Page 6 of After the Fire
“Oh, hello,” she said, beaming. “You made it!”
“Uh, sure?” It came out more like a question, my voice shrill with surprise. I widened my eyes and looked around, but I couldn’t see anyone in the small entryway. Could it have been that Catalina called ahead to make a reservation or to make sure there were rooms available? My phone had been off since I spoke to her, so I had no way to quickly check. “I… I made it?”
“Oh!” The woman laughed. “Santi mentioned that a friend of his would stop by.”
Ah, my friend. It was the second time he’d referred to me as his friend. The silence stretched between us, and I used the reprieve to look further into the hotel. I could see a large sitting room towards the back. It reminded me so much of Susana’s house—the large sofas around an unlit fireplace. Large chandeliers hung from the tall ceilings, and the far wall was scattered with French doors that opened to a back patio. There were a few cafe tables out there, but it was void of people.
“Here we go,” she said, interrupting my browsing. “This is your key. My name is Julia, by the way. If you need anything, just let me know.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling softly to this warm stranger. “Have a good night.”
I pulled my suitcase behind me and headed towards the elevators, admiring the carved stairs right behind the lobby. The whole inn was a vibe. There were multiple seating areas distributed around the large room. Wood paneling covered the walls, and there were almost no spaces left empty. Despite being cluttered, it felt homey, cozy. Like a breath of fresh air during a particularly nasty season.
My room was on the top floor of the building, and it had a small seating and dining area and a separate bedroom to the side. The large windows overlooked the front of the hotel, and from the foot of the bed I could clearly see the town square and beyond. It was already dark by the time I made it up there, so I quickly unpacked and got ready for bed. My brain was still moving at lightning speed, trying to go over the events that had changed my life not even twelve hours prior.
As soon as I got into bed, I noticed that there was a flashing light on the room phone.
“Hey,” his voice said. “Julia told me you checked in. Just wanted to make sure you were okay. Please let me know if you need anything.” He sounded thoughtful, caring. Santiago had always been a patient man, using his words wisely and always paying attention to his surroundings and to the context. “Sounds like maybe you need some space to think, so I’ll let you be, but know that I’m around if you need to talk.” Pause. “Okay, good night.”
It was almost like he had read my mind, knowing exactly what I needed when I needed it. It was, for sure, the complete opposite to my family’s reaction. Whereas Susana’s messages were almost menacing, Santiago’s were comforting. And despite the fact that we couldn’t stand each other, he was being nice? It was confusing. I was confused and exhausted.
And as soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell asleep, but my dreams were more than nightmares, because my life was slowly burning down, consumed by a roaring fire that started the moment I left the comfort of my family.
4
SUSANA (1988)
I heard the door open,the clear creaking that had been bothering me for months, alerting me of his arrival. He walked in and with a thud, he dropped his briefcase on the entryway floor. Roberto had been doing this for over twenty years now, every single Wednesday evening without fail. I was sitting in the living room, a drink to my left, while the staff in the kitchen finalized the last details of what we would have for dinner that cold fall night. Josefina had called earlier that evening to tell me something about her neighbor, and I was still sitting by the phone when he entered the house.
“Are you home?” I asked, turning my head towards the foyer. I expected him to poke his head through the doorway and nod in acknowledgment, like he’d done thousands of times before. “Don’t forget that tomorrow evening we are having dinner with Teresa and Carlos at the club. Also, did you remember to call Juan to confirm?”
I didn’t receive—or expect—an answer. I knew it was him. I knew the cadence of his steps by heart. They were etched in my brain. I knew he would answer in due time. I was merely planting the seed of these questions into his head, and he would give me an answer later. We had operated this way for years.
He was never too interested in our social activity; I was the one who handled our agenda, filling it up with dinners and cocktail parties and charity events. We were frequently seen at our church fundraisers, as well as at the weddings of those who most mattered in our social group. To say that we were influential was an understatement. And it was a combination of his hard work and my buzzing that gave us notoriety.
From where I sat in the sitting room, I could hear our home. Not quite literally, of course, but there were still those sounds in the background that narrated our lives. We’d had seven children in almost a decade, the oldest now well into adulthood. We were in a new moment in our lives: our youngest was to be married soon, and we wouldfinallybe empty nesters. I was looking forward to the next phase, excited for the chance to travel the world.
Doors were opening and closing, and I could hear quiet chatter. I could clearly differentiate his fast steps to our daughter’s. The heaviness meant that the ceiling in this old, classic home vibrated with the movement.
We had a perfectly acceptable routine: he would drop his briefcase in the entryway and make his way to the kitchen. He would kiss my temple on his way to the refrigerator to search for the club soda, then proceed to grab a tall glass from the cabinet and fill it with the fizzy liquid. While this was happening, I would drop off his briefcase in his home office and then go back to the kitchen to hear about his day. He didn’t talk much, only the bare details, but enough to be able to communicate the important things.
But today, today was no such a day.
In the time it took me to stop what I was doing and get back to the front of the house, he had walked up the stairs, grabbed one of our old suitcases, and descended the stairs, holding a few stray documents in his hands. I had no idea what those were or where they had come from. Maybe they were from his home office, or maybe he had gotten them from the drawer where we kept all our important documentation in our shared dressing room.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs, his gaze empty and devoid of any feeling. He was a serious man, always had been. Responsible and absurdly loyal to his family.
It had been almost forty years to the day since we’d met. I remember it as if it were today. I was standing outside my house with my younger sisters, who were playing hopscotch with a piece of an old brick they’d found lying around. We lived in a middle-class neighborhood close to the railroad tracks. All the neighborhood children went to the same schools—the girls went to the one up the hill, the boys to the one ten blocks down our street.
Roberto got out of his small, moss-green car, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, his forearms visible. His hair—so thick and dark—was styled to perfection. I remember thinking that his hairstyle was modern for the times, although now, four decades later, he was still wearing it the same way. Without looking ahead of him, he walked directly to my neighbor Pedro’s door. Pedro was waiting for him, leaning on the door frame with a naughty smirk on his face, looking right at me. Roberto was impeccably dressed. His slacks looked freshly pressed despite the fact that he had just been driving, his shirt stiff and starched.
I felt myself flush with embarrassment, like I’d been caught doing something forbidden. That was probably the first time I ever looked at a man with any sort of desire. I was just shy of sixteen years old and didn’t interact much with men outside of my immediate family and some of the neighborhood boys. Perhaps it was because I wasn’t supposed to be looking at that mysterious man. It had long been assumed that Pedro and I would end up together. Our families were friends. We were neighbors and had a good, friendly relationship. It was easy with Pedro. He was older than me, but we understood each other in a way that I was never able to replicate with anyone else, not even my sisters or my mother. But this boy, this man, exuded stability and power. Even without knowing his name, I knew that if I tried hard, I could end up with him.
Roberto and I were formally introduced to each other a few months later at an acquaintance’s wedding, and despite what it meant for Pedro, he encouraged my relationship with his friend. Three years later, we were married, and soon after, our first daughter was born. Ten years after that, we had a house full of children, we traveled yearly to Europe, and we were very active in our community—both at the church and at the country club. I dared to say we were living an idyllic life.
As I patiently waited for him to speak, I could feel how his hands were unsteady. Why was his gaze so empty? Why was he standing in front of me like words escaped him? He was relentless, unyielding in his professional life and tough and firm on our children at home. He always had a thing to say. He was a man of few words, but those words had the potential to cut like a knife. After a long beat, he clutched the documents harder, turned, and exited through the door.
Stunned in place, I could only look at what was happening from my place by the kitchen door. I followed him, quickening my pace to try to catch up with him, but he averted my gaze.
