Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“The doctor assured me she will be okay,” my dad says by way of greeting. He’s sitting at his mom’s bedside, his hands in prayer like he’s holding a vigil. “She was sitting up earlier today and speaking fine. He doesn’t seem to think her memory is in any danger, and he’s hopeful that after a few more days in the hospital, she’ll be cleared to go home and rest there.”
“Were you here when she was awake?” I ask weakly.
“No. She doesn’t know we’re here yet.” He turns back and frowns at me. “They’ve given her medicine for the pain and warned us that it was going to make her drowsy.” He shakes his head and stands, and his eyes—usually so kind and gentle—are hard and angry. “Why would you do this, Isabel?” he explodes. “Why lie? It was foolish and—”
He cuts himself off and goes quiet, breathing heavy for a moment before he stalks around her bed and slams the hospital room door open. He storms out into the hall, and I stare after him, feeling lost.
I’m too stunned to speak. My dad never loses his cool, usually the counterbalance for my mom’s temper. Though right now, the dynamics between us have shifted out of whack, and my mom doesn’t come to my aid. She keeps her distance on the other side of the hospital bed. I have no ally. Winnie is gone. Lita—my accomplice this summer—is resting. She looks too frail and breakable. It’s frightening to see her wearing a hospital gown that drowns her. A splint holds her right arm at a forty-five-degree angle. I wonder how badly it hurt when she fell.
“I’m going to go see if I can speak with the doctor,” my mom says, leaving me.
When the door shuts behind her, I’m frozen for a moment. The smell of the hospital room, the methodical beeps of the lifesaving machines drag me back to my last days with Winnie. I shudder and step closer to Lita so I can gently lift her left hand. Her skin is cold and papery thin. I whisper my apologies for not being with her when I should have been, and I cry the tears I’ve been holding in since my mom called me last night.
Has it only been that long?
Once I received that phone call, Cristiano immediately helped me dress and drove me back to my apartment. He came up and quickly helped me pack my belongings.
“All of it,” I told him when he asked what I wanted to take.
He didn’t argue, though I could tell there were things he wished he could say.
Simone wasn’t there while I stuffed my duffel bag full, and I was glad for it. Better not to wake her up or worry her. Cristiano caught me staring at her bed and promised he would update my friends, and I left it at that, too tired to worry about any logistics beyond booking the first flight to Marseille.
“I could come with you.”
I felt his gaze on me as I stared out the window while he drove me to the airport. Then and now, I’m as fragile as a house of cards. I could only shake my head, no. He didn’t understand the maelstrom I was walking into. The anger in my mom’s voice—the accusations and blame—were already making me feel nauseous with guilt.
“It’s better if I go alone.”
I study Lita’s hand now, memorizing the network of pale veins. My tears are starting to dry up, and I sniffle.
“You got a tattoo?” she suddenly asks, her voice scratchy and gruff.
My heart soars as I glance up and see that Lita’s awake and smiling shakily at me.
“Lita.”
I try not to pounce on her, but it’s hard not to. I lean in and kiss her cheeks, squeezing her as gently as I can, inhaling her scent.
“Don’t change the subject,” she scolds weakly. “You got a tattoo?”
I laugh and sniffle. “It’s a little one.”
“Not so little from here. How wild of you. I always wanted one. Hold it up so I can see it better. I don’t have my glasses.”
I do as she says, explaining to her what it means. She pats my arm then my cheek, her arm shaking with the effort. “Beautiful, mi niña. You’re so beautiful. You know, you’ve never looked more Spanish. The sun has highlighted your hair and brought out your freckles.” She traces my chin with her finger while she studies me. “Your eyes have never looked more green. Impresionante.”
I hold her hand where it cradles my cheek.
She frowns. “Why are you crying?”
I shake my head, trying to work through the knot of emotion stuck in my throat. “I’m sorry.”
Her mouth turns down even more.
“You’re sorry? For what?” It’s like she only now registers her circumstances, where she is, the bandage on her head, the splint on her arm. “This? This is nothing, Isabel. A fall. I’m fine.”