Barely there and partially dressed, Carlos awakes. He sits up in bed, sluggishly, pulling himself from the depths of sleep and blinks in the light that floods the room. Slowly, his mind is returning. Reluctantly, he remembers. Drawing his knees up to the bulge of his chest he wraps his arms around his shins and squeezes. Just for a moment. But long enough for the light to fade behind his closed lids and the lump in his throat to soften. By the time Mariquita knocks on the bedroom door he is standing in front of the window with the blinds drawn up, staring out at the pool. She tiptoes in behind him and reaches for his hair. Looping her fingers through the strands at the back she leans forwards and kisses him softly on the nape of his neck. Kisses him softly just there, where his skin meets the fine, downy hairs on his hairline and inhales, drawing the scent deep into her lungs. A scent so hypnotically sweet, a mother never forgets it. He tilts his head towards her and rests his cheek on the top of her head.
"I checked on you a couple of times but you were so soundly asleep ... you were sleeping like a baby." She dips her head and extracts her hand from the coils of his hair. "I have breakfast for you if you're hungry."
He shakes his head.
Taking both his hands she turns him towards her. "Come on now ... you need to eat, a big strong hulk like you ..... you need something inside you." She leads him towards the door, pulling him forwards by the palms of his hands. "That's right," she coaxes, "you'll feel better once you eat something."
She leads him out to the pool and guides him into a chair with her hand pressing down on his shoulders. Then she circles around behind him and pulls out a chair for herself. Stretching forwards she picks up a carton of orange juice, pours some of the pulpy liquid into a glass and presses the glass in his hand.
"Here, drink some."
Carlos takes the glass from her outstretched hand and lifts it to his lips. He holds it there with his lips poised on the rim and peers at his mother. Mariquita nods her head, a smile oozing outwards slowly from the corners of her lips so he opens his mouth and tips his head back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and places the empty glass back on the table. Satisfied, she averts her eyes and reaches for the bread. Picking up a knife, she slices inwards with a heavy thrust and lays the two halves on the table. Then she reaches for a tomato, the biggest on the plate, slices it down the middle and squashes it onto the bread. Her eyes flick up to his face as she rubs one half of the tomato over the soft doughy flesh of the bread but his mind is elsewhere and his eyes are vacant, staring at some distant spot on the horizon. He doesn't seem to see her and she bites her lip as she reaches out and grabs a small bottle of oil which she drizzles all over the juice from the tomato. Drizzles with gusto, drizzles with force until the bread is soaking and the oil spills over, seeping onto the table.
"Damn." She rises from her seat and dabs at the oil with a fine cloth napkin. Dabs at the stain with her blood pressure rising, her back bent over at an awkward angle and her hair falling forwards, covering her face. Covering the stain, like a blood red tomato, that seeps through her skin, burning her cheeks. Leaning forwards, Carlos takes her wrist and gently extracts the oil soaked napkin from her hand. He lays it on the table and cups her shaking hand in his.
"Don't," he says and lifts his eyes to look in her face. "You don't have to."
But we know that she did because she wants to. She needs to. She needs to make up for all that time when she wasn't there and she wasn't his. She wasn't his mother and someone else made his breakfast, wiped the crumbs from around his mouth, comforted him when he wept and kissed that soft, sweet spot at the nape of his neck. Standing up, she slips in behind him and circles her arms around his chest. She pulls him tightly to her body and rests her chin on the broad expanse of his shoulder.
"You have to forget her Carlos," she whispers in his ear, "it's the best that you can do."
But Carlos doesn't think so, in fact, it's the last thing that he wants to hear as he struggles out from her tightening grasp and rises from the chair. He turns, turns quickly, roughly, trying to escape from her greedy arms and knocks the chair to the floor where it lands with a clatter, splitting a tile.
"Carlos ..." She moves to restrain him, her arms reaching out to gather him in again but he shakes her off and strides over to the pool. Bending, knees jutting forwards, he sits down at the edge with his arse kissing concrete and dips his feet in the cool, glossy water. Mariquita slips up behind him with the hem of her robe crushed in her hand and sits down. Sits down beside him, scrunched up close, her legs stretched forwards and swinging in the water and her hands, crosses at the fingers, laying mutely in her lap. She wants to touch him, wants to unfurl those fingers and walk them through his hair. Bury her face in the nape of his neck and breathe in that scent she could never forget. But she can't. She doesn't dare.
"Why didn't you call the police?" He's staring straight at her with his eyes opened wide and his lip curling upwards. She doesn't answer so he asks her again. And again.
"Why didn't I want to call the police when exactly?" She seeks to appease him, her eyes pitched down, avoiding his gaze.
"That morning ... Thursday morning, when I came here and told you she hadn't come home ... I asked you to call the police ... why didn't you want to?"
"Of course I wanted to Carlos ..." She reaches out towards him.
"But you didn't ... you didn't call them ..." He stands up abruptly like a petulant child and walks back towards the table leaving a trail of wet footprints in his wake. Reaching out, he picks up the bread which she so carefully prepared and crushes it into a ball in his fist.
"They asked me why I hadn't called them."
She stands up slowly. "Who asked you?"
"The police, who else?" He spins around to face her. "They thought it kind of funny that she'd been missing three days and I hadn't thought to call them."
She walks towards him softly.
"But I did, didn't I? I mean ... I wanted to ..."
She nods her head as she slips up beside him. "What did you tell the police Carlos?"
"What did I tell them?" he laughs, a slow release of air forced out between his teeth. "I told them you stopped me."
She stands before him and he turns his back. She reaches out and touches the soft, sloping curve of his neck with a cautious finger. A spasm ripples down his spine and she catches her breath. Catches her breath and clenches her fist.
"Carlos ..." Her voice is firm but trapped in her throat. "Carlos. I called in Detective Pons. I asked him to look for her. The police ... they suspect you for God sake, I knew they would, that's why I didn't call them. They don't give a shit for people like us, as long as they have someone to pin it on they're happy. But Detective Pons isn't like that, he's ..." she pauses, "he's different ... you'll see." She moves in to touch him again but he shakes her off. "Carlos please ..." Her voice is rising. "I did it for you. I did what I thought was best."
He spins around to face her with his hand beating off his chest. "Maybe they could have found her ... found her before ..." He breaks off.
Mariquita shakes her head. "No Carlos, no ... they wouldn't have found her in time." Stretching upwards she takes his head in her hands and shakes gently. And Carlos submits. He gives up the fight, the anger, the hurt and the waves of grief roll up from his body, flooding his throat and piercing his eyes.
She leads him back into the house with one hand cupping his neck and the other looped through the crook of his arm. Once more, she guides him to where she wants him to go. A chair, for example, plumped and worn, tucked in by the window.
"Here," she says, pressing him downwards with the tips of her fingers. "Everything will be all right, you'll see."
He tips his chin upwards and gazes into her face.
"Everything happens for a reason Carlos, sometimes things we don't like or things we don't expect but we just have to accept that and make the best of it." Kneeling down in front of him she takes both his hands in hers and kisses them, her lips moving over his knuckles and down to his wrists. "You have to be strong ... we have to stick together, if we stick together, we'll get through this."
He rolls his head back and closes his eyes. "i just wish it had never happened ... I wish we could go back, a week, a year, anything ... I wish we could go back and start again."
Turning her head, she picks out a spot on the floor where a shaft of light has slipped through the blinds and is basking on the polished tiles. If she could turn back the clock she would, in a heartbeat, turn it right back to the beginning, when he cried for life in his mother's arms. Cried for life and cried for her milk. And she would cradle him, soothe him, let him drink from her breast with his soft, pink lips. Cling to his body for her very life. And never let go.
He shakes his head.
Taking both his hands she turns him towards her. "Come on now ... you need to eat, a big strong hulk like you ..... you need something inside you." She leads him towards the door, pulling him forwards by the palms of his hands. "That's right," she coaxes, "you'll feel better once you eat something."
She leads him out to the pool and guides him into a chair with her hand pressing down on his shoulders. Then she circles around behind him and pulls out a chair for herself. Stretching forwards she picks up a carton of orange juice, pours some of the pulpy liquid into a glass and presses the glass in his hand.
"Here, drink some."
Carlos takes the glass from her outstretched hand and lifts it to his lips. He holds it there with his lips poised on the rim and peers at his mother. Mariquita nods her head, a smile oozing outwards slowly from the corners of her lips so he opens his mouth and tips his head back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and places the empty glass back on the table. Satisfied, she averts her eyes and reaches for the bread. Picking up a knife, she slices inwards with a heavy thrust and lays the two halves on the table. Then she reaches for a tomato, the biggest on the plate, slices it down the middle and squashes it onto the bread. Her eyes flick up to his face as she rubs one half of the tomato over the soft doughy flesh of the bread but his mind is elsewhere and his eyes are vacant, staring at some distant spot on the horizon. He doesn't seem to see her and she bites her lip as she reaches out and grabs a small bottle of oil which she drizzles all over the juice from the tomato. Drizzles with gusto, drizzles with force until the bread is soaking and the oil spills over, seeping onto the table.
"Damn." She rises from her seat and dabs at the oil with a fine cloth napkin. Dabs at the stain with her blood pressure rising, her back bent over at an awkward angle and her hair falling forwards, covering her face. Covering the stain, like a blood red tomato, that seeps through her skin, burning her cheeks. Leaning forwards, Carlos takes her wrist and gently extracts the oil soaked napkin from her hand. He lays it on the table and cups her shaking hand in his.
"Don't," he says and lifts his eyes to look in her face. "You don't have to."
But we know that she did because she wants to. She needs to. She needs to make up for all that time when she wasn't there and she wasn't his. She wasn't his mother and someone else made his breakfast, wiped the crumbs from around his mouth, comforted him when he wept and kissed that soft, sweet spot at the nape of his neck. Standing up, she slips in behind him and circles her arms around his chest. She pulls him tightly to her body and rests her chin on the broad expanse of his shoulder.
"You have to forget her Carlos," she whispers in his ear, "it's the best that you can do."
But Carlos doesn't think so, in fact, it's the last thing that he wants to hear as he struggles out from her tightening grasp and rises from the chair. He turns, turns quickly, roughly, trying to escape from her greedy arms and knocks the chair to the floor where it lands with a clatter, splitting a tile.
"Carlos ..." She moves to restrain him, her arms reaching out to gather him in again but he shakes her off and strides over to the pool. Bending, knees jutting forwards, he sits down at the edge with his arse kissing concrete and dips his feet in the cool, glossy water. Mariquita slips up behind him with the hem of her robe crushed in her hand and sits down. Sits down beside him, scrunched up close, her legs stretched forwards and swinging in the water and her hands, crosses at the fingers, laying mutely in her lap. She wants to touch him, wants to unfurl those fingers and walk them through his hair. Bury her face in the nape of his neck and breathe in that scent she could never forget. But she can't. She doesn't dare.
"Why didn't you call the police?" He's staring straight at her with his eyes opened wide and his lip curling upwards. She doesn't answer so he asks her again. And again.
"Why didn't I want to call the police when exactly?" She seeks to appease him, her eyes pitched down, avoiding his gaze.
"That morning ... Thursday morning, when I came here and told you she hadn't come home ... I asked you to call the police ... why didn't you want to?"
"Of course I wanted to Carlos ..." She reaches out towards him.
"But you didn't ... you didn't call them ..." He stands up abruptly like a petulant child and walks back towards the table leaving a trail of wet footprints in his wake. Reaching out, he picks up the bread which she so carefully prepared and crushes it into a ball in his fist.
"They asked me why I hadn't called them."
She stands up slowly. "Who asked you?"
"The police, who else?" He spins around to face her. "They thought it kind of funny that she'd been missing three days and I hadn't thought to call them."
She walks towards him softly.
"But I did, didn't I? I mean ... I wanted to ..."
She nods her head as she slips up beside him. "What did you tell the police Carlos?"
"What did I tell them?" he laughs, a slow release of air forced out between his teeth. "I told them you stopped me."
She stands before him and he turns his back. She reaches out and touches the soft, sloping curve of his neck with a cautious finger. A spasm ripples down his spine and she catches her breath. Catches her breath and clenches her fist.
"Carlos ..." Her voice is firm but trapped in her throat. "Carlos. I called in Detective Pons. I asked him to look for her. The police ... they suspect you for God sake, I knew they would, that's why I didn't call them. They don't give a shit for people like us, as long as they have someone to pin it on they're happy. But Detective Pons isn't like that, he's ..." she pauses, "he's different ... you'll see." She moves in to touch him again but he shakes her off. "Carlos please ..." Her voice is rising. "I did it for you. I did what I thought was best."
He spins around to face her with his hand beating off his chest. "Maybe they could have found her ... found her before ..." He breaks off.
Mariquita shakes her head. "No Carlos, no ... they wouldn't have found her in time." Stretching upwards she takes his head in her hands and shakes gently. And Carlos submits. He gives up the fight, the anger, the hurt and the waves of grief roll up from his body, flooding his throat and piercing his eyes.
She leads him back into the house with one hand cupping his neck and the other looped through the crook of his arm. Once more, she guides him to where she wants him to go. A chair, for example, plumped and worn, tucked in by the window.
"Here," she says, pressing him downwards with the tips of her fingers. "Everything will be all right, you'll see."
He tips his chin upwards and gazes into her face.
"Everything happens for a reason Carlos, sometimes things we don't like or things we don't expect but we just have to accept that and make the best of it." Kneeling down in front of him she takes both his hands in hers and kisses them, her lips moving over his knuckles and down to his wrists. "You have to be strong ... we have to stick together, if we stick together, we'll get through this."
He rolls his head back and closes his eyes. "i just wish it had never happened ... I wish we could go back, a week, a year, anything ... I wish we could go back and start again."
Turning her head, she picks out a spot on the floor where a shaft of light has slipped through the blinds and is basking on the polished tiles. If she could turn back the clock she would, in a heartbeat, turn it right back to the beginning, when he cried for life in his mother's arms. Cried for life and cried for her milk. And she would cradle him, soothe him, let him drink from her breast with his soft, pink lips. Cling to his body for her very life. And never let go.
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