“That was then. Besides, how would you know? You were too busy during the summer to see Hellraiser 3 with me, and they only had that one special screening at Palacio Chino.”
His love life had been imploding in July and August, but it wouldn’t help if he mentioned that. Montserrat would probably think it was juvenile. Her solution to romance problems was to stop returning phone calls.
“Come on, you want to hang out Saturday. I know you do.”
“I need the work,” she said, with that stubborn grimace he knew well. “Mario has been treating me like shit, and I can’t turn down anything right now or he’ll use it to claim I’m unreliable. I got into a fight with him and he won’t let me forget it. I’m trying to patch things up and be nice until December or I’m not getting a bonus.”
“You’re always fighting with him. I bet he doesn’t even remember he got mad at you.”
“He remembers.”
“You can take one afternoon off.”
“I told Araceli I’d drive her to the hospital. And afterward she’ll probably want to buy candles at the Mercado de Sonora.”
“That stuff doesn’t work.”
“Well, nothing does,” Montserrat muttered, giving the shopping cart a hard push.
Tristán stuffed his hands quietly in his jeans pockets and walked next to Montserrat. “Sorry,” he said.
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know you’re busy, but it would be good to take a break. You’ll burn out if you keep up this way.”
“I don’t burn out.”
She turned to the left, almost colliding with another woman’s shopping cart. The woman swore at them. Montserrat walked faster. She slowed down next to a large pyramid constructed with boxes of Zucaritas. Tristán reached for one of the boxes, flipping it between his hands. God, this was basically sugar in a box.
“Maybe I could skip the candles and take Araceli to the hospital,” she said, giving him a hesitant look.
“Good. And you know what, we don’t have to stay for dinner with the guy if he’s boring. We can drop off the bottle of wine and then go to my apartment and order from Benedetti’s.”
“You said I eat shitty food and you want to order pizza.”
“You do eat shitty food. But it’s okay to eat shitty food when we’re together.”
They grabbed more groceries. Tristán refrained from commenting on Montserrat’s purchases. At the checkout, he stared at a magazine on a rack and once again wondered if someone would be running a story about Karina. He didn’t want to, but he was counting down the days to the anniversary of her death.
They dumped the groceries in the trunk of the car. Once they were seated, he took off his sunglasses and glanced in the rearview mirror, his eyes fixing on the scar under his eye. His left pupil was always a little more dilated than the right one because of the accident. He knew it wasn’t very noticeable, but it would never cease bothering him.
Yes, he realized he was lucky to be alive. But no, he couldn’t forget what had happened.
At least the dinner would provide a welcome distraction for both of them. Montserrat certainly looked like she needed a night of merriment, and he had to admit, seeing himself in that rearview mirror, that he too was stressed. Talk of actors in rubber suits playing monsters should cheer them up. Besides, he’d meant it when he’d said they could leave if it was a bore. He’d bought a second bottle of wine for that purpose. Just in case.
3
Montserrat despised hospitals. The sight of a doctor or a nurse catapulted her back to her childhood. Three. That had been the number of surgeries on her foot. The long, ugly scar running up her ankle and the eternally skinny, atrophied muscles of the left leg were her legacy. But the foot no longer turned at such an odd angle, and she didn’t noticeably limp—not most days—even if cold weather made the limb ache. She had to watch how she walked. But after so many decades she knew how to lean her weight, and there was seldom an awkward shuffle as she moved. Except when she felt tired, and then there might be that old, unusual stride—the living dead mambo, that’s what she called it—but toned down, like noise in the background of a recording that has been successfully muffled by the audio console.
No, she couldn’t stand hospitals even if the days of treatments and pain were long gone. But her sister needed her, so Montserrat put on a smile and waited until Araceli came out and jumped back in the car. Araceli switched on the radio, settling on a station that played ballads. Montserrat glanced at her sister’s delicate wrist and tightened her grasp on the wheel. It seemed to her Araceli was thinner each time they saw each other.
“I’m thinking of going by the Mercado de Sonora for those candles I told you about,” Araceli said.
Probably for a limpia, too. Not that those worked, like Tristán had pointed out. Araceli believed in healing crystals and auras. Montserrat’s faith in such remedies was lukewarm. She’d placed a statue of San Antonio upside down to get a sweetheart and tied ribbons around an aloe vera plant, but it was out of habit more than pure belief. She wished she could believe, though. Montserrat and her sister needed a miracle.
“I remember. I thought we could go later, but we can head there right away,” Montserrat said.
“Oh, we can’t drive there, you know that. I’m mentioning it in case you need something. I can drop it off at your place.”
“Maybe we should do it the other way around.”
“I can take a bus.”
“The bus is crowded. And they always pass you by. Especially now, you shouldn’t be wasting your energy standing around, waiting for one to roll by.”
Araceli gave her a pointed look. “I can still ride a bus.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” Montserrat said, but of course she’d implied as much. She didn’t know how the hell to deal with Araceli’s illness. She supposed Araceli simply wasn’t used to having their roles reversed. It had been Montserrat who had needed care when they were young.
Araceli sighed. There was a pause. “You have plans. Didn’t you say you’re having dinner with Tristán?”
“I can have dinner with Tristán any day of the week.”
“Have you seen his new apartment yet?”
Montserrat shook her head. “I’ve been busy,” she said.
Not as busy as she would want, although she didn’t dare tell her sister that. All she’d ever wanted to do was spend her life next to cartridge recorders, turntables, and mixing consoles. Library effects, loops, and multitracks, that’s what she understood. Now with work drying up—Mario had not forgiven her, he simply needed her right this minute—what would she do? She wanted to look at cue sheets and figure out the layback, not have to fight with her boss for a couple of crummy shifts.
“Don’t waste your Saturday with me. Go have fun. Have dinner with a handsome man.”
“It’s only Tristán.”
“So? You might as well look at something pretty while you cut your steak. Better than staring at one of those gruesome posters of yours.”
“He’s not wall décor.”