The worst part wasn’t the hunger, my son, or the cold, or the bucket. He paused for a long time. The worst part was the silence. Days would go by without anyone speaking to me. I talked to the wall, I talked to God. Sometimes I heard Canelo scratching at the door and I would start to cry because he was the only one who knew I was there. His voice broke. One night I heard Graciela laughing from the other side of the property. They were having dinner, laughing, and I was in the dark, hungry, unable to even stand up.
That day I thought I was going to die in there, and that no one would ever know. Rodrigo gripped the sheet tightly with his fists; he didn’t interrupt her, he couldn’t, but then he heard Lupita’s little footsteps, softly, so no one would hear her, and he felt something slipping through the keyhole. And I thought, if that girl is still coming, it means God hasn’t forgotten me. Carmen closed her eyes. Rodrigo took her hand. They stayed like that for a long time, in silence.
There was nothing to say that could match what she had just recounted. The fourth week, Carmen sat alone on the bed. She asked for a mirror. Rodrigo hesitated, but gave it to her. Carmen looked at herself, touched her face with her fingers, ran her hand through her long, disheveled white hair, and looked at her thin arms. She didn’t cry; she pressed her lips together, placed the mirror face down on the bed, and said, “My flesh is going to grow back.”
That doesn’t worry me. What worries me is my vegetable garden. Who watered it? Rodrigo laughed. For the first time in weeks, he laughed because there in that sentence was his mother, the same old mother, the one who worried more about her vegetables than about herself. The fifth week, Carmen walked with help, holding Rodrigo’s arm, dragging her flip-flops down the clinic corridor. The nurses applauded her. She told them, “Don’t applaud me, I’m not in a competition.”
“Get me some coffee.” The day she was discharged, Rodrigo carefully helped her into the truck. Canelo was in the back, wagging his tail like crazy. Carmen saw him and reached out the window to pet him. “There, there, Canelo, we’re going home now.” On the way, Rodrigo took a deep breath. He knew what he was going to say. He had rehearsed it a hundred times. “Mom, I’ve thought of everything. We’re going to the United States. I’ll get you good doctors there, a warm house, everything you need.”
You don’t have to worry about anything. I’ll take care of you. Carmen looked out the window at the barren hills, the dust, the prickly pear cacti along the side of the road, the fat clouds that promised rain but never delivered. She didn’t turn to look at Rodrigo when she answered, “My son, I’m not leaving here.” Mom, please listen to me carefully, Rodrigo. Carmen turned, looked at him with those eyes that had survived eight months of darkness and that somehow still held light. This is my land.
I was born here. I married your father here. I had you here. I buried your father here. I grew my vegetables and raised my chickens here. The wind knows me here. I’m not going to die in a place where no one knows my name. Rodrigo gripped the steering wheel. A lump formed in his throat, making it hard to swallow. “All I need,” Carmen said, lowering her voice, “is for you not to leave again.” Rodrigo didn’t answer right away.
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