One early morning in June, Caridad woke to a harsh and howling wind that batted a tree’s branch against the window to the bedroom she now shared with Miles and Mimi. The leafy limb whipped the paned glass until the lashing sound worked into tags of her dream. In it, she was goaded on in the way a horse is driven by a whip flicking in earshot. Moments later, Mimi shot up in bed, howling. Caridad whisked her niece out of the top bunk—before Miles woke—and into her own bed to comfort her. Soon, the tense bundle of Mimi’s body softened, her breathing slowed, and she drifted back to sleep. Just as Caridad was dozing, Mimi shrieked again, this time waking Miles.
Caridad shepherded both children into the kitchen and settled them at the table. Soundlessly, she pulled a saucepan from a cupboard and eased open the refrigerator for the milk. As she poured milk into the pan, Mimi’s kitten Smoky skittered underfoot. The little black cat wove between her ankles, purring and then mewing loudly, and Felicia appeared in the threshold, a cranky look on her face. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” Caridad lit the stove and settled the pot on it. “Go back to bed.”
“Oh, right.” Felicia cinched the belt to her robe. “I’ll be sure to do that while you’re in here banging around.”
Caridad shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Esperanza shared a bedroom with Felicia as she had when they were younger, and bunk beds had been installed in Caridad’s room for Miles and Mimi. The books Caridad read at bedtime these days were illustrated tales that involved talking animals, elves, or fairies, before lights were turned off so the children could sleep. Caridad hadn’t opened a novel since finishing Tess of the d’Urbervilles months ago. Now she barely remembered the details in it. After Daniel had destroyed her stripped copy, she’d borrowed another from the library to read the ending, and she’d been bitter with disappointment at how Tess was punished. That she remembered. It also seemed ages ago since she’d last seen Daniel—a hollow-eyed blur in the periphery as she’d sped away from his apartment. Apart from occasional calls to the store late on Saturday nights—calls she suspected were from him and never answered—Caridad hadn’t heard from him again. But weeks ago, she’d run into Caleb at a gas station near campus, and he’d told her that Daniel had lost his sales job. He was working at the library again.
“There were pirates under my bed,” Mimi now told Miles.
Miles gasped. “When?”
“It was just a dream.” Caridad stirred the milk, sweet steam wafting from the pot. “We don’t have pirates here.” She glanced at Felicia’s sour-looking face, the snaky strands of hair that trailed past her shoulders. A witch, perhaps, but no pirates.
Nightmares had awakened Mimi before, but usually Caridad calmed her without disturbing Miles. Despite these, Mimi appeared untroubled, even pleased with her new living arrangement. When they first moved into Mama’s house, Esperanza had explained to Mimi that though she and her father both loved her very much, they could no longer live together. She encouraged Mimi to ask questions and talk about her feelings. Mimi had only one question: “Can we get a kitten?” Reynaldo despised cats and would not allow one in their house. Esperanza drove Mimi and Miles to the animal shelter on her next day off, and there they’d picked out Smoky.
Miles, not quite two at the time, had adjusted well to Gray’s departure, though he missed him. Unlike Reynaldo, Gray, after introducing himself as Leslie and explaining as best she could the transformation she was undergoing, called Miles often and sent him pictures and letters from Colorado, along with small gifts when she could. Reynaldo, though at first outraged and obsessive about calling Esperanza, now rarely phoned, and when he did, it had to do with financial matters. He’d speak to Mimi only after Esperanza reminded him to say hello to her, and he had yet to take advantage of the visitation he was granted during the separation. While Esperanza was relieved that Reynaldo wouldn’t fight her for custody, she worried his indifference would hurt Mimi.
Smoky extended her forepaws to stand upright against Caridad’s leg, yowling. Felicia sighed and reached into a shelf under the sink. She rattled kibble into the cat’s dish. “Put more milk in the pot,” Felicia said. “I may as well have some, too.”
Later, at the Encino bookstore, Caridad released a yawn so wide her jaw popped. Then she yawned again and again as she unpacked the boxes in which the computerized registers had arrived. After assembling these, she’d hurry to Studio City to install that store’s system. She spread the hardware and cords on the counter before poring over pages of poorly translated directions printed in pale green ink. At the top of the first page of these appeared this warning: Do Not Immersion in Water. To Avoid Damage of Isolation! Caridad now read the instructions aloud, hoping this would make them clearer. “Insert the masculine blue wires into her female outlet jack circle and modem will branch into drive easy here.” Blue wires? Only black and brown cords had been provided. Caridad was reexamining the ends of these non-blue cords for an insert that looked as if it might fit in the modem’s outlet when Val popped into the back room to tell her there was a problem up front.
Caridad tossed the wires on the counter. She trailed Val, wishing she had scheduled someone more competent to cover the sales floor while she struggled with the system in back. Val led Caridad to confront a stocky towheaded man standing before a stack of books on the sales counter. His pinkish skin was blotched and crusty with silvery patches like fish scales. Small rectangular glasses perched low on his upturned nose.
“How can I help you?” Caridad asked.
He pointed at Val. “She refuses to take my check.”
“He doesn’t have his license,” Val said. “We can’t accept checks without a photo ID.”
“Look, my office is down the block. I just dashed over for a few books, grabbed my checkbook, but left my wallet in my desk. Surely you can make an exception this one time.”
“I’m so sorry,” Val said.
The man snorted. “I’ll bet.”
“If your office is nearby,” Caridad said, “why don’t you go for your wallet? We’ll hold your books for you.”
He shook his head with such force that flakes of patchy skin sifted onto the countertop as if his face were shedding itself. “Of all the senseless, idiotic . . . Christ, I’m in here all the time. You’ve taken my checks for years. Everyone knows me.”
Caridad, certain she would have remembered such a man, squinted at him in doubt.
Val turned to her. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“You’re supposed to be the store manager,” he said. “Use your brain, will you? Take the check. Sell some books. Isn’t that your damn job?”
Caridad clenched her jaw. Exhaustion, frustration, and now hunger—since she skipped lunch to install the system—pinched off all patience. Not trusting herself to speak, she shook her head.
“Fine.” He snatched his check off the counter. “This isn’t the end of it. I can promise you that.” The man whirled away and flounced out of the store.
Later that day, Caridad, after setting up the new computers in Encino, arrived at the Studio City store to repeat the task. The incoherent instructions were printed in faded orange ink this time, so she was glad she’d brought along the more readable directions from Encino. She unpacked the boxes and rummaged through the Styrofoam blocks and pellets, unable to find the necessary wiring. She was double-checking shipping cartons when the phone trilled on the sales floor. The clerk up front buzzed her to pick up in back. “Periwinkle Books,” she said. “How may I help you?”
“It’s me.” Vera’s voice blasted through the earpiece. “Just what the hell happened while I was at lunch?”
“I set up the computers, though the instructions are awful. Now I’m putting together the Studio City system, but I can’t find the cables,” Caridad said. “Why? What’s going on?”
“A customer called corporate—says he’s a regular and you refused to sell him books.”
“Oh, that.” Caridad nested the phone between her jaw and collarbone. While she shook out the many boxes in which the hardware had been shipped, she explained what had happened. “I put the books on hold for him.”
“Listen to me.” Vera spoke with slow purpose, as if addressing a dimwitted child. “You’re coming back here to pick up those books right now, and you’re delivering them to the customer.”
“But I’m in the middle of—”
“And get this, will you? You’re not going to charge him one penny. Do you hear me? You’re marking those books down to zero. Then you’ll apologize and promise it will never happen again.”
“I can’t,” Caridad said. “I have to pick up my son at day care by six.” In truth, Esperanza had already collected Miles more than an hour ago, but she hoped the excuse would exempt her from the humiliating errand.
“Honestly, I don’t give a shit about your day-care issues,” Vera told her. “After you deliver the books, get your ass back to Studio City to finish with those computers. All systems need to be operational by midnight. I hope I’m being clear as fucking crystal.”
The phone clicked. The dial tone buzzed like an insect in Caridad’s ear.
After dropping off the books to the complaining customer, Caridad cruised along Burbank Boulevard from Encino back to Studio City. She drove slowly, glancing at the darkened offices, restaurants, and shops. The people who worked in these places were likely on their way home or already enjoying an evening meal. Between her two stores, Caridad often put in fifty- to sixty-hour work weeks. She earned enough so that she could afford a place of her own, but if she moved out of her mother’s house, who would look after Miles when she worked evenings and weekends? Before leaving the bookstore, Caridad had called Esperanza, asking her to bathe Miles after supper and to put him to bed. She drove past a flower shop, café, real estate office, camera store, bakery—all of them vacant and locked up. Darkened plate-glass windows mirrored the street and Caridad’s car streaking past like a silvery fish.
Earlier, the complaining customer had led Caridad into his spacious office where a vast ebony desk stood before a throne-like leather chair. His nameplate read Philip T. Jefferson, Esquire. Embossed business cards, arrayed in an onyx tray, indicated that he specialized in personal injury/workers’ compensation law. A snippet from a hectoring TV commercial rang in Caridad’s head: If you’ve been injured at work, don’t delay! Call Jefferson and Meyers right away! As he sidestepped her, a roseate bald spot flashed at least an inch below her nose. Short but dense, he outweighed her, though Caridad could probably take him in a fair fight. In an unfair one, she’d brain him with the books and whip around to kick his buttocks while he reeled from the first blow. Pleased by this thought, Caridad gazed about. Between glass-encased bookshelves, the mauve walls were decorated with framed certificates and many photos of racehorses. The scaly man sank into the leather chair and gestured for Caridad to take the seat across from his desk. Holding the books to her chest, she shook her head.
“Maybe,” Philip T. Jefferson, Esquire, said, “this will teach you a little something about the lost art of customer service.” He produced the check he’d written earlier that day. “Here.”
Caridad approached the desk to deposit the books. “I don’t want your money.” She waved away the check and glanced about the office again—leather furniture, black desk, glass-encased bookshelves, and those many framed photos of horses, some of these wearing floral wreaths. She thought of Miles, his face dewy, his hair damp and smelling of shampoo after a bath. Then she pictured the modem, hard drive, and monitor she’d set out on the receiving counter—the system she had to assemble without wiring before she could go home. Caridad had swallowed hard, cleared her throat. “I don’t need anything from you.”
The setting sun lit the boulevard with a flaming glow of infinite wattage; the effect was radiantly, even gloriously, blinding. A dicey driver in perfect visibility, Caridad lowered the visor and hunched closer to the steering wheel. Periwinkle Studio City would be closed by the time she arrived, and Caridad could put together the computer system undistracted by customers. A strip mall appeared a few blocks ahead with two lit stores, one of these an Electronics Plus. She flicked on the blinker and turned into the parking lot. Broken glass glinted in the spaces before the electronics store, so she parked in front of a nearby beauty salon. Caridad glanced in at an olive-skinned redhead who was sweeping the salon’s floor. The pink-smocked woman looked up at her in a beckoning way. How Caridad would love to have her hair washed and cut, the warm touch of hands on her scalp, the ticklish snip of scissors, and a soft brush whisking the nape of her neck. But she’d trudged past the salon, as if drawn like a moth to the neighboring store’s glaring signage, neon script that read Electronics Plus Equals Customer Service Plus.
The store was manned by a solitary clerk with pale green eyes and thick black hair. He looked to be the same age as the college students Caridad hired at the bookstore as temporary help over the holidays. In a white shirt, narrow tie, and black slacks, he was overdressed for selling electronic equipment. “I’m about to close up,” he called out, his voice garbled in a way that Caridad associated with the profoundly deaf. When she approached the desk, she spied flesh-toned hearing aids embedded in his ears.
“I really need some help,” she said in a loud voice.
He watched her lips. “What is it?”
She explained about the missing wires, the system she had to install, and she showed him the instructions she’d brought along.
“I know what you need,” he said in his mangled way. “First, let me lock up.” He hurried to the glass door in front and twisted the bolt. Then he switched off the neon sign and the fluorescent lighting overhead, leaving a desk lamp lit at the counter. He summoned her to join him at a display of cords and wires along the back wall. He pulled various plastic-wrapped packages down, saying, “You’ll need this, one of these, and probably this.” His forearms, visible under the dress shirt’s rolled-up sleeves, were well muscled and densely furred with black hair; his hands were large but deft. In the darkened store, Caridad drew near to take the packages he offered. A warm clove scent emanated from his skin, and when his finger brushed her wrist, static sparked, zinging like a rubber band snapped against her skin.
“I think this is everything you need.”
Caridad nodded.
“Once you have the right wires, it’s pretty easy.” He looked into her eyes. “Are you okay?”
Her throat tightened, and her eyes filled. He was the first kind person to speak to her since she’d left the house that morning. “I’m sorry to keep you like this at closing,” she said.
“It’s okay.” His green eyes glimmered, his teeth flashed when he smiled.
Caridad’s pulse stuttered, her flesh prickling as if thousands of bubbles were bursting pleasurably over her arms and face. On a whim, she perched on the tips of her toes—because he was much taller than she—to kiss him full on the mouth. He flinched in surprise, but his arms encircled her waist. She drew his hips toward hers. A current flooded her, thrumming in her throat and ears until her head swarmed with longing.
He pulled back to say, “My name’s Carl.” His breathing now as ragged as her own, he kissed her again.
“Can we go in there?” Caridad pointed to a door marked Employees Only.
Carl took her hand and led her through the back door. In a stock room similar to those in the bookstores, Carl layered collapsed boxes on the concrete floor. His white shirt strained across his broad back as he piled the cardboard. I should go, Caridad told herself. The computers! But when he lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the flattened boxes and grinned up at her, she sank into his arms without speaking. On the cardboard nest, he stroked her long hair until static sparked again. Caridad pulled off her sweater and unhitched her bra. Carl quickly unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off. He unbelted his slacks and slid out of them and his boxers at the same time. Then he reached for his wallet and pulled a condom from it.
“Do you do this often?” Caridad asked.
“Not really. Not ever.” He held up the wrapped condom. “I’ve had this a long time.”
She wriggled out of her pants and pulled him close. Her hands shook, her legs quivered. His touch was tentative, as if his body were asking of hers: Is this good? What about now? Do you like this? This? Yes, she wanted to tell him. Yes, and don’t stop. “Okay,” Carl said in her ear as if she’d spoken aloud—and maybe she had. “But I have to go slow or I won’t last.” And in this way, he didn’t stop, not after the first, second, or third time for her, not until long after she’d lost track.
When they pulled apart, Carl glanced at his watch. He said he’d missed an awards banquet he was supposed to attend. “Anyways,” he said with another grin.
“Were you getting an award?” Caridad asked. Surely, he deserved one.
“Not me. My brother,” he said. “I have a twin brother who plays football.”
“College football?”
He shook his head and mumbled something that sounded like “night school.”
“Night school?” echoed Caridad. Did night schools have football teams?
“No, not night school,” he said. “High school—he plays football in high school.”
That familiar ocean churned in Caridad’s head. “You’re in high school?”
“I’m a senior.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.” He smiled again and asked her to tell him her name.
“Caridad.”
“Calidad?” he said, pronouncing her name so it sounded like the Spanish word for “quality.”
Not even close, thought Caridad, but she said, “That’s right.” She gathered her clothes and began dressing.
“Do you have to go?”
“I do.”
After they were dressed, he rang up the sale. She paid for the purchase, and he kissed her again. Though he said he didn’t do well on the phone, Carl jotted his number and work schedule on the back of her receipt. “Will I see you again?” He was just eighteen, still in high school, and she was in her mid-twenties, a mother, and dual-store manager.
She looked deep into those jade-colored eyes, certain she would never see him again. “Of course,” she said.
Still quaking with pleasant aftershocks, she wobbled toward her car. She stopped in front of the hair salon and glanced back at Carl, who was watching her through the window. Caridad raised a hand and smiled. Inside the salon, the redhead, now mopping the floor, caught sight of this and waved back.
Less than two blocks from the Studio City bookstore, Caridad stopped at a red light, debating whether or not to pull into the drive-thru hamburger stand just ahead. The smoky scent of charred beef wafted into the car. Her mouth flooded, her stomach moaned. Now ravenous, she felt like an animal, instinct driven and lacking in self-control. What kind of woman am I? Caridad wondered. Nothing like Isabel Archer, resigned to a loveless marriage out of stubborn virtue, and not at all like Hardy’s Tess, who’d unsuccessfully spurned Alec d’Urberville. Perhaps she was more like Carrie Meeber, bedding men to make her way in the world, though Dreiser neglected to mention her physical desires. And while mythological gods were a randy lot, the immortal or mortal females of character were not all that lustful. No way would Antigone, for example, fornicate with a high-school kid in an Electronics Plus.
Was this the longest red light in the world, or what?
Maybe she was like Madame Bovary, though Caridad cared little for the fineries that proved nearly as irresistible to Emma as her lovers, and she couldn’t imagine ever swallowing arsenic. Caridad also lacked the melancholic determination to throw herself under a train like Anna Karenina. Why did passionate women so often take their lives to relieve their suffering? Why so much suffering? Even Lady Chatterley put up with way too much before leaving her impotent, narcissistic, and controlling husband to wait for the groundskeeper, who, though sexy, was likewise bossy. Could Caridad be a superannuated Lolita? Poor Dolores Haze was passed like a preteen blow-up doll from one middle-aged pedophile to another before she matured—grew pregnant, plain, and bespectacled—and married a deaf young man. Wasn’t he named Carl, too? Caridad felt for her wallet to find the receipt where he’d written his schedule. At last, the signal flashed green. She lifted her foot from the brake to press the gas pedal.
Cause and effect. Caridad would later marvel how doing so little could undo so much. “The works and days of hands,” a poet said. Visions and revisions. The intricate tapestry of a life so far. A pattern sometimes picked apart but rewoven until a design issued. A foot lifted from one pedal and lowered onto another, nearly as small a thing as tugging a loose thread. And all of it unraveled. Tires shrieked, metal crunched, glass splintered. The skunky stench of scorched rubber bloomed in a dark obliterating cloud. Fissures fractured concrete, and again the earth gaped wide. The dank well opened once more, and Caridad tumbled down and down and down, into the dark and silent abyss.
Was it minutes, hours, or days later, when sound, as if asking permission to enter, first rapped at her brain? Tap, tap, tap, beeping, whirring, then the whisper of fabric parting, and somewhere in the background, the persistent brr-ring, brr-ring, brr-ring of an unanswered telephone. “Periwinkle Books.” Caridad raised her head and was bludgeoned by a blinding flash—something arctic white but searing, sharp as a burning blade. Fire and ice? She sank back, clenching her eyes shut.
Footfalls and voices: “She said something.”
“Stay with us, honey. Come on now.”
Voiceless, Caridad moved her lips. How may I help you?
When she woke again, slats of sunshine striped an aquamarine blanket on which hands shaped much like her own rested. But these hands were too still and waxen, too disconnected and strange to be hers. One wrist was taped, transparent tubes secured to the veins. Caridad doubted she could impel movement of these fingers. Then, with a flicker of thought, a thumb twitched. The glowing bands of light stung her eyes. “Turn it off,” she said.
“Turn what off?” A girlish voice rang out. Then a stiff-faced woman with amber eyes and rubied lips sharpened into focus. Glass-bead earrings, intricate things dangling like miniature chandeliers from long-lobed ears. Frothy pink chiffon spun like cotton candy under the sharp chin.
“Leslie?”
The bright mouth curved into a smile. Leslie lifted one of those pale hands and cupped it warmly. “You’re awake.”
Window, white walls, aluminum cabinets and sink, narrow bed, its curtain-shrouded neighbor nearby, a swing-arm tray holding a sweating plastic pitcher—ochre, a color she abhorred—a clean and well-lighted place. “What happened?” Caridad said.
“You had a car accident—a pretty bad one,” Leslie told her.
“Miles! How’s Miles?”
“He’s fine. He wasn’t in the car with you.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s at your mother’s with Esperanza and Mimi. I flew in as soon as Felicia called.”
Dark guilt gathered, massing into a shadowy cloud—the conviction that she’d done something terrible, something she couldn’t even remember now. “Was it my fault? Was anyone hurt? Or killed?”
Leslie shook her head. “No, honey, it wasn’t your fault. It was a busload of tourists from Malaysia. The driver ran a red light and hit your car. No one else was seriously injured.”
“Malaysia?” What did tourists from Malaysia have against her? “What about my car?”
“It’s totaled.”
“Oh.” Caridad closed her eyes. Light flamed through her lids—a harsh scarlet glow. Her temples throbbed.
“Felicia’s here. She’s been waiting to see you.”
“Not now.” Caridad shook her head, detonating a sickening series of small blasts in her brain. “Can you turn it off?”
“Turn what off, honey? What do you want me to turn off?”
“The light—will you please just shut it off?” She compelled those hand-shaped things to tug the aqua blanket over her head as Leslie closed the blinds.
Later, Caridad drew the covers from her face. A black-robed figure wafted toward her. Her eyes traveled up the dark broadcloth toward a small upright rectangle of white at the collar and beyond that to an oddly familiar face, a hank of sun-bleached hair spilling into his eyes. “Leland?” she said. “Leland McWhorter?” He nodded, issuing a long-dimpled grin, and he tucked something into her hands. Caridad’s fingers skimmed pebbly leather, embossed print, pages—a book.
“The New Testament,” he said. “The Book of Revelation—have you read it?”
Caridad shook her head, and he was gone.
Mama then entered the room, bearing a steaming Styrofoam cup. “You’re awake, m’ija?” she said. “Do you want something to drink? Some tea?”
Caridad shook her head. “Did you see that man?”
“Where?”
“A priest—did you see him in the hallway?”
“I didn’t see anyone,” Mama said. “It’s late. The visiting hours are over. They only let me stay because Esperanza knows the nurses here from school.”
“That’s strange because I just saw him.”
Mama shrugged. “If you want to know something strange, it’s that lady over there.” She jutted her chin to indicate the curtain-shrouded bed across the room.
“There’s someone there?” Caridad whispered.
Mama nodded. “She sleeps a lot, like you. But I’ve seen her, and she is the spit and image of Imelda Marcos, tu sabes, from the Philippines.” “Spitting image.” Caridad yawned, her eyelids now fluttering shut again.
“And her husband,” Mama continued, “is exactly Ferdinand Marcos. He wears those puffy riding pants with boots.” She sipped her tea. “Maybe that was him you saw.”
Felicia and Esperanza appeared at her bedside in the morning. They came to relieve Mama, who’d spent the night with her, dozing upright in the visitor’s chair, while Caridad faded in and out, lofting about in a twilight sleep. That morning, Esperanza, like a fairy-tale prince, woke Caridad with a peck on her cheek. The narcotic fog finally lifted, and she snapped her eyes open to glimpse her sister’s round face, withdrawing after the moist smack of her lips.
“How are you?”
“I don’t know.” Caridad lifted her shoulders to shrug, but these felt strapped into a harness, a spiked chain-metal thing, a medieval torture device that pinned her to the hospital bed, piercing her with mind-blanking pain when she tried to move. Her eyes filled and she bit her lower lip to keep from crying out.
Dimples dented Esperanza’s full cheeks. “You’re going to be fine. I know it probably doesn’t seem like it now, but little by little, you’re going to feel better and better.” Her tone was upbeat in a practiced way that troubled Caridad. She jockeyed for a look over Esperanza’s shoulder.
Felicia’s blanched face bobbed like a balloon in the background. “I knew this would happen. I knew it when you bought that car. You’re a shitty driver.” Felicia’s voice broke. “You’re the worst ever.”
Esperanza shook her head. “It wasn’t even her fault.”
“I am awful at driving,” Caridad said.
“You’re just trying to make me cry.” Felicia rushed out of the room.
Esperanza drew nearer. “Can I get you anything?”
Under the odor of antiseptic soap, Caridad whiffed cinnamon and nutmeg, the cloying fragrance of pumpkin pie. “What’s that smell?”
Esperanza stepped around to the nightstand beside the bed. “It’s potpourri with a get-well card.” She lifted the card and opened it. “It’s from Vera. Do you want me to read it?”
“Go ahead.”
She showed Caridad the card: a pigtailed girl propped in bed with a thermometer in her mouth. “‘Hope you feel better . . .’” Esperanza read before opening to the inside flap. “‘Real soon.’ Hmm . . . Here’s what she wrote inside: ‘Caridad, I’m sorry to hear about the accident you had on your way home from work. Everyone at Periwinkle Books sends warm wishes for a speedy recovery. Vera.’” Esperanza gave Caridad a puzzled look. “Didn’t you ask me to put Miles to bed because you had to work late? I didn’t know you were heading home.”
“I wasn’t.”
Esperanza bit her lower lip in a pensive way. “But Vera seems to think—”
“She knew. I don’t know why she says I was on my way home.”
“I do,” Esperanza said. “Liability, that’s why.” At the hospital where she worked, Esperanza sometimes dealt with workers’ compensation and personal injury claims. “Don’t you see? If she can make you think you were injured outside of working hours, the company is off the hook. You need a lawyer, Dah-Dah, a mean one, right away.”
What was his name, the flaky-skinned lawyer? It would come to her. “I think I know someone with high standards for customer service, and he’s a real ass.”
Esperanza held up the scented sachet. “What do you want me to do with this?”
The potpourri was Vera’s all-purpose gift, presented for holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. Once, when Miles had strep throat, Vera gave Caridad a pouch for him, as if it were just the thing for a sick little boy. “Throw it away, will you? Take it out first, though. I can’t stand that smell.”
Esperanza pinched the sachet’s drawstring and held it at arm’s length as if grasping a rodent by the tail. “Anything else you need?”
“Miles! I want to see Miles and Mimi.”
“Sorry, no kids allowed on this floor. If I worked here, I could sneak them in. But think about it, Dah-Dah. Don’t you want to wait until you’re better before they see you?”
Caridad gasped. “Do I look that bad?”
“No, not to me, of course not, not at all, but it might be upsetting—”
“How badly am I hurt?” Caridad winced, remembering how long it took her fractured leg to mend, those awful crutches. “Is anything broken?”
“No broken bones, I swear.” Esperanza dangled the mesh pouch. “Let me throw this junk out. I’ll be right back and tell you everything I know, okay?”
Caridad nodded, palpating her tender face. “Bring me a mirror, will you?”
As Esperanza turned to leave, she stumbled and caught herself on the bed frame. “What’s this?” She stooped for the obstacle that tripped her. “A book?”
“I must’ve dropped it.” Caridad took the black leather-bound book from Esperanza.
“You’re reading a prayer book?”
“Someone gave it to me last night.”
“Was that creepy priest here?” Esperanza clicked her tongue. “Big guy, wearing a polka-dotted clown suit with red Bozo hair?”
Caridad flashed on Leland’s long-dimpled grin. “He didn’t look like a clown. What’s his name?”
“He calls himself Father Clown from Get-Well Town. He hangs around hospitals, handing out these books or little teddy bears. I wish he’d given you a bear instead.”
“I’d prefer a novel.” Caridad set the leather-bound book aside. “But a bear would have been nice.”
When Esperanza returned, she had a file sleeve tucked under one arm and a paperback in her other hand. “I found this for you. Moll Flanders—have you read it before?”
“No, I haven’t.” Caridad reached for the book. “Thanks.”
Esperanza closed the door before sitting down and opening the file sleeve. “I’m not supposed to have this, but I know the girl at the desk from nursing school.”
“What is it?”
“Your chart.” Esperanza flipped the file open and rifled its pages. “Okay, here goes . . .”
Caridad couldn’t understand much of what Esperanza read. The pain-killer haze settled over her again. What did it mean that she had subluxation and increased laxity in the spine? The hematoma on her left femur, okay, a bruise on the bone—she got that. But Caridad couldn’t tell a C2 from a C3, and she had no idea what posterior longitudinal ligament involvement meant. She watched the pupils of her sister’s brown eyes tracking as she read.
Finally, she interrupted Esperanza. “I’m kind of fading. Could you sum things up?”
Esperanza flipped through the remaining pages, scanning these. “They’ll probably release you in a few days, but you could have nerve damage and back problems, along with some pain.”
“For how long?”
“That depends . . .”
“What’s the worst it could be?” Caridad wriggled her shoulders and was again pierced by that searing flash. “Will it last for the rest of my life?”
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Esperanza said. “There are clinical trials, treatments, and therapies. You’re young and healthy—”
“Did you bring a mirror?”
Esperanza fixed her eyes on the file in her lap. “Couldn’t find one.” She was nearly as bad as Felicia at dissembling.
“That’s okay,” said Caridad, who—unlike her sisters—had a knack for telling lies. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”