Chapter 80 CHAPTER 81 — Lucía
Chapter 80 CHAPTER 81 — Lucía
Lucía Rossi Carrasco was born on a Thursday at 5:40 p.m.
No father in the picture, no plane, no escape, no pending kidnapping. In a private clinic, under epidural anesthesia, with Vladimir holding Julieta’s left hand and Ana holding her right. “This is the most boring thing that’s ever happened to me,” Julieta told the anesthesiologist between contractions. “And I’m going to be grateful to you for the next fifty years.”
She was born with red hair.
That was the first thing the doctor said when he lifted her up.
“She’s a redhead.”
“What do you mean, red-haired?”
“Red-haired, ma’am.”
“Vladimir, this girl isn’t ours.”
“She’s ours, Julieta.”
“Look at her hair color.”
“My maternal grandmother was a redhead. I told you that.”
—Vladimir, you never told me that.
“I’m telling you now.”
“This is a terrible time to tell me about our family tree.”
Ana laughed so hard that tears streamed down her face. So did the doctor. And the nurse. And for a moment, the delivery room turned into an ordinary kitchen with four adults laughing while a red-haired newborn discovered that the world was cold.
They placed her on Julieta’s chest.
Tiny. Warm. Her eyes still closed, as if she weren’t sure she wanted to see what was out there. Julieta tucked her little blanket around her. She counted her fingers. Five and five. She smelled her.
“Vladimir.”
“Tell me.”
“Hi, Lucía.”
Vladimir swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He didn’t cry. But he stood very still for a moment, his hand on the girl’s back, not moving, as if he were afraid of breaking something.
“Lucía.”
He said it softly.
“Lucía, we were waiting for you.”
And that was the only thing he said in the first ten minutes of his daughter’s life.
Two hours later, they brought the rest of the family in.
Ana opened the door first. Behind her came Lucio, holding Gabriela’s hand. Lucio was already walking. He’d been walking for a month with the sweet clumsiness of babies who are just learning. He was one year and four months old.
Gabriela came in first, with the serious expression an eight-year-old wears when the occasion calls for it.
“Julieta.”
“Come here, principessa.”
Gabriela approached the bed. She looked at the baby. She looked at her for a long time.
“She’s a redhead.”
“She’s a redhead, yes.”
“That’s strange.”
“It is strange, yes. But she’s your sister.”
Gabriela touched Lucía’s cheek with a finger. The baby made a little face and went back to sleep.
“Julieta.”
“Go on.”
“It’s Lucía, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s Lucía.”
Gabriela nodded. She’d known for the past four months, ever since Vladimir had explained to her one afternoon in the garden what they were going to do. He’d told her the whole truth, without sugarcoating it. Your sister is going to be named after your mom. Not to replace her. So the name stays with us. Is that okay with you? Gabriela had thought about it for two days and had come back with a yes.
Now, standing before the baby, she confirmed it in a different way.
“Hello, Lucía.”
She said it just like her dad. Softly. Without any drama.
Then he climbed into bed, being careful not to disturb the baby or Julieta’s IV tube, and settled down next to his stepmother, just as he had been doing for the past two years.
Lucio came in behind her, pulled along by Ana. He looked at the baby. He looked at Julieta. He looked at Vladimir. He made a face like a baby who doesn’t understand what the hell is going on in this room.
“Mom?”
“Yes, sweetheart. She’s your sister.”
“Mom?”
“Sister.”
“Mom?”
—Lucio, stop saying “Mom.” Not everything is “Mom.” This is Lucía.
—Cía.
—Almost.
—Cía.
—Okay. “Cía.” That works.
Vladimir laughed.
They returned to the mansion five days later.
Gloria was waiting for them at the entrance. She’d been sober for two years, lived in a small house that Ana had found for her three blocks from the Rossi mansion, and came over for lunch three times a week. The cancer was still there—it hadn’t gone away completely; those kinds of cancers don’t go away—but it wasn’t progressing. That’s what they’d tell people when asked: it’s not progressing.
She picked up Lucía with the care of women who already know how to hold babies and don’t need anyone to tell them how.
“Sweetheart.”
“Mom.”
“Redhead.”
“Yes.”
“Where’d that come from?”
—Vladimir says it’s from Grandma.
—Vladimir’s lying.
“That’s what I told him. But the girl turned out to be a redhead, and I couldn’t argue with him anymore.”
Gloria laughed.
That same afternoon they went to see Donatella.
The nursing home was an hour away from the mansion—a good one. Vladimir had looked at three. He’d settled on the best one. Six months had passed since the wedding, and Donatella had lost even more weight; she’d given up her cane because her hip was too weak to support it anymore, and she was getting around with a walker. Her hair was completely white. Her hands were veiny. Her voice was soft.
She welcomed Lucía into her lap. She looked at her for a long time. She didn’t speak for the first three minutes.
Then she looked at Vladimir.
“Lucía?”
“Lucía, yes.”
“Son.”
“Tell me.”
“You were the one who decided that.”
“We both decided it.”
Donatella looked at Julieta.
Julieta held her gaze.
“Thank you, Julieta.”
She said it in a whisper. It was the first time in twenty-two months that those words had come out of Donatella Rossi’s mouth directed at Julieta Carrasco. Both of them noticed it. Vladimir did, too. None of the three mentioned it. Those kinds of things aren’t discussed out loud.
“You’re welcome, Donatella.”
“Take care of her.”
“I’ll take care of her.”
“I know that. I’m telling you anyway.”
She handed the baby back to her. Her hand trembled slightly as she did so. Vladimir helped her.
That night, back at the mansion, Vladimir peeked into Gabriela’s room.
The little girl was in her pajamas, sitting on the bed, talking to Lucía, who was sleeping in the bassinet they’d placed next to Gabriela’s bed that first night at her own request. “Let her sleep with me tonight. Just this once. Then she’ll go to your room.”
Vladimir stood in the doorway without going in.
Gabriela was speaking softly to her.
“I’m going to tell you about Mommy. The other Mommy. The one who’s in heaven. I’m going to tell you everything I know.” Mommy’s name was Lucía, just like yours. She had red hair—no, it was brown—but one day Daddy told me your hair might look like Grandma’s. Mommy gave me Capitán when I was two years old. Capitán is that bear over there. When you’re older, I’ll tell you the whole story. And I’m going to be the best big sister you’ve ever had.”
A pause.
—Well, you’re my first sister. I’m the only one you’ve ever had. But I’m also the best.
Vladimir bit his lip. He closed the door slowly, without coming in.
In the kitchen, at eleven o’clock, Julieta was warming up a bottle.
Vladimir came downstairs with Lucía in his arms. Just as he’d come downstairs with Lucio two years ago. His right arm worked better now. Two years of physical therapy had passed, and it showed.
“Vladimir.”
“Yes?”
“Lucio’s asleep. Gabriela’s asleep. Lucía’s about to eat.”
“That’s the state of the nation.”
“That’s the state of the nation, yes.”
—Do you realize?
—Of what?
—That this is a normal kitchen at eleven at night.
Julieta laughed.
“Vladimir, this is the most ordinary kitchen in the world. Three years ago, you were in a coma and I was hiding three thousand kilometers away. Two years ago, Andrés was on the loose. A year and a half ago, your mother called me an opportunistic slut. And now we’re here warming up a bottle.”
—What a season.
“What a season.”