“He doesn’t know. Or won’t say.”
“Has anyone come down from Minnesota?”
“Her father. Isn’t she married?”
“Divorced. Her kids are in high school.”
Mateo drove the remaining distance in silence, wind puffing his denim shirt, reflected yellow lines clicking up the front of his dark glasses.
The Solola hospital was a six-story maze of red brick and grimy glass. Mateo parked in one of several small lots, and we walked up a tree-shaded lane to the front entrance. In the forecourt, a cement Jesus welcomed us with outstretched arms.
People filled the lobby, wandering, praying, drinking soda, slumping or fidgeting on wooden benches. Some wore housedresses, others suits or jeans. Most were dressed in Solola Mayan. Women swathed in striped red cloth, with burrito-wrapped babies on their bellies or backs. Men in woolen aprons, gaucho hats, and wildly embroidered trousers and shirts. Now and then a hospital worker in crisp white cut through the kaleidoscope assemblage.
I looked around, familiar with the atmosphere, but unfamiliar with the layout. Signs routed patrons to the cafeteria, the gift shop, the business office, and to a dozen medical departments.
Ignoring posted instructions to check-in, Mateo led me directly to a bank of elevators. We got off on the fifth floor and headed left, our heels clicking on polished tile. As we moved up the corridor, I saw myself reflected in the small rectangular windows of a dozen closed doors.
We turned. A fire-breathing nurse was bearing down, hospital chart pressed to her spotless white chest. Winged cap. Hair pulled back tight enough to cause a fault line down the center of her face.
Nurse Dragon extended her arm and the chart and circled us, the crossing guard of the fifth floor.
Mateo and I smiled winningly.
The dragon asked the reason for our presence.
Mateo told her.
She drew in the chart, eyed us as though we were Leopold and Loeb.
Mateo gestured at me.
More appraisal.
Molly looked like a still life of cheated death. Her thin cotton gown was colorless from a million washings and clung to her body like a feathery shroud. One tube ran from her nose, another from an arm bearing little more flesh than the skeletons at the morgue.
Mateo inhaled sharply.
I placed a hand on his shoulder.
Molly’s eyes were lavender caverns. She opened them, recognized us, and struggled to raise herself higher on the pillows. I hurried to her side.
“What’s new with
“Had one dandy siesta.”
“I knew we were working you too hard.” Though his words were light, Mateo’s voice was not.
Molly smiled weakly, pointed to a water glass on the bedside table.
“Do you mind?”
I swung the table in front of her and tipped the straw. She closed dry lips around it, drank, and leaned back.
“Have you met my father?” One hand rose, dropped back to the gray wool blanket.
Mateo and I swiveled around.
An old man occupied a chair in the corner of the room. He had white hair, and deep lines chiseled down his cheeks and across his chin and forehead. Though the whites of his eyes had yellowed with age, the blues were as clear as a mountain lake.
Mateo went to him and held out a hand. “Mateo Reyes. I guess you’d say I’m Molly’s boss down here.”
“Jack Dayton.”
They shook.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Dayton,” I said from beside the bed.
