, I’ll find a flight,” I added, trying to compose myself, searching for strength I didn’t even have, because my love needed me.
Even with tears streaming down my face, I had no time to sit and cry; I needed to go after him. I didn’t care how, but I was going to make it happen. I threw my things into my suitcase, took off my swimsuits, put on decent clothes, and without even telling my parents, I was already in a taxi heading t
o the airport, with the airline on the line.



I managed to catch the first available flight to São Paulo, which, luckily for me, was about to depart when I arrived at the airport. An hour later, I was already landing at Congonhas and rushed straight to the Public Servant Hospital, carrying a backpack and my wheeled carry-on.
On the way, I spoke with Mrs. Mirtes, who was also desperate for news.
Would I ever get used to this life with Hermes? Danger had always been there, lurking, waiting for the moment it would force me to face the reality that he had the most dangerous job in the world.
The faith I had in the love I nurtured inside me made me believe my boyfriend would be okay, that he would survive for us, but reality showed me that even if he came out of that ambush alive, it didn’t mean he was safe. After all, what would our following days be like?
How could I live a life full of tension and insecurity, afraid of every call on my phone, every news report, surviving under the shadow of a profession that could take him away from me at any moment?
Was I really strong enough for this? Strong enough to endure seeing him get into that patrol car every day, without any guarantee he’d return to me at the end of his shift?
How could Hermes keep living like this?
I, whose eyes were swollen from crying during the flight, let the tears roll down my face again, which looked pale when I saw myself on the phone camera.
Luckily, I arrived at the hospital quickly because the streets after the New Year’s party were deserted, and from my constant contact with Mrs. Mirtes, I knew she would arrive shortly after.
“Are you a relative?” asked one of the receptionists when I anxiously requested information about Hermes, desperate and a little agitated.
“He is my boyfriend!” I raised my voice impatiently—didn’t she understand how I felt?
It was the love of my life who had been injured in the line of duty, and no one wanted to give me any news! No one deserved to know more than me, deserved to be with him. I hadn’t come there to identify the victim; my heart was tight and overflowing with love—I was there to give him life, to stay strong.
“Only family members, ma’am,” the receptionist insisted coldly, showing no sympathy for my suffering.
“Tell me at least if he’s alive!” I begged, not even knowing how to make her feel sorry and help me.
I wasn’t the kind of woman to lose control, but suddenly, I found myself crying, completely upset with the receptionist who seemed to speak to me with complete reluctance—or maybe it was just my impression, immersed in my despair?
“Nanda!” I heard Mrs. Mirtes’s breathless voice from afar, and it was the first relief I felt since I saw that news on the morning broadcast.
“They’re not telling me anything!” I wiped my tears in vain because they didn’t stop.
“I demand to know about the investigation into Hermes Paranhos,” Mr. João arrived banging hard on the counter. “I’m a former delegate; he is my son!” He used a tone so firm I had never heard before.
From the moment Hermes’s parents identified themselves, the process began to flow better, and finally, we would get some news.
We were sent to talk to the person in charge of the shift team; information was conflicting, and all we knew was that two officers had been admitted, one had not survived the injuries, and the other was under medical evaluation.
I didn’t know how to handle that information—who was Hermes?
I had no way of knowing more, and it was making me anguished. How could there be so much bureaucracy to find out the condition of a victim who was working for the State, protecting civilians?
“Sthef?” It occurred to me to call a friend whose family was very close to my father’s.
“Nanda! Long time no see, where have you been?” I heard an excited voice on the other end, but I wasn’t in the mood to get into ‘BFF’ vibes.
“Friend, I need help! My boyfriend, we still don’t know how he is, what happened, if he’s okay…” The desperation in my tone made Sthefany pay close attention — but if the doctor confirms he’s alive — I could barely say the words; everything seemed like a nightmare I was struggling to wake from — I’ll need your help because I want him to be evaluated by the best.
“Where are you?”
“At the Public Servant Hospital.”
“I’ll send an ambulance there immediately!”
Minutes later, the news arrived for Mr. João:
“Your son is alive but still unconscious. He is undergoing some tests; you need to wait.”



Hermes

I woke up in a hospital, looked around—it was a suite with two beds, and the one next to mine seemed empty.
I felt pain in my chest and head. I looked at my torso and saw a bluish bruise in the center. I touched my forehead and felt a bump. That’s when I remembered everything—the shootout, my partner Marcos being hit, the blows I took to the chest and head. I sat up on the bed and groaned in pain.
At that moment, the door opened and three doctors entered.
“What do you think you’re doing?” asked the oldest one, a middle-aged man in a white coat. “You need to stay lying down,” he added. “I’m Dr. Fernando, head of traumatology at this hospital. These are Dr. Marcos and Dr. Sthefany, last-year residents.”
“Where am I?” I asked, lying back down.
“You’re at Domênica Xavier Hospital,” the doctor replied softly, a beautiful blonde woman with green eyes and long hair, while pressing a button that raised the automatic backrest of the bed.
I knew the hospital—I had passed by it many times—but I didn’t understand how I ended up there. How did a civil police officer get rescued by one of the best hospitals in Latin America?
My hospitalization would cause a big hole in the state coffers, which would probably cover the treatment costs.
“Do you feel any discomfort? Headache, nausea?” asked the other doctor, as young as the female doctor.
“My chest and forehead hurt a little,” I thought a bit before answering, clenching my jaw as he examined the bruises.
“That’s no surprise. You were hit by 9mm bullets in the chest and head. If it weren’t for your ballistic vest and helmet, you’d be dead,” he explained while examining me with a device that looked like a small powerful flashlight, dazzling my eyes.
“You have a concussion, but apparently nothing serious,” the doctoress added. I noticed tension between the two because she said this while staring at the doctor, who seemed to ignore her since they entered the room. “We have some exams from the hospital where you were first taken, but we’ll run our own to be sure of the diagnosis.”
“How is my partner?” I found myself anxious for the answer, remembering the blood on the asphalt as I tried to drag him to shelter.
“I’m sorry,” the doctoress said, lightly touching my forearm. “He was not transferred here, there wasn’t time.”
“He didn’t survive. He was hit by a rifle bullet in the abdomen that pierced his ballistic vest,” explained the more experienced doctor. “Dr. Marcos was there but couldn’t do anything; it was too late,” he concluded, pointing to the doctor next to me, who gave a sad smile.
Dead?
My partner was dead, fallen in the line of duty. He left behind elderly parents and a girlfriend. That could have been me. A flood of thoughts overwhelmed my mind.
“How long have I been unconscious?” I asked, trying to remember details of what had happened.
“The incident happened during the New Year’s countdown, but you’ve been here sedated since this morning,” Dr. Marcos replied.
I looked out the window, observing the light; it seemed the day was ending.
“I’m sorry,” said the doctoress, touching my arm again.
“Thank you,” I replied and realized my parents and Fernanda must have seen the news about what had happened on TV. “Have you seen my phone?”
“No, you were transferred in already wearing hospital clothes,” Dr. Marcos answered.
“Thank you,” I thanked again.
At that moment, the door suddenly opened and Fernanda rushed in, throwing herself into my arms with tears in her eyes.
“Ow,” I groaned, feeling a sharp pain in my chest and head as I hugged her.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said and kissed me gently on the lips.
I stared at her for a moment—she wore sneakers, jeans, and a black blouse. Her hair was tied in a ponytail, with almost no makeup, just a soft-colored lipstick on her lips. Her dark eyes shone from the tears forming, and I noticed she had slight dark circles.
“I heard it on the news, tried to call you but couldn’t, spoke with your parents—they helped me get news because no one wanted to talk to me at the Public Servant Hospital,” she caressed my face gently now. “The uncertainty about how you were was the worst moment of my life.”
“Was I taken to the Public Servant Hospital? How did I end up at Domênica?” I asked, feeling numb, probably from the dose of painkiller being administered through the catheter by one of the doctors, who quietly left shortly after.
I had almost died; I imagined how scared she and my parents must have been. Life had never seemed so fragile as at that moment.
“Dr. Sthef is a family acquaintance...” I heard from afar.
“My partner Marcos, namesake of Dr. Marcos, one of the doctors treating me, wasn’t as lucky as I was, Nanda,” I muttered to her in my arms, letting myself be carried away by that feeling of relief.
Now I had to find strength to bury my partner, and soon, everything went dark.