Left for Dead

23

2:00 P.M., Sunday, April 11

Tucson, Arizona

Breeze Domingo stirred in the bed. She had no idea where she was or how she had come to be there. She seemed to be in a hospital. It looked like a hospital, but the last thing she remembered was being in a house, a big house and … No, she didn’t want to remember that or the man who was there, the one who had burned her and cut her. She could remember that, but she didn’t want to. What she really wanted to know was where Chico was. Why didn’t he come for her? Why had he abandoned her?

In the background, someone was talking—a woman. It was a voice rather than a presence. Breeze could hear the woman speaking, but she couldn’t see her. She seemed to remember having heard the voice before, although she wasn’t sure exactly when or why or who the woman was. Is she someone I know?

For a while—when was that?—the woman had spoken in both English and Spanish. That seemed weird. Why would she do that? Did she think Breeze didn’t understand English? Now she had dropped the Spanish and settled into English, telling a long complicated story.

At first Breeze thought the woman was speaking about someone else. Finally, though, she realized she was talking about Breeze—about what had happened to her; about her being found in the desert; about her being raped and beaten. She tried to stop listening. It hurt too much to think about it. Now the woman was talking about what had happened in the hospital. There were surgeries and something to do with blood poisoning and wiring her jaw shut. Breeze didn’t care about what the doctors had done or would do. It was too complicated. Too much information. All she wanted to do was go back to sleep.

But then the woman said something shocking—her name! Her real name. Not Breeze Domingo but Rose Ventana!

How did the unseen woman know that? How could she possibly?

Now she was talking about Breeze’s family, offering to be in touch with them if that was what Rose wanted, to have them come to the hospital to visit her.

Her family? Her family was so long ago that they might well have lived in another universe. They would be so disappointed in who she was now; in what she had become; in how she had lived all this time. She didn’t want to see them. She was too ashamed. She didn’t want them to know anything at all about her. No. No. No. Especially not her stepfather. Especially not him.

She tried to say the word aloud: NO! But nothing came out of her mouth. So she shook her head instead.

“All right,” the woman said comfortingly. “As you wish. I won’t make any effort to contact them until and unless you say so.”

Breeze wanted to say, Thank you. And who are you? And any number of other things. But that didn’t work, either. With her jaw wired shut, it seemed impossible to speak. She felt the wetness of a single tear rolling down her cheek.

“Rest now,” the woman murmured gently, wiping the tear away. “We’ve talked quite enough.”

24

3:00 P.M., Sunday, April 11

Tucson, Arizona

Teresa’s cell phone rang at ten past three. “Ms. Reynolds?” a male voice asked when Ali answered.

“Yes.”

“I’m Tomas. Maria’s brother. I drove down to pick her up. We’re almost there. Have you heard anything?”

Ali was grateful that Teresa’s uncle had a cell phone, even if Maria didn’t. “No,” she said. “I’ve heard nothing. I have a friend who might find out for us, but …”

“What about Jose? How’s he doing?”

“He’s stable, as far as I know.”

“I don’t have a handicapped sticker on my Taurus,” Tomas said. “Maria has a tough time walking any distances at all. If I dropped her at the main entrance, do you think you could meet us and take her where she needs to go?”

The two girls had been growing steadily more restless and whiny. They were bored. They wanted their mother. They wanted their father. They had exhausted all interest in the collection of stuff Donnatelle and the other grandmother had brought in hopes of keeping them occupied. They wanted to go home.

“Sure,” Ali said. “We’ll meet you out front.”

“Are we leaving?” Lucy wanted to know.

“We’re going to go meet your grandmother,” Ali told them. “Then we’re going to go check on your mom.”

A hospital wheelchair had been abandoned on the sidewalk outside the front door. Ali appropriated the chair and let both girls sit in it while they waited for Tomas to arrive in an older-model Taurus. When a frail, graying woman slowly stepped out of the passenger seat of the car, the girls went nuts. “Grandma, Grandma, Grandma,” Lucy shouted.

Ali helped Maria into the wheelchair and deposited Carinda on her grandmother’s lap, then they headed for the maternity unit with Lucy trailing behind.

Visitors back in the ICU waiting room had seemed trapped in the grip of grim despair. In the waiting room of the maternity wing, it was a different story. Here the very air seemed charged with light and an electric exuberance. Two men, each pacing nervously, were clearly expectant fathers who, for one reason or another, had chosen to await their baby’s arrival outside the delivery room rather than in it. One family group included everyone from the grandparents on down to a toddler who would be the new baby’s older sister.

Pausing by the nursery window, Ali spotted a bassinet with a hand-lettered card saying BABY REYES. Inside, a tiny, red-faced infant slept peacefully. Donnatelle had told Ali that Teresa had said the baby would be named Carmine. The “Baby Reyes” designation worried Ali and made her wonder if Teresa was okay.

While Maria Delgado tottered off to find a nurse, Ali held the two excited girls up to the nursery window one at a time so they could glimpse their baby brother. When Maria returned, Lucy raced up to her.

“Where’s Mommy?” Lucy asked. “Can we go see her?”

Maria shook her head. “Not right now.” To Ali she said, “There have been some complications. Preclamp something—”

“Preeclampsia,” said Ali.

“Yes, that’s it,” Maria said. “They had to do an emergency C-section. She’s in the recovery room.”

“What’s a C-section?” Lucy parroted.

“Don’t worry,” Maria told her granddaughter. “It’s nothing.”

Ali knew it wasn’t nothing. It could, in fact, be very bad.

Weeks earlier, as part of her reading-the-classics project, Ali had read A Tale of Two Cities from cover to cover, metaphorically speaking, since she had read the book on her iPhone. It occurred to her that for Jose and Teresa Reyes, these were both the best and worst of times. Their son had arrived perfectly formed and in what looked like good health and with a bright future ahead of him. All that was cause for rejoicing. But for the boy’s parents? Not only had Jose’s body been compromised by injuries sustained in the shooting, but his career in law enforcement, as well as his very freedom, might be in jeopardy. As for Teresa? Ali