Victor was still hospitalized when the place he had promised Rita ceased to be a home, and for several hours no one dared to tell him that behind those walls there was no longer the life he took for granted.
He still had discomfort from the surgery, he walked slowly and had to follow medical instructions carefully, but what irritated him the most was something else: Ana did not answer his calls.
The first night he thought she was angry.
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The second one decided that it would pass.
The third one began to understand that the ring she had left on top of her watch had not been an impulsive gesture.
Victor stored it in the drawer of the table next to his bed.
He didn’t call Ana to ask her why she had left it there.
He wrote to her as he had done for twenty-two years whenever he wanted something put back in its place without having to apologize.
—When you can, bring me a change of clothes.
Ana read the message and did not reply.
Then another one arrived.
—I also need the long charger that’s on my desk.
He didn’t respond either.
Victor still didn’t understand that those small commands had stopped working.
For years I had mistaken Ana’s constancy for obedience, her way of caring for a lack of character, and her habit of solving problems for the certainty that she would never leave.
That’s why, even after speaking with Rita from that hospital room and promising her a property that wasn’t even in her name, he remained convinced that Ana would return.
I had a prepared argument.
I would say that she had misheard.
I would say that Rita was a friend.
I would say that the comment about the house had been a joke.
I would say anything but the truth.
But Ana had already heard enough.
While Victor waited for her to appear by his bedside, she was temporarily settled in a simple room she had rented for a few days, with her suitcase still closed against the wall and a bag of medicine on a small table.
The scar still hurt when he stood up too quickly.
He slept in intervals.
He ate very little.
And yet, for the first time in many years, nobody asked him where a shirt was, what was for dinner, or if he had paid any bills.
The silence was strange, but not empty.
It was his.
The morning after the fire, he returned to Lomas Verdes because he needed to see with his own eyes what was left.
He didn’t go in.
From the sidewalk she took the photographs that she later saved on her phone while Teresa, her neighbor, tried to find words to comfort her.
Ana did not explain to him what had happened at the hospital.
She only said that one phrase that Teresa would remember for a long time: she hadn’t lost everything that morning; she had lost it three days before.
Afterwards, he left to attend a medical check-up that Dr. Salcedo had insisted on maintaining.
He didn’t want to turn his anger into a reason to neglect the only kidney he had left.
Salcedo examined the wound and asked if she had someone who could accompany her during her recovery.
Ana replied that she could organize it.
The doctor looked at her for a few seconds, as if he wanted to ask something else, but he didn’t.
She appreciated that prudence.
Meanwhile, Victor began receiving messages from Rita with a different frequency.
Before the transplant, she would write to him at any time.
She asked him when they could see each other, what was going to happen to them, and how long it would be before he resolved his marriage.
Now he wanted to know when he would be discharged from the hospital.
And, above all, when could they talk about the house?
