Chapter 81 CHAPTER 82 — The Garden

Chapter 81 CHAPTER 82 — The Garden

They went out into the garden a little after eleven.

Lucía had been asleep for half an hour. Lucio had fallen asleep in his crib at nine. Gabriela had gone to bed with a book at ten and had fallen asleep with the light on and Capitán pressed against her face, just as she’d done since she was five.

Vladimir opened the sliding door to the kitchen. Julieta followed him out with two glasses and half a bottle of wine that had been sitting open in the fridge for two weeks because neither of them had had time to finish it.

They sat down in the two chairs next to the fountain.

—Cold?

—It’s bearable.

—Do you want me to put on a sweater?

—Hold still. You’re already sitting down.

—Hold on.

He poured the drink. He handed her a glass.

—Vladimir.

“Go ahead.”

“Do you remember the first time we sat in these chairs?”

“I remember.”

“It was after that night with the whiskey. You brought me a coffee.”

“And you told me you were leaving.”

“I didn’t tell you I was leaving.”

—You said something like that.

—I told you I was scared. That’s what I said. The part about leaving came later.

—Well, in my mind, it’s the same thing.

—It’s not the same thing.

—I know. I’m bothering you.

She laughed.

They drank in silence for a while. The fountain was running.

—Vladimir.

“Go ahead.”

“Today I showed Lucía what Lucía looks like.”

“What?”

“The photo. The one on the shelf in the studio. I picked it up for a moment and held it up to her eye level. Lucía didn’t understand a thing, of course—she’s only three months old. But I told her, ‘That was you before.’”

—Julieta.

—Wait. Don’t get too excited yet—let me finish. I told her that, and then I said, “That’s not you.” But she lent you her name. That’s what I told her. Exactly like that.

—And what did the little girl do?

—She stared at the photo for a second and then drooled on my hand.

—That’s my daughter.

—That’s your daughter.

More silence. Vladimir reached for her hand under the armrest. He squeezed it.

—Julieta.

“Tell me.”

“One thing.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m fine.”

She said it just like that, without any embellishment. A two-word statement.

Julieta turned toward him. She looked at him in the darkness.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Today I said it out loud on my way to the bathroom, and I realized I’d never said it to myself before. Not like that. Not with those two words.”

“Vladimir.”

“Tell me.”

“That’s news.”

—That’s news, yes.

—I’m going to keep that in mind.

—Keep it.

The fountain. The wind rustling something in the background.

—Vladimir.

—Tell me.

“I’m not feeling quite right.”

“I know.”

“Some nights I still dream about the basement. The rescue. Andrés.”

—I know.

—Not every night. Before, it was every night. Then it was once a week. Now it’s once a month. Sometimes twice.

—This week’s?

—One. The one on Tuesday. I woke up at four. You were asleep with Lucio on top of you.

—Why didn’t you tell me?

—Because I saw you with Lucio on top of you, and I didn’t need to. That was the answer. The room gave it to me, not you.

—Julieta.

—Wait. I’ll just finish this up for you. Some nights I still dream about the basement. But I don’t wake up alone anymore. That’s the difference. That’s the only difference I needed.

Vladimir didn’t answer.

She squeezed his hand again. She lifted it. She kissed the back of it, slowly, without any drama.

—I’m here.

“You’re here.”

“Until everything inside me goes out.”

“Until everything fades away for you.”

They stayed like that for a little while longer.

Inside the house, three children were sleeping. One of them was named Lucía. Another was named Lucio. The third was named Gabriela, and she still had a one-eyed teddy bear—the last gift her biological mother had left her before she left.

In the kitchen, there was a half-empty bottle.

In the garden were two chairs, a fountain trickling softly, and a married couple who had been married for a year and a month and had ended up there through paths neither of them would have chosen if they’d been asked in time.

But they hadn’t been consulted.

And there they were.

“Vladimir.”

“Tell me.”

“One more thing.”

“Go ahead.”

“Tomorrow is Tuesday.”

“Tomorrow is Tuesday.”

—Lucio has an appointment with the pediatrician at ten. Not Lucía—she goes on Thursday. Gabriela has a math test, and I promised to help her review after breakfast. And at four, Sofía and two people from the studio are coming over to look at the swatches for the second collection. That’s tomorrow.

—That’s tomorrow.

—Vladimir.

—Go ahead.

—That's a life.

“That’s a life.”

Vladimir stood up.

He held out his hand to her. He helped her up from the chair. He closed the bottle. They left the glasses on the small garden table because Rosa was going to pick them up the next day and because neither of them felt like carrying them inside.

They walked toward the sliding door.

Before going inside, Julieta turned around for a second.

She looked at the garden. The fountain. The empty chairs. The large, somewhat ugly mansion that had been her home for two years.

“Vladimir.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m not going to say anything poetic. I’m just going to tell you that we’re going to sleep.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Good night.”

—Good night, Mommy Julieta.

—Vladimir, seriously, stop calling me that.

—That’s what my daughter calls you.

—Your daughter is eight years old; you’re thirty-eight.

—That’s why I say it.

—You’re unbearable.

“I’m happy.”

They closed the sliding door behind them.

Inside, the house was silent. Three children were breathing in three different rooms. A three-month-old redheaded baby settled into her bassinet without waking up. A one-year-and-seven-month-old boy clutched a stuffed animal his Aunt Ana had given him with his sleepy hand. An eight-year-old girl breathed against the ear of a one-eyed bear that had been listening to her breathe for eight years.

And two tired adults climbed the stairs, holding hands.

Vladimir turned off the hallway light.

Julieta closed the bedroom door.

THE END.