Page 19 of Morena
“Sit,” he said, lifting his arm and pointing at the empty chair.
I lowered myself onto it. A plate waited for me, a slab of meat and a few potatoes beside a torn piece of bread. Before I even reached for it, Carlos pulled an album from where his mother had kept it pressed to her thighs. He set it down on the table and pressed his palm on the cover.
“I heard her talking to you about someone,” he said as he opened the album. His finger tapped against a photograph.
Morena.
“Her.”
“Yeah.” I tore off a piece of bread and brought it to my mouth. “What about it?”
“My mother doesn’t talk,” he whispered. “Not about anyone.”
I looked at her, then back at him. She had not blinked once. I shrugged, chewing slowly.
“She hasn’t spoken in years,” he went on. “But ever since she spoke with you, she’s been saying a thing or two.”
I took another bite of bread. I had no idea how to respond, so I said nothing.
“I want to offer you a job,” he said. “In two days, I’ll be out of town for a month.” He exhaled heavily before continuing. “You can take care of her. Stop by for meals, check on her.”
He paused, eyes locked on mine. “You don’t have to do much. Maria handles feeding herand changing her. It’s just…” He let the breath out again, slower this time. “I need someone in case something happens.”
“Okay.” I nodded. I needed the work after the renovation, but more than that, I needed a place to stay. “On one condition.”
His gaze sharpened.1“Dime.”
“I need a place to stay,” I said.
“Done.” He didn’t hesitate. “In two days, after I leave, you can take the guest room I was using. When I’m back, we’ll figure out how to find you something permanent.”
“And for two days I keep working on the construction,2sí?” I asked, hungry, tearing off another piece of bread.
“Sí.” He nodded. “I still need you to fix a few things there, too.”
3“Vale,” I said. “Then I’ll do it.”
4“Perfecto.” He laughed softly. “¿Oíste, mamá? Matteo te cuidará.”5
The old woman had not spoken the whole time. Her face was blank, empty as a photograph, but the moment he said my name, she moved her head toward me. Her smile was sudden and wide, her eyes fixed and unblinking. I swallowed the bread too hard and felt it scrape my throat.
“Very well.” Carlos stood and picked up his phone. “I’ll call María, let her know.”
As soon as he rose, the old woman reached for my hand. Her fingers closed around my wrist with a grip that was too tight for a woman her age. I could not pull away.
She leaned close and spoke into my skin.6“¿La viste otra vez, no?”
I nodded and cleared my throat.
7“Cuidado,” she whispered, then shook her head as if disappointed.8“Piensa como si nunca saliera de tu mente.”
She let go and turned back toward the door, her gaze settling once more on that single, stubborn spot on the wall. She didn’t move, she didn’t blink.
I heard footsteps again; Carlos was returning to the table. “¡A comer, cabrón!”9 he called, smiling.
I swallowed hard and gave him a nervous laugh. “Gracias.”
I hated myself in that instant. I hated the hollow ease with which I took this deal, the way I had become someone who lived on other people’s offers. But when the only choice is to survive, opinions change like the weather. Suddenly, small mercies are everything.
