There’s a muffled sound, an exchange of words I can’t hear. “If you call back this number, we’ll get one of our aides to FaceTime with you,” I hear, and I fumble around for a pen. Abuela has a marker attached to a whiteboard on her fridge; I grab it and write the digits down on the back of my hand.
When I hang up, my hand is shaking. I know that people who catch this virus do not always die. I also know that many do.
If my mother sees me on video, she might not even recognize me. She could get agitated, just by being forced to talk to someone she can’t place.
But I also know I need to see her with my own eyes.
I am so focused on this, I forget I am in a place that lacks the technology to make this possible.
I hang up Abuela’s phone and punch the new number into my cell, but there isn’t a signal. “Dammit,” I snap, and Abuela and Beatriz both look up. “I’m sorry,” I mutter, and I dart out to the porch, holding my phone up in various directions as if I could attract connectivity like a magnet.
Nothing.
I smack my phone down beside me and press the heels of my hands to my eyes.
She has been an absent mother, and now I am an absent daughter. Is that quid pro quo? Do you owe someone only the care they provided for you? Or does believing that make you as culpable as they were?
If she dies, and I’m not there …
Well.
Then you won’t be responsible for her anymore.
The thought, shameful and insidious, vibrates in my mind.
“Diana.”
I look up to find Gabriel standing in front of me, holding a hammer. Has he been here the whole time? “My mother’s sick,” I blurt out.
“I’m sorry …”
“She has Covid.”
He takes a step back involuntarily, and rubs his free hand across the nape of his neck.
“She’s in an assisted living facility and I’m supposed to video-chat but my stupid phone still won’t work here and—” I swipe at my eyes, frustrated and embarrassed. “This sucks. This just sucks.”
“Try mine,” he suggests. He pulls out his own phone, but it’s not the device that’s the problem. It’s this whole damn island. While the local cellular network seems to function, anything that requires any real bandwidth is a complete loss.
Gabriel types something into his phone and then says, “Come with me.” I fall into place beside him, but he is walking so fast I have to jog to keep up. He stops at the hotel I was supposed to stay at. Although I’ve tried to steal its Wi-Fi, as Beatriz suggested, the network hasn’t shown up—likely because the business is shuttered. This time, however, Elena is standing outside the door, waiting with a ring of keys. “Elena,” Gabriel says. “Gracias por venir aquí.”
She dimples, combing her hands over the long tail of her braid. “Cualquier cosa por ti, papi,” she says.
I lean closer and murmur, “Do I want to know—”
“Nope,” Gabriel cuts me off just as Elena loops her arm through his and presses herself up against him. She glances over her shoulder at me and whips her head back to Gabriel so fast her braid smacks against my arm.
Is a hotel with no guests even a hotel? The lobby feels small and stale, until Elena turns on the lights and an overhead fan. She boots up a modem behind the front desk, chattering to Gabriel in Spanish as we wait. She seems to be talking about her tan or a bra or something because she pulls aside the fabric and peers down at her bare shoulder, then sends a blistering smile toward him.
“Um,” I say. “Is it ready?”
She glances at me like she’s forgotten I’m here. When she nods, I find the network on my phone. I dial the memory care facility number I was given and wander off into a small room filled with tables, each wearing a bright cotton tablecloth.
When a face swims into view on my screen, I blink. The person on the other end is nothing more than a set of eyes above a mask, and that’s behind a plastic face shield. She has a paper cap covering her hair, too. “It’s Verna,” the woman says, and she gives a little wave. I recognize her name; she is one of the aides who takes care of the residents there. “We were starting to wonder if you were ever going to call back.”
“Technical difficulties,” I say.
“Well, your mom’s tired and she has a fever, but she’s holding her own.”
She holds up whatever device she’s on and the view changes; from a distance I see my mother sitting on her couch with the television on, just like normal. My heart, which was racing, slows a little.