Chapter 79 CHAPTER 80 — The Bill
Chapter 79 CHAPTER 80 — The Bill
For two weeks, Julieta’s breasts had been aching in a way that wasn’t due to hunger, fatigue, or the flu.
She’d been hiding it. Not out of fear. Out of superstition. A woman who has lost one baby in a basement and another in a private clinic before term learns, unwittingly, not to mention anything until she has proof.
But on Tuesday morning, as she was putting Lucio’s shoe on him on the bottom step, she was overcome by a wave of dizziness so intense it forced her to sit down on the floor. Lucio looked up at her from the step with the expression of a nine-month-old baby who doesn’t understand why his mom sat down.
“Marta.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Bring me some water, please.”
“Did something happen?”
“Nothing. Water.”
Marta brought her the water. She handed it to her. She looked at her face. She didn’t ask anything. Over the past two years, Marta had learned that this lady asked for water when she needed two things: water and silence.
Mid-afternoon, Julieta called Sofía, asked her to reschedule the 5:00 p.m. video call, and went into the master bedroom bathroom with a box she’d stashed in a drawer two weeks earlier.
The test came back positive in forty seconds.
Julieta sat on the edge of the bathtub with the test stick in her hand. She stared at it for a long time. Then she stood up, wrapped it in toilet paper, slipped it into her pajama pocket, and went downstairs.
Vladimir was in his office. Carla had just left. His computer was open, and he had a stack of papers he was signing with his left hand, slowly, just as he’d been doing everything since coming out of the coma.
He looked up when she closed the door behind her.
“Did something happen?”
“Something happened.”
“Lucio?”
“Lucio’s fine. He’s downstairs with Marta, playing with building blocks.”
“And you?”
—Me.
He took the wrapped stick out of his pocket. He set it on top of the papers he was signing.
Vladimir looked at it. He unwrapped it. He looked at it again. He set it down on the desk.
—Julieta.
“Vladimir.”
“When is this from?”
“From the last two months. I don’t know the exact day. But judging by the dates, it’s from the cabin.”
He didn’t answer right away.
He rested both hands on the desk. His left hand was steady, his right trembling slightly, just as it always did when his pulse quickened from an emotion he didn’t know how to process.
—Julieta.
“Tell me.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m not asking about your health.”
—I know.
She sat down in the chair across from him. She laughed.
It was a strange laugh. Short. Not one of pure joy. More like something complicated.
“Vladimir, I’m laughing.”
“I can see that.”
“I found out about Lucio while throwing up in a bathroom, scared that your cousin would kick me out of a hospital. I found this out sitting in my own bathtub, in my own house, married to you, with the other kid downstairs with Marta. It’s ridiculous how different it is.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“Vladimir.”
—Go on.
—I'm laughing because I'm not scared.
—Good.
—I’m not afraid of pregnancy. I’m not afraid that something will go wrong. I’m not afraid of losing the baby. It’s not that I’m confident everything will turn out fine. It’s just that I decided not to be afraid. It’s different.
—It’s very different.
—I’ve had fear lodged somewhere in my body for twenty-two years, Vladimir. Today I let it go. I don’t know how long it’ll last. But today I let it go.
—May it last.
—May it last.
Vladimir stood up. He walked around the desk. He sat down on the arm of her chair, carefully, because his right leg still needed some care. He placed his left hand on her belly, over her pajamas, without applying any pressure.
“Hello.”
“Vladimir, it’s not moving yet. It’s the size of a bean.”
“Hello anyway.”
Julieta rested her head against his side. She took the hand he had resting on her belly and squeezed it.
That night, after putting Lucio to bed, Julieta walked into the master bedroom and found Vladimir sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at a photo on his phone.
She walked over. She looked over his shoulder.
It was a photo of Lucía. The first woman. One Julieta recognized from the shelf in the studio, where Vladimir had left it and where Julieta had never asked him to take it down.
Vladimir didn’t turn off his phone when he sensed her behind him. He didn’t hide the photo. He left it there, open, while Julieta sat down beside him.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Why the photo?”
Vladimir took a second to answer.
“When Lucía was sick, I promised her two things. The first was that Gabriela would be okay. The second was that if I ever fell in love with someone again, I wouldn’t betray her memory. That’s what she asked of me—not to hide anything.”
—Vladimir.
“Wait.”
He hung up the phone. He looked at her.
“Today I want to tell you something. And I need you to know that I’ve been thinking about this since before I found out about the baby—not because of the baby. Okay?”
—Okay.
“If this baby turns out to be a girl, I want to name her Lucía.”
Julieta didn’t answer right away.
It took her two seconds to process it. Not because of the suggestion itself, but because of the exact spot where the suggestion struck her deep inside.
—Vladimir.
—Tell me.
“Do you realize what you’re asking for?”
“I do.”
“You’re going to name your daughter after your dead wife.”
—I’m going to name my daughter after the woman who asked me, on her deathbed, that if I ever loved someone again, I be true to her memory. That’s not naming her after a dead woman. That’s honoring a living one.
—Did you talk to Gabriela?
—Not yet. I was going to talk it over with you first. If you say no, it won’t happen. This is your decision too.
—Vladimir.
—Go ahead.
—I’ll think about it.
—Okay.
“I’m not saying this because I’m unsure. I’m saying it because you don’t answer something like this on the very same night you announce a pregnancy. It’s too much for a Tuesday.”
—It’s too much for a Tuesday, yes.
—Give me a week.
—I’ll give you that.
“And if it’s a boy, what then?”
Vladimir laughed.
“If it’s a boy, we’ll name him whatever you want. No arguments.”
—Vladimir.
“Go ahead.”
“And if it’s a girl and I say yes?”
“We’ll name her Lucía. And Gabriela will have a sister named after her mom, and she’ll understand what that means when she grows up. And Lucio will have a sister named after the woman to whom he owes his own name. And the two of us will have a daughter with a name that closes a chapter we’ve kept open for a long time.”
Julieta looked at him.
“Vladimir Rossi, you married me, and you still surprise me.”
“I surprise myself sometimes, too.”
“That scares me even more.”
“Me too.”
They went down to the kitchen at half past eleven.
Lucio had left an unfinished bottle on the counter, just lying there. Julieta picked it up. She rinsed it out. Vladimir poured himself a glass of water. He leaned against the counter, watching her.
“Julieta.”
“Tell me.”
“One more thing, and then I’ll let you sleep.”
“Tell me.”
“If you say no, I won’t hold it against you. I don’t want you to carry the name Lucía like a debt. If your instinct says no, I’ll listen to your instinct. And we’ll give the baby—if it’s a girl—another name, and no one in this house will ever bring it up again.”
—Vladimir.
—Tell me.
—One week.
—One week.
Three days later, Julieta walked into the office at tea time.
Vladimir was with Mario, going over some old paperwork. Mario looked at the two of them, grabbed his cane, and stood up from his chair the moment he saw Julieta’s face.
“I’m leaving.”
“There’s no need, Mario.”
“It is necessary, ma’am. I know that look.”
He left. He closed the door.
Julieta sat down.
“Vladimir.”
“Tell me.”
“I didn’t wait a week.”
“I can see that.”
“If it’s a girl, her name is Lucía.”
Vladimir took a single breath through his nose. His right hand remained still on the papers, which was unusual because that hand never stayed completely still.
“Julieta.”
“Don’t make me say any more, Vladimir. I’ll just tell you. If it’s a girl, it’s Lucía. That’s it. That’s the answer. Don’t ask me why because I won’t be able to explain it to you—I just know that’s the answer.”
He stood up. He walked over to her chair. He bent down as best he could—still on his one leg—took her face in both hands, and kissed her forehead.
He didn’t say anything to her.
There was no need.
That night, Julieta lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Vladimir was breathing beside her, asleep. Lucio was breathing on the other side, in the crib that was already too small for him.
Julieta placed her hand on her belly. She spoke softly, her eyes closed.
“Lucía.”
She waited.
“Lucía, if you come, you’ll come with a name that someone else once bore. Don’t be afraid. It’s not a burden. It’s a gift. Your dad asked for it because a kind woman told him not to hide anything. You’ll be yourself. But you’ll arrive with the approval of all three of us—him, me, and the one who lent you the name before she left.”
Something answered her, but it wasn’t the baby.
It was Lucio, from his crib, who woke up talking to himself in baby talk and said what he’d been trying to say for fifteen days.
“Mom.”
Julieta sat up in bed.
“Lucio.”
“Ma.”
And again.
“Mom.”
“Vladimir.”
—Mmm.
—Vladimir, wake up.
“What’s up?”
—Your son called me.
Vladimir opened his eyes.
And in the crib, Lucio Rossi, nine months old, with his fists clutching the bars and an expression of someone who had just discovered language, held his mother’s gaze and said, for the third time that night, the word he had been saving for her.
“Ma.”