But in the corridor, people move with swift, oiled competence. No one looks his way.
As he waits, the thought crosses his mind that he’s off the hook for damaging Monica Gutierrez-Larsen’s car, and he’s immediately ashamed.
He nearly calls Angel, but he doesn’t want to scare her, not yet. He thinks about calling Brianna, then puts his phone away.
Half an hour later a pretty woman in scrubs approaches to tell him that his mother is in post-op, still under anesthesia, and that the doctor will be out to speak with him soon.
When his sister arrives, rushing through the automatic doors, Amadeo slackens in relief. She’s frantic, whipping her head around to look for him. Sarah and Lily hurry behind, pinched and worried and clutching enough books for a week of waiting.
At the sight of his sister, Amadeo’s eyes fill again. He wants to embrace her, but he isn’t sure whether this crisis is enough to bring on a détente.
Valerie also seems uncertain, and stops short before him. “Have you heard anything?”
“Hi, Uncle Amadeo,” Lily says gravely, glancing at her mother. Valerie is in loose yoga pants and a Lobos T-shirt with a thickly embroidered emblem, her long hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, but her face, though tired-looking and creased with worry, is still made-up. He’s not used to seeing her dressed so carelessly. He imagines she must have just changed out of her work clothes when she got his call.
“Mom’s in post-op. Post-operation,” he clarifies. “Her doctor is going to talk to us soon.”
Lily looks around mournfully, blinking behind her glasses. “It’s cold in here.” She’s right. It’s freezing. Amadeo hadn’t noticed. His nieces’ bare arms are goose-bumped.
“Here,” he says, unbuttoning his plaid shirt. “I guess you’ll have to trade off.” He’s self-conscious in his undershirt; he feels like a stereotype, like he should be bumping along in a flame-emblazoned lowrider.
Lily hesitates, and doesn’t look at him as she takes it and wraps it around herself. “Thanks, Uncle Amadeo.”
Just then the pretty woman in scrubs approaches. “Mr. and Mrs. Padilla? Dr. Seth and Dr. Konecky, your mother’s neurosurgeon and oncologist, are ready to see you. I’ll take you to the private lounge.”
Anguish flashes in Valerie’s face, and, to Amadeo’s surprise, she leaves it to him to clarify their relationship. “She’s my sister.”
Valerie points the girls to a bank of seats against the wall. “Wait for us here.” The girls eye the chairs, but don’t sit.
“Can’t I go in with you?” Lily asks. “I also want to hear how Gramma is.”
“Me, too, I want to go,” says Sarah. “You’re not the only one who cares about her.”
Valerie shakes her head. “Stay there.”
Even though the corridor is clear, Amadeo and his sister walk so close together that their arms brush.
He hates how they look: his sister in her shapeless lounging clothes, her ponytail sagging, himself in his wife-beater, tattoos exposed. Sloppy. They are going into battle unprepared, unarmored. Valerie has a master’s degree! he wants to shout.
At the door of the lounge, they pause. Beside him, Amadeo can sense Valerie steeling herself. He touches her wrist—to give comfort or to take it, he isn’t sure—and then they go in.
In the lounge, a Himalayan salt lamp glows pinkly on a side table. Valerie’s demeanor is deferential. She keeps her hands clasped before her like a schoolgirl afraid of punishment, which comes anyway.
“We’ve removed most of the biggest tumor,” Dr. Seth says. “And part of another. But a third is inoperable. Based on its location, getting at it would cause severe damage to the brain tissue.” He’s what Amadeo might expect from a brain surgeon, if he’d ever bothered to imagine one. He’s a small and precise man, long-fingered, with a faint British accent. His bald head is shiny. Easy to sterilize before surgery, Amadeo thinks, which makes him think of vultures; he saw once on a nature program that their baldness is an adaptive trait to cut down on the parasites they’re exposed to when they dive headfirst into rotting bodies. This in turn makes him think of his mother as a corpse, a thought so horrible bile rises in his throat. He coughs, gags, but doesn’t, thank god, throw up.