The doctor came running in, and when she pulled back the blanket, she remained silent for three seconds. Three seconds that felt like three hours to Rodrigo. The diagnosis was a list of horrors: severe malnutrition, chronic dehydration, a skin infection from the wounds he’d developed from lying in the same place for so long, sores on his legs, the beginnings of a urinary tract infection, and anemia. The doctor took off her gloves, looked at Rodrigo, and asked him in a voice that tried to be professional but couldn’t hide her horror.
How long had she been in those conditions? Rodrigo couldn’t answer, but his mind was already doing the math. The calls started changing about eight months ago—the short answers, the pretexts, the excuses for not talking on video. Eight months. His mother had been locked up for eight months while he was on the other side of the border sending money and believing everything was fine. The money. Rodrigo froze in the middle of the hallway. Every month he sent money to Graciela’s account.
The same account she asked him to use because your mother doesn’t want to go to the bank anymore. Rodrigo never asked for proof, never questioned anything. Eight months of deposits. Where did that money go? Who used it? What was it for? While his mother lay rotting in the dark with a plate of tortillas passed through a hole, Rodrigo sat on a plastic chair in the hallway, clutching his head in both hands. Rage and guilt hit him at the same time, like two blows to the same spot.
The anger against Graciela, the guilt against himself, for having left, for having trusted her, for not having come sooner, for having read “I’m fine, my son” on a screen and having believed it without hearing his mother’s voice saying so. Canelo was lying outside the clinic waiting as always. Rodrigo wiped his face, stood up, and walked toward the truck. He was going back to town, but this time he wasn’t bringing gifts. Rodrigo arrived at Graciela’s house as it was getting dark.
He didn’t knock, he pushed the door. Graciela was in the kitchen serving Tomás dinner. They both looked up at the same time, and the plate Graciela was holding seemed to hang suspended in midair when she saw Rodrigo’s face. It wasn’t the same face that had arrived yesterday with gifts and hugs. “What did you do to my mother?” The question came out sharply, without shouting, without embellishment. And it was worse than any shout. Graciela slowly placed the plate on the table, wiped her hands on her apron, and began to construct the lie with a chilling calm.
Oh, cousin, I’m so glad you went to see her. Look, the thing is, your mom’s been having some mental health issues. She started saying strange things, locking herself in her room, refusing to go out. We brought her food every day, talked to her through the window, but she wouldn’t let us in. You know how old people get, right? We wanted to take her to the doctor, but she wouldn’t let us. She talked nonstop, as if words could cover up what Rodrigo had already seen with his own eyes.
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