Julia is waiting outside the Hospital Maciel in the old part of the city for a bus to the open-air markets at Plaza Cagancha. It’s a warm day in the Ciudad Vieja and the sunlight touches her bare arms with the familiarity and grace of an old forgotten friend.
Two weeks and two days have passed since her baby was born and the doctors have told her they would stake their reputations on him coming home within a couple of months. The good news has seen her begin to emerge, little by little, from her cocoon—her self-spun protection. After so many days crouched beside the humidicrib—wet with anxious perspiration and tears under the cold, artificial lights of the hospital—she is finally testing her wings again in the outside world, wondering if they will hold her. She stands tall and surveys her surrounds from her new, higher vantage point, as if she is, indeed, a newly emerged winged insect—a moth or perhaps even a butterfly. The resilient antique beauty of the old Spanish buildings, which have endured so much, resonates with her. She notices, too, old men and women, who would have lived through Uruguay’s political uprisings, walking hand in hand with small children, perhaps their grandchildren, leading them forward towards brighter futures.
With her baby doing better, Julia’s thoughts are now on his namesake. Until today, she hadn’t had the energy for both. She could only deal with one trauma at a time. When Carlos told her, over a week ago, that Eduardo had died at sea, she had felt unusually calm, but completely empty. Part of her had died too, she realises now. Carlos had cried when he passed on the soul-shattering news, something she had known him to do only twice before in their marriage: once, five years ago, when his father died, and then when he phoned from sea earlier this month, after hearing that their son had been born prematurely. Her tears—the proper ones—she knew would come later.
She reads her watch. It’s still early. Maybe today is the day.
She walks a few paces to a phone box and dials her home number. Her mother answers. ‘Julia, is there a problem? Is our little boy all right?’
‘Mamá, stop asking me that. Everything is fine. Our little boy is going to make it.’
Julia hears her mother whisper a small prayer.
‘I’m taking a bus to La Paloma. I need to get away for the day.’
‘Why there?’ her mother asks.
‘Because I have to.’ Part of Julia longs to tell her mother more. To admit to her that she needs to confront her grief over Eduardo’s death head on. To admit having loved him. To let her know that she can’t go forward without meeting his ghost and saying goodbye. ‘I’ll be home later tonight. Don’t wait up. And if there’s no bus tonight, I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Julia ends the phone call before her mother can say anything else, and peruses the bus timetable posted on the wall of the phone box. There’s a bus heading north along the Atlantic coast in ten minutes. Her shopping trip can wait.
The beaches bleach white as the bus propels her back through time. The water becomes clearer and cleaner, and there is the dusty smell of coastal vegetation through the open bus window. Julia doesn’t even feel herself fall asleep.
His hand slides up the inside of her arm, and she can taste salt on his lips. Her fingers are in his hair, drawing him closer as he bites at her neck. He takes her hands in his, pinning them above her head as he lifts and consumes her. Her ring finger is in his mouth, her wedding band touching Eduardo’s lips.
When she opens her eyes, it is the woman on the bus seat beside her who is touching her hand, rousing her from sleep.
‘La Paloma,’ the woman says. ‘Didn’t I hear you tell the driver you were getting off here?’
Julia checks her watch. ‘Gracias,’ she whispers as the familiar headland comes into view. There’s a rush of blood through her veins, but it is from dread this time, not excitement. Those teenage flutters have finally been extinguished. Even the more recent memory of an afternoon spent here with Eduardo is now infused with sorrow, and the dream, just moments ago, is already a relic from another time – a parallel universe. She steps out heavily onto the uneven pavement and makes the short walk across town to the northern beach. The surf is breaking unforgivingly against the sand, paring back layers, stripping back the years.
Eduardo is calling her.
She can see his father’s boatshed, nestled in the bushes. The dinghy is now on a trailer outside, the varnish beginning to peel from the gunnels. The last time she was here, Eduardo had just finished restoring it. How quickly it has begun to deteriorate. The window at the back of the shed is shut, probably forever. She inhales the salty air released by exploding waves, and closes her eyes as the wind pushes her along the sand, its soft warmth filtering through her leather sandals like someone’s loving caress.
Finally she begins to let go of her emotions. Her head spins and she steadies herself against the boatshed’s front door. The salt-white wood is chalky against her hand and reminds her of blackboards from her teaching days, a lifetime ago. For all of Eduardo’s father’s best efforts, the building is crumbling into the sand. Salt has wedged itself firmly into the grains of wood, creating time capsules of winds and storms past. Even now, as she braces herself to enter, sharp crystals tear at the wood, cutting and splitting it as the timber expands and contracts with the warmth of sunlight and the chill of shade.
Julia pushes against the unlocked door, and the boatshed welcomes her home with the smell of nets and bait boxes, a smell she wouldn’t have been able to describe had she been asked before now. In an instant she remembers it all. She sees herself walking this same path in March, her hair hanging loose, her legs and arms bare except for a hint of sandalwood perfume and the caress of her red-flowered dress. She longs for Eduardo, her first love; she longs to be safe again in his arms. She leans back against the heavy door, closing it behind her, and begins to weep deeply, loudly. ‘Eduardo!’ she cries out, airing her grief.
‘Who’s there?’ a female voice ventures from the back of the shed. ‘Who is it?’ The woman is standing now, and, with a start, Julia recognises Eduardo’s widow, Virginia.
‘Hola.’ Julia fails to hide the surprise in her voice. She feels naked, caught out. ‘It’s Julia, Virginia. I’m so sorry. I thought I was alone. Carlos told me about Eduardo. I’m sorry I haven’t been up to see you yet. I was on my way. Lo siento,’ she apologises again.
Eduardo’s widow flicks on a light and Julia observes that she too has been crying. Virginia is pale and tired, and obviously confused. Julia rushes to embrace her, but it’s an awkward, one-sided gesture. The two women have managed a measure of friendship over the years, but, for reasons neither of them has ever articulated, it has always felt strained. No more so than now.
‘But why are you here?’ Virginia’s voice shakes. She looks Julia up and down, as though seeing her for the first time.
‘I needed to gather myself first,’ Julia lies. ‘I didn’t want your girls seeing me like this and I didn’t know where else to go.’
Virginia frowns, unconvinced. ‘When is the Pescador due back?’
Julia wipes her dripping nose on the back of her hand. ‘They’re on their way to Australia.’
‘Si, Carlos told me. And you still don’t know how long they’ll be kept there?’
Julia shakes her head. ‘We’ll all miss Eduardo terribly.’ Caught in the frame of Virginia’s suspicious stare, it is all she can do to stand still and not flee. ‘Carlos didn’t tell me how it happened. How he died. Do you know?’
‘Conditions were bad. He was clearing ice off the rails,’ Virginia says, her face wincing as if she is feeling the bite of a Southern Ocean gale herself. ‘The boat pitched and he slipped and went over. His harness failed somehow, or…Carlos said he might have released himself, believing that the boat would come back to rescue him.’ Virginia uses a white linen handkerchief to absorb the tears from her eyes. ‘The seas were big and he was being beaten against the hull.’ She covers her face with her hand. ‘I came here to have a few moments to myself. Away from the girls. We’ve all been crying together, of course, but I’ve been trying to stay strong for them. It’s terrible. I haven’t slept.’ She looks at Julia and her expression softens marginally. ‘I heard about your son being born early. I’m also sorry I haven’t been in touch. Carlos had just told me about Eduardo and I was still in such a state of shock. Is he doing okay, your little boy?’
‘Si. He’ll be in hospital for a while yet, but he’s doing much better. Gracias.’
‘Strange that he was born the same day that Eduardo died.’
It feels to Julia that time has stopped. ‘My God,’ she whispers shakily. She falls silent, taking it all in. ‘I didn’t know.’ She searches for something else to say. ‘We were going to ask Eduardo to be his godfather. We’ve named our son after him.’
‘You’ve called your baby Eduardo?’
‘Si,’ Julia answers, fishing for acceptance. It occurs to her that perhaps this fact alone might be enough justification for why she was here, calling out the name of Virginia’s husband. She takes a step closer and rests her hand on Virginia’s forearm. ‘And I know what you’re saying about staying strong. About keeping your emotions bottled up. I’ve been the same way in front of María.’ Julia’s eyes drop to the place on the floor where she made love with Eduardo earlier this year. She steps away again, sickened by her own dishonesty. ‘I’m sorry to have intruded. Lo siento.’ It occurs to her for the first time that this place was probably also sacred to Virginia. How could she have assumed she was the only person to have been here with Eduardo? His wife probably made love with him among the nets countless times. ‘I’ll leave you now. This is your place. And Eduardo’s father’s.’
‘Si, he was here earlier today. I saw his car.’
‘Of course. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,’ Julia says as she walks, backwards, to the door.
‘You don’t want to come up to the house? It’s a long way to come just for the afternoon?’
‘No, I’ve seen you now, so I should get back. Mamá is minding María. Hasta luego.’ Julia sees Virginia sitting back down, her normally trusting face torn apart by doubt as well as grief. She wants to sprint but forces herself to walk back along the beach—this time the wind is in her face—until she is out of sight of the boatshed. As she leaves the beach, the sand drains from her sandals and she knows that she will not return here. She looks at her watch and breaks into a run. If she goes straight to the bus station now, she should be home again by nightfall.