Esteban took Gaspar by the shoulders, firmly, and made him turn around and sit down. That’s enough, he said. We’re here.
Gaspar was surprised—the hospital couldn’t be more than four blocks from the estate. So close, he said in a low voice, and Dr. Biedma replied that otherwise, they wouldn’t have brought him to the house after the accident. And nor would his father have chosen to convalesce in a place that was far away from a health center. She put it like that: a health center. Gaspar decided she was believable, and the story of why the hospital was close by also seemed credible. But if that was true, the whole story could be true, and they would be right. And he didn’t want to listen or to think anything reasonable, his own body still reeked of danger and he felt that if he cut the skin on his arm he would see a black film, like gelatin. He felt infected, like a black river was pulsing in his veins. He raised his shirt to look at the wounds. The dried blood was still red.
It was Esteban again who came to his aid as he hopped up the stairs to the hospital entrance. His dad didn’t get close and Dr. Biedma went ahead, but Gaspar could see all her movements and hear her; he had never been so alert. There was a sign that said Hospital de Agudos Pedro Galíndez, but it didn’t include a location that would indicate where they were. At the reception desk, Dr. Biedma asked for another doctor, the neurologist, and when she gave her own name, the receptionist asked her to wait five minutes. Gaspar was still standing on one leg and leaning against Esteban. Juan had sat down on a long wooden bench and seemed worn out, but Gaspar didn’t worry, he felt it was all a performance, even his father’s vaguely blue lips, even that hospital, so solid and old; a front, it’s all a front, he thought.
Suddenly he heard hammering that quickly grew into a fusillade: the storm had finally burst and it was hailing, a summer storm so intense that from the hospital’s open front door they could see tree branches fly by, swept up by the wind as though sucked by a giant mouth.
The neurologist, a woman with short gray hair, came rushing up. She listened to what Dr. Biedma had to tell her—he’s confused, he’s scared—then asked them to come up to her consulting office on the first floor. Through its window there was lightning and a black sky; it was night in the middle of the day. Gaspar went in alone with Dr. Biedma: Juan and Esteban waited outside. The walls were hung with posters of brains and the doctor’s degrees. Once Gaspar sat down—she made him prop his foot up on another chair—she said normal, normal, normal. Gaspar hopped over to the X-rays that shone on the wall, lit from behind. He checked that they had his name and the correct date. Gaspar Peterson. 18/1/1986. They were his. Or could they have faked them that fast?
The neurologist explained that blows to the head produced temporary amnesia, that it was the most normal thing in the world. Again with the soap opera, said Gaspar, and the doctor, to his surprise, laughed. They do use that a lot in soaps, don’t they? But it’s nothing strange. It’s possible you won’t ever remember the accident.
“I don’t remember being here, either.”
“I once treated a soccer player who hit his head at a championship final and forgot the game. That’s a little worse than forgetting an accident.”
Gaspar felt himself relaxing a little, but he resisted.
“It’s not just that,” he said.
Dr. Biedma interjected:
“He thinks we hurt him.”
Gaspar said nothing. He preferred not to reveal the extent of his distrust. The neurologist told him she understood that what he was feeling was real to him. She explained that sometimes the most insignificant blows produced effects that could be very scary. Yesterday, you didn’t remember anything, not even who the people with you were. That’s why I thought that, since the lesion is organically insignificant, it was better for you to go somewhere familiar rather than stay in the hospital.
“That house isn’t familiar, it’s the first time I’ve been there,” said Gaspar.
“A homey place,” the doctor went on. “With a normal bed and a normal room and a park. They told me it has a pool, right? That’s lucky, in this heat. Hospitals sometimes confuse people more because they feel too unfamiliar. And I was right, because even though you were upset, you remember who everyone is now, right?”
Gaspar didn’t reply.
“Who is she?”
“My dad’s doctor.”
“And who is the gray-haired man outside?”
“Esteban, my dad’s best friend.”
“And the blond man?”
“My dad.”
“Were you riding with him in the car when it crashed?”
“I don’t know, I don’t remember.”
“What do you remember?”
We left the city in two cars. I went with Esteban and her,” he pointed to Dr. Biedma, “and a driver. Then I woke up at the estate.”
“Do you know when you left the city?”
“No.”
“Day before yesterday. This is the X-ray from yesterday.”
The doctor took another set of films and placed them on the light boxes. Gaspar, still standing on one foot, saw the date. 19/1.
“You’re not going to take one today?”
The doctor explained that the exam hadn’t detected anything abnormal. That was why she had discharged him. There was no need for another X-ray. She told him again that he’d been sedated those two days because when the sedation wore off, he got upset.
“Like now. A lot more, really, but it’s perfectly normal. Let’s go to the orthopedic specialist.”
Gaspar let himself be led along. He heard ice, immobilize, no cast. He watched as his father told Dr. Biedma he was leaving, she protested, and he, as always, ignored the complaint and left on his own, possibly walking.
Esteban was waiting in the hallway.
“I want to see the car,” Gaspar told him.
“You’re worse than your father,” said Esteban.
“Worse how?”
“You’re intractable.”
“What does intractable mean?”
“What you’re doing right now is intractable. And enough with the hopping, you’re making me nervous. I don’t know where the car is. We’re going back to the house. Or do you think this is all put on? That’s enough nonsense.”
Esteban picked him up. Gaspar realized how strong he was; his arms were very muscular.
“How did that happen to your neck?”
“It was the broken window.”
“How come I know that my dad wanted to do something to me?”
Esteban hunched over. As they walked through the rain, Gaspar saw the hairs on his arms were very long and dark. Only the hair on his head was gray.
“I think you remember it like that because your dad pulled you out of the car, and when he did, he hurt you a little.”
“Why did he hurt me?”
“Because he yanked you out. He was afraid the car would explode. Your mom died in an accident and the mind can play tricks. Let’s go to the house, you need to rest that damned foot.”
Gaspar leaned against the car and let the rain stream down his face.
“I don’t want to be with him.”
“Then you’ll be with me or Tali. Are you afraid of us?”