So I buried my husband almost alone. Solana, my best friend, was with me. Joaquin’s companions really cried. My parents, Veronica and Ruben were late, they sat back and left quickly.
Matthew remained in a coma for 6 months. I would read him, talk to him about baseball, tell him that his dad would be proud. My family visited him three times, always in a hurry.
And one July morning, Dr. Medrano called me.
“Mrs. Herrera, I need you to come to the hospital right away.
When I saw his face in the hallway, I knew that my last reason to continue breathing the same was gone as well.
Matthew had died an hour earlier.
That afternoon I called my mom, shaking, and told her I needed help to bury my son.
On the other side there was silence. Then his response left me colder than death.
We can’t, Angelica. Tomorrow we fly to Cancun with Veronica and Ruben. The trip is already paid for.
“Mom, Matthew was your grandson,” I said, squeezing the phone like I could break it with my hand. He just died.
“And I’m very sorry,” she replied, in a dry voice, “but we spent 8,000 dollars on that holiday. We can’t lose that money.
Are you choosing the beach before my son’s funeral?
“You’re overreacting. You can with this. You can always.
He hung me. Before I could breathe, Veronica called.
“Mom told me you’re doing drama,” she said, not saying. Look, I’m sorry about Mateo, but we’re not canceling anything.
“She was your nephew.
And his death is your problem, not mine. I’m pregnant, Angelica. This may be my last chance to rest before the baby.
I felt a door close inside me.
“Don’t say his name again.
Don’t threaten me. If you want to sink, sink alone. I’m not going to ruin my happiness because your son died.
I hung up without saying goodbye. I didn’t scream that night. I didn’t break anything. I just sat in Mateo’s bedroom, surrounded by his trophies, his baseball glove and his notebooks, and I understood something terrible: I hadn’t lost my family that day. I had seen her for the first time.
Mateo’s funeral was on a Thursday morning. Solana accompanied me. It was also her teacher, Mrs. Moreno, who handled more than an hour with red eyes and a letter written by her classmates. My son’s coffin was placed next to that of Joachim. While the priest was talking about meeting in heaven, I was thinking of Cancun. In my mother getting a blocker. In my father ordering seafood. In Veronica smiling with her hand on her pregnancy while my child was going down to earth.
After the funeral, Solana wanted to stay with me.
“You shouldn’t be alone.
“I’m not alone,” I said. I’m awake.
I went straight to the apartment that Joaquin had left me. Veronica and Ruben had been living there for free for years. I opened with my key and started packing. Clothing, shoes, plates, photos, cheap ornaments, documents, everything. I didn’t break anything. I didn’t scream. I was tidy, exact, cold. I hired a move and paid extra to get them all to my parents’ house. I used the emergency key they had given me and asked them to leave the boxes in the middle of the room, one on top of the other, like the altar of their cheek.
Then I called a locksmith.
“Everything,” I said. I want no old key to serve again.
When I finished, I went to my house, opened my computer and canceled every payment I made for them: insurance of my parents’ car, medical supplement, supermarket card, Veronica cell phone, monthly Ruben car, gym, services, small aids that totaled almost 3,000 dollars a month. While I was oppressing “cancel,” I remembered every time I gave them money believing it was love.
That afternoon the photos appeared. Veronica on the beach. Ruben with dark glasses. My parents lifting drinks. “My family always holds me,” she wrote.
I took capture of everything.
Three days later they returned. I didn’t answer calls. I didn’t hear audio. At 10 p.m., they knocked on my door like they came to claim a stolen property.
“Open, Angelica!” cried Veronica. What the hell did you do with our apartment?
I took a deep breath. I looked at a picture of Mateo in his baseball uniform. Then I opened the door.
Part 2…
The four of them were on my porch: my mother with a victim face, my father confused, Ruben avoiding my eyes and red Veronica of fury, with a hand in the belly as if her pregnancy were a credential to trample on anyone.
“We need to talk,” said my mother, entering without permission.
“No,” I replied. They need to listen.
Veronica let out a bitter laugh.
