I didn’t need to look in my rearview mirror to know that the cars were stacking up behind me. I was driving even slower than the little old ladies in their pink Cadillacs, but it was beyond my power to speed up. I hadn’t thought much about going to Jackson at some point to visit Michelle Moreno since Jose Antonio’s request the day before, but now the moment had arrived and I felt awful. It had been years since I was in the wards of Jackson Memorial, and I was in no hurry to return.
For the first time in my life I actually observed the speed limit on Old Cutler Road. Soon desperate drivers behind me started inching into the opposite lane, trying to pass. Self-preservation made me speed up—I didn’t want to become road pizza if some cowboy tried to pass at the wrong moment. As soon as I accelerated, the drivers behind me settled down into routine tailgating. I could almost feel the soothed nerves back there when I finally shot twenty-five miles an hour over the speed limit.
Jose Antonio had confirmed with Leonardo when they would expect me, so I’d known he would be there in addition to Lucia. The wine from lunch was already wearing off, thankfully—it would be disrespectful to show up reeking of booze. I hoped it didn’t wear off completely, though. I knew the visit might turn rough for me.
The evening before, after trying to sleep for hours, I’d had a nightmare. There was a child-sized coffin surrounded by white flowers on a stage in an empty Broadway theater, dramatically lit from behind. Dressed in black, I walked in slow motion to the coffin. Inside was a little girl, nestled in pink sheets, quietly asleep. Her skin was ivory white, save for the birthmark on her neck. Then the girl’s eyes opened, full of tears that ran down to stain her satin pillow.
Needless to say, I awoke with my heart pounding, drenched in sweat. I got up around dawn and opened the balcony windows. I needed some Cuban coffee and an hour of watching the dark waters of Biscayne Bay before I could start the day.
I felt like a prisoner marching to her cell as I turned on my blinker to signal my left turn into Gables Estates. I slowed when I came to the gatehouse, stopping in front of the crash-proof barrier. I gave my name and said I was visiting the Morenos, then waited for the guard to take down my license number. He waved me through then, though when I looked back he was still staring at my car. This, of course, is what people pay for when they live in expensive gated communities: suspicious, paranoid guards who want to keep out everyone who doesn’t live there—even, I suspect, expected guests.
Emma lived in Gables Estates with her family when we were in school, so I knew my way around. The Morenos lived only a block from Emma’s parents’ old house, and I smiled involuntarily when I passed the lake where we used to water-ski. The place hadn’t changed much, though the houses seemed bigger than I remembered. Then I looked at the house numbers and realized I was close. It was time to take the exit ramp from memory lane.
Lucia and Jose Antonio’s house was the last on its block, an imposing sand-colored, two-story Spanish colonial, hidden from the street by ficus trees planted tightly together. As soon as I pulled into the driveway and opened my car door, I heard a voice calling out to me.
“Señorita Lupe! Señorita Lupe!”
When my feet hit the driveway a tiny aged person dressed in traditional housekeeper’s black and white had virtually tackled me. I had to wait for her to catch her breath to find out what was so urgent. I’m no giant myself, but this woman barely came up to my chest.
“Señorita Lupe,” she gasped again.
This lilliputian had a puffy, tiny red doll’s face. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and started wiping her eyes. I couldn’t stand it anymore. “What’s the matter?” I finally asked.
“Michelle is at the hospital. The Señora was waiting for you to arrive when Michelle started to feel ill.”
My worst fears had been realized. I would have to go see the child at the hospital.
I almost reached out to console her. “Michelle looked very bad,” she said. “Like the time before. The Señora, she called nine-one-one, and they came and took her away. The Señora went in the ambulance with her girl. She asked me to call you, but I didn’t have your number.”
“That’s all right,” I said quickly. “Are they at Jackson Memorial now?”
The housekeeper nodded and blew her nose loudly into her handkerchief. The situation was obviously serious, and I was also touched by her concern. Children are like that. You might not want to, but you can’t help but care about them—usually a lot. I sort of patted the housekeeper’s arm awkwardly and got back into the Mercedes.
There was nothing for me to do but go to Jackson. As I drove there now, I prayed the little girl was all right. Traffic was miraculously light, by Miami standards, and I reached the hospital in minutes. I parked in the “Doctors Only” lot behind the oncology wing, hoping that the Mercedes would blend in with the doctors’ cars and keep me from getting towed.
I shuddered when I walked through the double doors, automatically looking for Mami’s name on a bronze plaque on the north wall of the reception area. After she died, Papi made a half-million-dollar donation in her name. When I was a volunteer, I used to pray for my mother and rub my hand over the plaque before reporting to my position. I repeated the old ritual, looking around to see if anyone was watching.
I didn’t need directions to the pediatric ward. I pressed the elevator button for the fourth floor and waited for those heavy doors to open in front of me again. It almost felt as though I’d never left.
When I stepped out of the elevator, I saw Jose Antonio leaning against a wall outside a room at the far end of the hall. I walked toward him, my heels clicking unnaturally loudly on the linoleum floor. Before I reached him I passed Elena’s old room, almost expecting to see her there.
Jose Antonio shook my hand. “Thank you for coming. She is very ill,” he said, looking away from me. “But the doctors think they have stabilized her. Until the next time, of course.”
He spoke to me as though I were an old trusted friend. Lucia stepped from the room, an empty plastic water pitcher in her hand. She smiled wanly at me. “Thank you. Did Rosa tell you we were here?”
“Yes. She’s very distraught,” I added, I’m not sure why.
Lucia pondered for a moment and turned to her husband. “Go inside, Jose Antonio,” she said. “Sit with the child for a while.”
Jose Antonio obeyed like a robot, leaving us alone in the hall. “I want to speak to you without my husband present,” Lucia said.
We walked together to the nurses’ station, and I waited while she filled the pitcher with ice and water. The ward, as always, was quiet, with a thick feeling of gloom just beneath the surface calm.
“My husband is very upset,” Lucia said as we made our way back. “He hardly eats or sleeps. The doctors tell us we are running out of time. How are you doing finding Michelle’s … her mother?”
Lucia’s voice was breathy and low. Soon there would be three Morenos in the hospital unless I came up with something. Fear of failure sent bile up my throat, and I swallowed hard.
“I’m following several leads, and I’m working as hard as I can,” I said, a little defensively. “Something will turn up soon, I’m sure of it. I promise.”
I tasted bile again when Lucia turned to stare blankly at me. I don’t know whether she really believed me, but she had no choice but to trust that I was trying. When we reached Michelle’s room, she asked me to wait outside. I counted the speckles on the floor until the door opened again.
Lucia motioned for me to come in. I felt my heart in my ears as I approached the bed. When I saw her I had to hold on to the bed rail to keep from falling. Here was the girl in the picture, the girl in my nightmare. She slept, her closed eyelids ringed with purplish smudges. Apparently the storm had passed; there were no monitors, no respirators. Only a thin IV tube running from her arm indicated she was anything but fine.
I sensed Jose Antonio and Lucia retreat from behind me, and in a moment I heard the door close softly. Alone with the child, I reached out and caressed her cheek. Her eyelids seemed to flutter, just for an instant.
“I guess I should introduce myself.” I felt ridiculous. “My name is Lupe Solano. I’m a private investigator.”
She slept on. “I’ll find her for you,” I whispered softly. “I swear it.”