Both the doctors and the Pérezes tried in vain to get Ismael to react.
"It's like talking to a corpse!" Abe yelled at a nurse, frustrated.
"It will get better tomorrow, hon," Marta told her husband. "You'll see."
But it didn't get better.
Not the next day nor the day after that.
In some respects, things got worse. Deaf and blind to the world around him, the priest had even stopped controlling his sphincter muscles.
It wasn't until Easter Sunday that something changed.
"Honey, look!"
Ismael shed a tear when she tuned in to the travel channel on the tiny TV set mounted on the wall. Although the Pérezes saw this as a small miracle, the doctors asked them to keep their expectations in check.
"Perhaps his eyes were dry," Doctor Núñez offered.
"No. It's a sign," Marta insisted. "God wouldn't want him to stay like this forever. We don't deserve it."
After that, she made sure those shows about the European cities Ismael dreamed of traveling to were always on. And she kept her promise until the doctors were about to discharge him.
While Abraham waited outside the hospital room, he picked up an overly sweet scent, typical of small-town perfume shops. That could only mean one thing: Bishop Héctor López was finally gracing them with his presence.
Abe had never admitted it out loud, but something about that man didn't sit well with him. Maybe it was his cold eyes or his pointy face. No. It's his tone. Such disdain in his voice, he found himself thinking, taking a step forward to greet him. This man looks like the type of person who is willing to kill puppies if that meant he could ride on the Popemobile. And why the hell did he take this long to visit Ismael?
Once their awkward, half-hearted greeting was over, they both entered the room. The bishop took a glance at the priest. "I understood he'd suffered a heart attack. Why is he vegetative?"
Abraham told him everything the doctors had explained to him: how his brain had been damaged due to oxygen deficiency, how the paramedics had taken longer than usual to revive him because Ismael was alone in church when it happened... And, although he disliked saying it aloud, he had to repeat the name of the illness afflicting his friend several times in the conversation.
"It's called multi-infarct dementia."
"I see," said the bishop in a disinterested monotone.
"Anyway, I don't trust doctors. Technology blinds them." Abraham touched his nose. "My instincts tell me there is hope."
Marta wore a proud smile. "My husband is a traditionalist." He prefers doing things the old-fashioned way."
"I believe in doing what's right," Abe said. "And sometimes that means doing things as they've always been done."
"Yeah, not everyone adapts to change." After a pause, the Bishop turned to meet Ismael's lifeless eyes. "To understand God doesn't exist to satisfy our whims can... crush weak people."
A chill descended upon the room.
"What did you just say?" Abraham frowned.
"You're a policeman—"
"I am the chief of police."
The bishop's lips twisted up in a smirk.
"You said you respect tradition, didn't you? Doing what's right..." After crossing his arms behind his back, the bishop admired the footage of the Coliseum on the television. "Do you know how the Roman army used to punish traitors?" He let his question hung in the air. "They'd put them in a bag with snakes."
"Traitor?" Marta asked without understanding.
The bishop turned off the TV.
"Treason springs from pride and greed."
"Stop beating around the bush, Your Excellency." Abraham couldn't stand the sight of him a second more. "Why don't you say exactly what you mean?"
"Don't you think the right thing is to punish those who believe themselves above the law? No matter who they are." He fixed his gaze on the priest again. "Perhaps, what happened to him was divine justice."
"You are joking, right?"
"I'm only speaking the truth."
"Well, I, too, like calling balls and strikes when I see them," said Abe. "And I think you are an asshole.
"Honey!"
"Let him vent, it will do him well," the bishop told Marta. "But I think I better leave."
"Damn right you will."
"Maybe we don't see eye-to-eye, Chief, but think about it. Now Ismael's actions, or inactions, cannot harm anyone ever again."
Abe clenched his fists, his fury bubbling to the surface. If the bishop didn't leave soon, he would bash his smug face against the wall.