“I don’t know. We’ll do it when you get back if he doesn’t.”
“I’ll go too,” said Pablo.
“But you’re scared.”
“We’re all scared,” sighed Pablo. “I think if we don’t go inside that house, the fear will never go away.”
Juan had spent ten days in the hospital and had recovered faster than the doctor expected, a nurse had told him. By now he was itching to leave, and he’d told Gaspar that they would be spending a few days at a country house that year. Whose house? Gaspar wanted to know. Technically, your mom’s. Actually, technically yours. Your maternal family’s. I thought you didn’t get along with them, Gaspar said, and his father replied that’s true, we don’t get along at all, that’s why we never see them, but they’re not going to refuse me a place to recover. Esteban would be going with them, and maybe Tali too. It had been a long time since Gaspar had seen Tali; she called on the phone often, but his father always locked himself in to talk to her. Dr. Biedma would check on him every day and there would be a full-time nurse. There’s a pool, said Juan, and horses, too. The caretaker can teach you to ride. Gaspar liked the idea. His father had moved on from the moment of warmth they’d shared on the day of his headache, and he was treating everyone badly. Gaspar was used to it, but he preferred to keep his distance. How he hated those movies and TV shows with heroic patients who bore their suffering in silence and inspired others. He’d been around hospitals and illness enough to know that most sick people were bossy and mean and tried to make the people around them feel just as bad as they did.
The last thing he remembered was the car. Getting into the car with the driver, Dr. Biedma, and Esteban. He had asked about his father: Juan was riding in another car, alone with the nurse, so he’d be more comfortable. Gaspar thought that was strange, but he was used to accepting strange things. He wanted to know how long it would be to Chascomús, and they told him it was less than two hours. And when they were leaving the city, he fell asleep.
Now he was waking up in an unfamiliar bed, a double bed in a very large room that, when he turned his head to get a good look, started to spin; the dizziness forced him to lie still, faceup. This pain was different: it wasn’t a migraine, it came from outside, two iron hooks in his temples, and then he realized he was naked under the blanket and sheets. A blanket in the middle of summer? Weren’t they going to Chascomús? It wasn’t far, the weather shouldn’t change. He pulled off the covers and tried to focus: this wasn’t a normal kind of dizziness, it was more like the time he and Pablo had gotten drunk on coffee liqueur. That time, he’d thrown up and Pablo had laughed and then started crying and ended up vomiting too. It was better if he didn’t turn his head: he’d learned that much. The pain was intense, but in no way worse than what he already knew how to endure.
His arms were covered with bruises. Of all sizes, but, between his shoulders and elbows, bruises without a doubt caused by hands: someone had grabbed him. Someone had held him.
against the floor, no, against a table, a dark table, several hands while he struggled, what were they trying to do to him?—he couldn’t remember, but he remembered the hands
One of the hand-shaped bruises looked a lot like the mark, the burn, that his father had on his arm. It was in almost the same place. It’s his hand, thought Gaspar, those are his fingers, I know them.
it’s not just that I recognize them, I feel them, it’s his hand, he tried to hold me down, too, why did he want to stop me, where was I trying to run
He almost screamed when he saw the rest of his body, his chest, his stomach. It was covered in scratches and bruises; he didn’t understand what could have hurt him like that. He wasn’t bleeding, because someone had cleaned his wounds, and anyway, they weren’t very deep. Scrapes. Fingernails? Had he been trapped somewhere, and these injuries came from when he’d been yanked out? What about the blows to his chest and ribs?
I have to run, he thought. I’m naked because they don’t want me to run, but I don’t care about being embarrassed, I have to get out. Kidnapped, maybe. He didn’t recognize anything in the room, and his clothes weren’t there. But neither was he tied up. He got out of bed, and no sooner did his foot touch the floor than the door was unlocked—he heard the key turn—and his father entered, Dr. Biedma behind him.
And then the certainty came, clear as the knowledge that he had five fingers on each hand or that teeth are used for chewing or that it was cooler in the shade than in the sun. He only had to look at his father to know he was responsible, he was the one who’d attacked him. He hadn’t been kidnapped by strangers. He couldn’t remember why, couldn’t imagine why, but it was the truth: his father had hurt him. Now, he looked satisfied. It had been a long time since Gaspar had seen that expression, his mouth relaxed and smiling.
He tried, first of all, to get back in bed, though he wasn’t ashamed for the doctor to see him naked. The window was close, but there were bars over it. If he was going to escape, it would have to be through the door, passing between his father and the doctor. He thought he should try to be smart about it, talk to them, deceive them, and only once he got out start to run. But something very primal was screaming that there was danger, and his whole body tensed up in fear and anticipation.
He leaped from the bed, but it was a useless movement and he knew it, they would cut him off. He had to try, though, even if he had to bite his way out. But he couldn’t stand: the pain in one of his feet sent him to his knees. Only then did he see his ankle was swollen up like a tennis ball. It was a sprain; he knew because he’d seen soccer teammates who had them, and also, if it were broken, it would have a cast. He heard the doctor say he’s scared; she tried to get him back into bed and Gaspar resisted like a cat, wriggling out from under her and then attacking her face directly. She had to use all her strength, which, Gaspar noticed, was considerable, to sit him down. Be still or I’ll have to put you to sleep, she told him. And then she started to explain what had happened—she spoke calmly and with long pauses, trying to get him to meet her eyes—but Gaspar didn’t look at her, he looked at his father, whose arms were crossed with a frightening serenity. Why didn’t he come closer? Why didn’t he try to stop her? The doctor was still talking and now Gaspar did start to listen, because it was better to know, it was always better to know. She was explaining, patiently, that he was hurt because he’d had an accident. A car accident, two days ago, when they were on the way from the hospital to this estate. We’re at the house, she explained. The vacation house you and your dad were coming to: your car crashed on the way. Esteban is hurt too, but not as badly as you are. I wasn’t hurt. In any case, you don’t have any fractures or significant trauma, although, since you hit your head, we had to leave you under observation at the hospital.
I wasn’t at any hospital, said Gaspar. She insisted: Yes, you were. You don’t remember the accident or being hospitalized. It’s common to have periods of amnesia after a concussion, even a slight one. It’s possible the memory will come back to you gradually, or that you’ll never remember.