Remission by Ofelia Martinez

Chapter 20

Forever Child

“Ionce had a friend who looked like you,” said Sofia. “Her name was Sara.”

“Ha-ha.” Sara rolled her eyes.

I had forced Sara to go out with me to La Oficina for a drink. In the two years since that piece of shit had beaten her to a pulp, and she dumped him to the curb, Sara had become a recluse. Her way of putting herself back together was to start her master’s program in the evenings while continuing to work full time. I understood that her need to work to a point of exhaustion meant there was no energy left to think and dwell—I’d done the same thing.

It also meant we’d hardly seen each other except for fleeting moments at work. I wasn’t serious about leaving Heartland, but if I got the right offer, I might consider it. Now was the time to reconnect with my friends, just in case.

But the universewasn’t on my side. Almost as soon as I sat down, my phone dinged with a text from Hector.

Hector: Do you have a minute? Can you call?

Me: I’m actually out with friends.

Hector: It’s important.

Me: One sec. Let me step outside.

He sounded off when he answered the call.

“Hi,” I said.

“Can you come over?”

“Yeah, I’m just across the street at—”

“No. Not the office. My house,” he corrected.

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”

“I promise no one will know.”

“Is everything okay?”

“No. I need stitches.”

His voice was calm. Too calm. “Hector, why do you need stitches?”

“I cut myself picking up some broken glass.”

“Go to the emergency room, you big oaf.”

He chuckled. “Don’t want them to see me like this. I, um, had a few drinks earlier. And it’s really not that bad. I’d do it myself if I didn’t have to stitch left-handed.”

I let out a sigh. “Fine. Put pressure on it until I get there.”

“Yes, Doctor,” he teased.

When Hector opened the door,I couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped me. His grey shirt was stained with—something. He wore grey sweatpants, which I’d never, not once, seen him wearing, and he had dark circles under his eyes.

“Thanks for coming,” he said and led me to his kitchen. He held a towel firmly around his right hand.

He had been right. The cut was minor and only needed three stitches on the outer hand under his pinky finger line. He was a fool to refuse topical anesthetic, and while I could smell the alcohol on him from earlier in the night, he seemed sober now and would feel every stitch. Not to mention the hand is very sensitive to pain.

We didn’t speak as I worked, and I was done quickly. He barely winced. His gaze was far off, miles away and in another time.

When I stood to clean up the supplies and throw out the used cotton balls, I took in the room. Two of the dining room chairs I had helped him pick out were on their backs. The coffee table, too, was upturned, and on the other side of the kitchen island, by the sink, shards of glass glittered on the floor.

“Why don’t I clean this up?” I offered.

“Thanks.”

Hector went to the living room and laid on the couch while I worked. I tidied up the place and went over to sit on the chair next to him.

He looked at his bandaged hand. “Glad I’m not a surgeon,” he said.

“You still need it for other important doctorly things,” I teased.

“Yeah . . .”

“What’s going on, Hector?”

He looked at me with glassy eyes. “This is a bad day for me. I’m sorry. I’m not at my best.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. We all have our bad days.”

He nodded. We sat in silence for a while, and it suddenly dawned on me that this was about the same time of year when I had to pick him up drunk from the bar a few years back.

I couldn’t remember the exact date, but it was definitely the same week. I’d bet my medical license it was the exact same day.

“What’s today, Hector?”

He sat up, pressing his elbows to his thighs. He buried his head in his hands for a few breaths before looking up at me. “It’s the worst goddamn day of the year, Carolina. I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

I nodded. Something inside me moved. I wanted to leach this pain from his body and absorb it into my own so he wouldn’t feel it—whatever it was.

I moved next to him on the couch now that he was sitting. I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

It was probably the worst thing I could have done to ask him for details, but I had to know. I repeated my question. “What’s today, Hector?”

His eyes met mine, and he could no longer contain the sob. “It’s my son’s birthday,” he said. I nodded, swallowing hard as I tried to push down the lump that had formed in my throat.

“He’s gone,” I said, but it wasn’t a question.

“He’d be ten today,” he said. “Jake. He was the best thing I have ever done, and he is gone.”

My chin quivered at the sight of his pain. “I’m so sorry, Hector,” I said, but they felt like the weakest words in the English language.

He patted my hand still on his shoulder. “Me too. Oh, Carolina, you would have loved him.”

“I’m sure I would have. Do you want to tell me about him?”

“He was perfect,” Hector said. “He didn’t care about science or what I did. He said he was going to be a soccer player and play for Real Madrid someday. He was a good player too, for a six-year-old.”

“I bet he was. What did he look like?”

“Like me. And like Andrea. He had my black, wavy hair and my deep, tanned skin, but he had her body type. All legs and arms—tall and gangly. If you can imagine, the brightest green eyes on that dark skin . . . he was beautiful.”

“Perfect,” I repeated.

“Perfect.”

A long moment of silence followed before he pulled out his phone and handed it to me. On the screen was a school picture of a little boy precisely as he had described him. He was smiling wide—a gap in the center of his mouth from the missing two front teeth.

I smiled. “He was beautiful,” I said. He took the phone back and put it in his pocket.

“When he died, Andrea and I . . . well, we couldn’t cope. She blamed me, and part of me wants to blame myself too . . .”

“What do you mean?” My brows drew together with concern.

“He wanted to climb a tree. It was so stupid. Kids climb trees all the time.”

“They do,” I said.

“He wanted to go higher. His mom said no, but I’d always thought she was too over-protective.”

My eyes widened with the horror and anticipation of what I knew followed next.

“I grew up with cousins. We were rough. We did dangerous things all the time. We climbed trees. We were boys. So I told him to go ahead. I didn’t want him to grow up scared of things.”

“Oh, Hector . . .”

“He kept climbing . . . a branch snapped, and when he fell, his neck broke on impact. By the time I got to him, it was too late. In an instant, he was gone.”

“I’m so sorry.” My tears were down to my chin by the time his story was over.

“I’m a doctor, Carolina. Do you know what that feels like? To be a doctor and not be able to help the person you love most in the world? How helpless that is?”

I did know. But this was his story. I only nodded.

“I don’t blame her for blaming me. Part of me knows it wasn’t my fault, but there is a warring part that blames me as much as she does.”

“Hector, it wasn’t your fault,” I said. “Kids play. There are hundreds of things that could happen to anyone at any time. You can’t stop them all.”

He smiled weakly at me. “That’s why this day is so damn hard on me.”

“You are allowed to not be perfect,” I whispered. “This may sound weird, but can we try something?”

His eyebrow arched, but he nodded. I moved to the edge of the sofa and patted my lap. “Lay down,” I said.

“What?”

“Lay down. Put your head on my lap.”

He hesitated.

“We’ve crossed enough professional lines tonight. What’s one more?”

He did as I said, and I stroked his hair. This was the most comforting feeling in the world, what Dad did for me when I was upset.

“That feels nice,” he said with a moan.

“Good. Now, why don’t you try to get a little shut-eye?”

I startled when Canica jumped on the couch and curled up next to Hector. I remembered Hector saying he hadn’t named her. I smiled, thinking of a six-year-old Jake naming his new pet. Hector’s eyes drifted closed, and I kept petting his head, sliding my fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. He was a beautiful specimen sleeping. His features softened the deeper into sleep he went.

When the slightest of snores escaped him, I waited a few minutes then wiggled my way out from under him. Neither he nor Canica stirred. I went upstairs to his room and grabbed a blanket. Bringing it back downstairs, I covered him with it.

A sharp pain lanced through the center of my ribcage, and I knew it was because he was hurting. I stared for longer than I should have. His pain was breaking me.

I loved him.

I couldn’t lie to myself any longer. I was in love with him. If I wasn’t, his pain wouldn’t hurt me this much.