Silver Nitrate(39)

“Good night, Tristán,” she said, and he felt her fingertips against his forehead for a second, brushing a strand of hair away from his face.

“Yolanda said we had a codependent relationship. I think she got that from one of those self-help books she loves to read. But I like to think we have a partnership.

“I feel so alone sometimes, you have no idea. And the loneliness seems to seep into my bones and I get scared because I feel numb. Not depressed or upset: I’m a blank tape. Like someone dragged a magnet against the tape inside my brain and erased all the information. There’s nothing left to feel. I felt it all and I’ll never feel anything new again and I’ll always be alone.

“But when we are together, it’s like when you explained about control tracks. Every videotape has this track that allows it to calibrate properly and ensures it plays back at the right speed. Only sometimes you need to adjust the dial to align it. That’s you and me. You’re this dial, that when it’s turned properly it makes the picture clearer, better. Everything is suddenly in perfect unison and I’m not empty. Do you understand?”

There was silence. She had left. Not that he had expected her to stay, or his speech to be anything but a monologue meant for himself.

“Momo,” he muttered.

When he woke up it was still dark. He rubbed his eyes and made his way to the bathroom. He stubbed his toe against a table in the hallway before stumbling forward and into the bathroom, where he slapped his palm against the wall until he landed on the light switch.

The bathroom lights turned on, making him blink in discomfort. The tap was dripping again. He’d have to call the plumber.

He peed, then sleepily thrust his hands under the faucet and closed it with a sigh. He left the lights on and the bathroom door open to help guide himself to his bed and avoid crashing into another piece of furniture.

As he walked back toward his room, he saw a figure standing in the hallway. The apartment was in semi-darkness, and he was still half asleep, but even in that twilight space he could tell it was a woman. He couldn’t see her clearly, though, because of the angle at which she was standing; her back was to him, and her clothes were dark. She looked like a black smudge against gray paper.

“Momo. You stayed?”

He took a couple of steps toward her. The woman’s shoulders were slouched, and she was pressing her hands against her face, as if sobbing or hiding from him. The woman shivered.

There was something about her posture that didn’t correspond to Montserrat.

There was something wrong, very wrong, about her.

In the bathroom, the tap was dripping again. Tristán had sobered up, and he swallowed.

“Momo,” he whispered, even if he already knew it was not Montserrat. The sound came unbidden. It was a plea for help rather than an attempt at recognition.

The woman turned around and slowly lifted her head. The light emanating from the bathroom was not enough to allow him to glimpse her in her entirety, but he saw her eyes and he recognized her: Karina.

As she shuffled forward, he got a better look at her. Karina Junco. With her same makeup, her same hair, the locket with the gold “K” she liked to wear around her neck.

Only Karina was dead. She’d been dead for ten years, and the last time he’d seen her she’d been crumpled against the wheel of the car, with glass slicing her skin.

Now she stood in his apartment, her movements slow and somewhat delicate, somewhat monstrous.

Tristán pressed himself against the wall to keep himself upright and stared at her, his mouth open, and then Karina opened her mouth, too. Her tongue darted out of her mouth, as if she were attempting to wet her lips and failed. Or perhaps she meant to speak.

If I blink she’ll be gone, he thought, but he couldn’t stop staring at her. His eyes were pinned open. His breath was shallow, and he felt nauseated.

She didn’t speak; instead she made a gurgling noise, and when she opened her mouth again blood poured from it. It spilled as freely as water; it dripped down her clothes onto the floor. Her fingertips were now stained with blood, and she was leaving a tracery of dark footprints behind her.

She shivered and little bits of glass dislodged from her skin and rained upon the floor, sparkling in the darkness, crunching beneath her feet.

He slid down, his back against the wall, raising a shaky hand to try to cover his eyes.





9


Montserrat didn’t mind the early mornings when she had to drive to Araceli’s place and take her to an appointment, but she minded the ride back after her sister had her chemo. Araceli looked so worn it was like sitting next to a ghost. But at least that morning it was a checkup, and as Montserrat listened to the radio and drummed her hands against the wheel, waiting in the parking lot, she was able to keep her thoughts away from the cancer that was gnawing at her sister’s body.

Her thoughts bounced back to Tristán, whom she’d tucked in late the previous night, remembering his offer of sex and wondering if he was awake yet. Jerk. She knew him too well to interpret his clumsy overture as anything more than stupid babble, designed to irritate her. If she’d been younger, maybe it might have made her heart stutter a little. But now she knew it had nothing to do with her, that it was only his neediness and loneliness that drove him into the arms of others.

He was constantly reaching out, while Montserrat slipped more and more inward.