Chapter 76 CHAPTER 77

Chapter 76 CHAPTER 77

At 7:30 in the morning, Vladimir was lying on his back inside a white tube that hummed like an old refrigerator with electrical problems.
His hands were crossed over his chest, his eyes closed, and he was in a lousy mood. The technician had warned him that the test would last twenty-five minutes and that he shouldn’t move. She’d placed a ball in his hand for him to squeeze if he needed anything. Vladimir had been tempted to squeeze it after four minutes just to be a pain, but he held back.
Twenty-five minutes, he thought. Twenty-five minutes for a doctor to decide whether I’ll get married in March or from a wheelchair.
It was an exaggeration. He knew that. But at that moment, with the ringing in his ears and the tube pressing against his shoulders, his mind wandered wherever it pleased.
In the waiting room, Julieta was flipping through a magazine from three months ago without reading it. Mario was standing by the door with his cane leaning against the wall. Marta had stayed at the mansion with Lucio.
When Vladimir came out, the doctor’s face was hard to make out.
Julieta noticed that before he did, because she’d been reading doctors’ faces for months and had become an expert. She stood up.
The doctor motioned to Vladimir to follow him into an examination room. Julieta walked in behind him without asking permission. Mario stayed outside.
“Have a seat.”
They sat down.
The doctor opened an envelope, took out the images, and placed them on the desk. He looked at them for a few seconds. Then he looked at them.
“Vladimir.”
“Go ahead.”
“The head is fine.”
Julieta let out a sudden breath.
“What do you mean, fine?”
“Fine. What I saw on Monday was a contrast shadow, not a lesion. Today’s scan confirms it. The brain is clear. Your recovery is on track.”
“Then why the hell did you make me come in at seven in the morning?”
“Because contrast shadows can’t be confirmed without a new scan, Vladimir. And because if it was the other thing, the other thing can’t wait.”
“All right. I’ll accept that argument.”
Julieta brought both hands to her face. She left them there for two seconds. Then she lowered them. Her eyes were filled with tears. She didn’t look away.
“Son of a bitch,” she said, looking at Vladimir.
“Me?”
“You. For the whole night yesterday.”
“I didn’t have the images, Julieta.”
“You’re still a son of a bitch.”
The doctor snorted. A short laugh, typical of a man used to couples insulting each other after good news.
“There’s one more thing.”
Vladimir grew serious again.
“Tell me.”
—His brain is fine, but his body isn’t quite there yet. His right arm is still lagging behind. His leg is improving but still can’t bear weight for long periods. He has at least a month and a half of intensive physical therapy ahead of him. And he needs rest. Real rest. Not the kind of rest he’s used to—which is working while sitting instead of standing. Real rest.
—Got it.
—And no intense physical activity for now.
—Understood as well.
The doctor cleared his throat. He looked at Julieta. Then he looked back at Vladimir.
“When I say intense physical activity, Vladimir, I mean everything.”
Pause.
Julieta raised her eyebrows.
“Everything?”
“Everything, ma’am.”
“Doctor.”
“Go on.”
“Have the courage to say it outright.”
—Ma’am, I’m a professional.
“Doctor, this man was in a coma for four months. He’s been on a forced diet of me for seven months. If you don’t tell him the specific word, I’ll be arguing with him about it tomorrow, and I’d rather you tell him now—in your white coat—so it carries the weight of a medical prescription.”
The doctor laughed again. Longer this time. Vladimir ran his hand over his face.
“Mr. Rossi.”
“Doctor.”
“No sex for at least six weeks. I’m being clear about this because your wife asked me to be clear. Then we’ll reassess.”
“Six weeks.”
“Six weeks.”
—Doctor, that’s a long time.
—You decided that yourself when you let yourself get shot in the head. I’m just handing you the bill.
—And isn’t blood pressure good for the brain?
—Vladimir, don’t give me any academic arguments. The answer is no. Six weeks. And here’s something else: physical therapy is serious business. If you stick to the program, I’ll lift the restriction in six weeks. If you don’t, I’ll extend it to eight. It’s up to you.
—I’ll stick to it.
“You’ll stick to it,” Julieta repeated, smiling up at the ceiling. “You’ll stick to it with the discipline of a monk, Vladimir Rossi.”
—This amuses you.
“This amuses me a lot, yes.”
They left the office with a new envelope and a prescription.
Mario was waiting for them, standing there with that look of a man who has learned not to ask questions.
“Mario,” said Vladimir. “His mind’s fine. The rest is bad. But his mind’s fine.”
“That’s what matters, sir.”
“That’s what everyone says.”
“To the mansion?”
“No. We’re stopping somewhere else first.”
Mario nodded. Julieta looked at him.
“Where?”
Vladimir opened the car door for her. He held out his hand to help her get in.
“To pick up my mother.”
Julieta stood on the sidewalk.
“Vladimir.”
“Tell me.”
“That’s new information.”
“It is.”
“When was that decided?”
—Last night. While you were sleeping. She called me last week. I was going to tell you after the test. If the test went well, I’d let her come back on certain conditions for the wedding. If it went badly, I wouldn’t let her come back at all. It went well. So today we’re going to look for her.
—Vladimir.
—Get in the car, Julieta.
—Did you tell anyone?
—No one. Not even you. I wanted to tell you right after it happened, not before.
She got into the car. She slammed the door harder than necessary. Mario pretended not to notice. Vladimir got in on the other side.
—Don’t get mad.
“I’m angry.”
“It’s my mother, Julieta.”
“She’s the woman who called me an opportunistic slut in the hospital hallway when I was six months pregnant.”
“I know.”
—I’m just reminding you.
“I’m aware of that, Julieta. I set those conditions with that in mind. We didn’t bring her to sit at the head of the table. We brought her to the very last chair in the back. But we brought her. I want my daughter to have a grandmother at her wedding. And I want my son, when he grows up, not to ask me why I never let his grandmother in.”
Julieta looked out the window.
She understood. That was what bothered her the most: that she understood.
“It was my condition, Vladimir.”
“Tell me.”
“If she talks to me like she did that afternoon again, she’s out.”
“You’re out that very day.”
“By my hand.”
“By mine. You don’t have to get your hands dirty with that.”
She breathed in through her nose.
“All right.”
Donatella was waiting, seated in the visiting room of the place where Ernesto had settled her in. A residence, not a nursing home, because Ernesto was still Ernesto and hadn’t dumped her in the first hole he could find in the country.
When she stood up to greet them, it took Julieta a second to recognize her.
The woman looked smaller. Not because she was short, but because she had shrunk. Her hair was completely white, pulled back into a simple bun—not one of her usual hairstyles. She wasn’t wearing pearls. Her face was bare of makeup. She wore a dark, plain dress with no visible brand name. Her eyes were still the same, but the jawline that held those eyes had sagged.
Vladimir approached. He held out his hand. She grabbed his arm with both of hers and squeezed it. She didn’t speak.
“Mother.”
“Son.”
Vladimir turned toward Julieta.
Donatella looked at her.
Julieta held her gaze.
And then the old woman did something Julieta had never seen her do before—not to her, nor to anyone else: she bowed her head once, slowly, in a gesture that wasn’t quite a greeting, but wasn’t not a greeting either.
Julieta held out her hand.
Donatella looked at her for a second. Then she took it. She squeezed it. She didn’t squeeze it the way she’d always squeezed hands, with her bracelet jingling and her rings digging in. She squeezed it the way an older woman squeezes the hand of any other woman in a living room. Without any drama.
“Julieta.”
“Donatella.”
“Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon.”
Her hand remained there for two more seconds. Then she let go.
Vladimir looked at both of them.
In the car, on the way back to the mansion, Donatella sat in the middle seat in the back, between Julieta and the window. She didn’t speak for ten minutes.
Then, looking out the window, she spoke to Julieta without turning around.
“Your son.”
“Lucio.”
“Lucio, yes. I saw him once in a photo Vladimir sent me. He looks just like him, doesn’t he?”
“He’s the spitting image of him, Donatella. Even the doctor laughed.”
“That makes me happy.”
Silence.
—One thing, Julieta.
—Go ahead.
“Don’t call me Grandma.”
“Who?”
“Lucio. Don’t teach him to call me Grandma. I don’t deserve it yet. Have him call me by my name, if he ever speaks to me. That is, if he ever does.”
Julieta didn’t answer right away. She looked out the window on the other side.
“That’s for him to decide when he speaks, Donatella. Not me.”
—Fine.
“But if he does, I’m not going to correct him.”
Donatella nodded. She closed her eyes. She rested her head against the headrest.
And five minutes later, as the car pulled through the gate of the Rossi mansion, Mario looked at Vladimir in the rearview mirror with a question in his eyes that Vladimir understood without him having to ask it.
“Yes, Mario.”
“Yes, what, sir?”
—Yes, it’s her. What’s left of her.
And next to him, in the middle seat, the woman who had called Julieta an opportunistic slut six months earlier had fallen asleep with both hands folded in her lap, like any ordinary grandmother who dozes off in any car.