Marta had learned that loss and grief could distort everything familiar into something alien. Her bedroom was as it had been for years: the same oak armoire she inherited from her grandmother, the same Baroque double bed Ismael gave them as an anniversary present five years ago, the same linen drapes, the same cross hanging on the wall by the window—and yet, it was all different.
The walls around her felt hollow somehow, ready to collapse at any second. The headboard, once elegant and beautiful, had become nothing more than a tombstone decorated with mocking cherubs. Because my bed may as well be a coffin until my baby comes home, she thought just before Abraham's voice called her name from outside the room.
Without moving, she closed her eyes. If she had it her way, she'd keep them shut as long as God refused to hear her prayers.
"Honey, are you awake?" her husband asked after knocking on the door.
No, I'm not. I must be still asleep. Otherwise, I'd have to accept this nightmare is real.
How was this possible? This bedroom was identical to hers, and yet it was completely different. It's stuffy and ugly. Abe asked her again if she was awake. Once more, she replied nothing. What's that horrible smell? It reminded her of wet shoes that had been in a dark closet for far too long.
The door creaked open.
"It might rain later," her husband said, stepping inside.
Even though he was careful, Marta still noticed the soft clatter of dishes on a tray.
I am not hungry, she thought.
"Hon, I'll leave some food here on the dresser." A long silence. "Honey? You have to eat."
Marta, still facing away from him, opened her eyes only to let the tears out. She had lain in bed wearing the same clothes for four days, refusing to get up except to go to the toilet and drink water when no one was watching her. She had been so sure her baby girl would have come home by now, or at least call them on the phone. Any minute, she'd told herself four nights ago. Any minute now.
"Please leave and close the door on your way out," Marta said.
Abe held the doorknob but stayed where he was. "Brought you today's newspaper, and a pen too. There's three days' worth of crossword puzzles waiting for—"
"And take that with you," she pointed at the tray.
"But, hon."
"I bet you hid all the pages with articles about him."
He sighed. "That will do nothing but upset you."
"Upset... me? Let me talk 'car,' so you understand me. Upset's been in the rearview mirror for almost a week."
She barely glanced at him but could tell this reply had stung him harder than a slap on the face. They'd known each other since third grade, and she'd never spoken to him that way. Hell, she hadn't spoken to anyone that way. Not ever.
The silence stretched between them. The only sound for a while was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the dining room.
"I know," Abraham said once the tension in the air became unbearable.
She folded her arms around a pillow. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
He's hiding something. I can tell. Outside the window, the clouds darkened, and the wind filled with the stink of wet dirt. With her eyes closed again, Marta wished she could turn back the clock, back to when she loved the smell of rain. A version of her life in which her special angel sat in the patio to read every afternoon after school, and they'd talk about what book to get from the public library next.
"I just want this to be over," Marta said.
"I know! I know! You think I don't?" Abe's voice had a dangerous edge to it. Then, all of a sudden, as if a weight he'd been carrying had finally crushed a part of him, his tone became thin and forlorn. "Ismael is outside."
Ismael. Soft-spoken, irritating Ismael. Too intelligent for San Isidro. Too handsome to be a priest. Too—
"He's always been outside," Marta said, almost to herself.
"What does that mean?"
She wiped a tear off the corner of her eye. "Nothing."
Abraham swallowed whatever he was going to say and instead repeated the same thing he'd been saying since that horrible day. "Everything will be fine. I promise."
Despite the humid heat, Marta pulled her sheets up even tighter against her body and waited in silence for him to leave. Time dragged, losing its meaning, the pendulum in the clock outside swinging with each passing second until she couldn't tell if it was morning or afternoon.
More than hunger, it was the need to move her legs that drew her to the tray on the dresser. Maybe I could have a bite? Instead of the food, however, she focused on the newspaper. As she'd expected, it was a Frankenstein monster made of innocuous sections like sports and entertainment and crossword puzzles. Nothing that could 'upset' her.
"God, forgive me," she whispered, aware that the hatred in her heart was stronger than the sorrow nesting in her soul. It mattered little if they hid the news from her; there was no hiding from reality. "I hate him." She grabbed the knife on the tray and looked at its shiny edge. "I hate Marcelo."
The one thing left to do was to quiet her demons as she'd done it so many times before.