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“Not you too,” I mumbled, then turned to grab mylaptop from my bag. I didn’t use it much at the practice, but I was hoping to catch up on some of my reading of recent research papers. “It could have been worse.” I tried to lighten the situation, although why would he even care? “It’s fine.”
“How is it fine?” he countered. From the corner of my eye, I could see his spine straighten. We didn’t know each other, not in this life, so he wasn’t anyone to question me and my processes. What I liked to do for the people in this town. Even if this woman never brought in her child, I liked it. Because sometimes I preferred to go the extra mile to avoid something else, something worse, happening to my patients.
Logically and in my brain, I knew I couldn’t save them all. But I could try. And damn it, I was going to try, every single day.
“Why do they call you Mago?” I asked, finally taking my computer out and setting it on the desk. I walked to the other side and sat on the chair across from Francisco, opening the screen while waiting for his response. He was silent for a minute, searching for answers on my face. I smiled a cocky one, trying to convey that I wasn’t going back to the previous topic of conversation. “That’s a unique nickname.”
He chuckled, all the tension gone from his shoulders and neck.
“It’s a silly thing,” he replied. Francisco shifted in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his leg, then finallysetting both feet on the floor and leaning his upper body towards me. He rested his arms on the table, then took a deep breath. “My friends started calling me that because I would always sneak out without telling them.”
“Like Houdini,” I said. The words flew out of my mouth before I could give them a second thought. And that had been the same exact explanation his sister had given me once, when I walked into her room and they were both there playing a card game that looked to be one hundred percent invented by them, no rules or regulations or even logic to us outsiders.
I smiled awkwardly, the panic creeping up on me at just any mention, whether implied or not, of Jazmín, her memory everywhere now. Whereas before, I could shake it away, now having him here was a constant reminder of her.
A blip.
My field of vision went black, and the room started spinning on me, a tight grip on my chest. My breathing was labored, or so I thought because I couldn’t feel anything, just darkness.
It came like lightning. And like lightning, it was gone.
“Sorry.” I cleared my throat. “Did you say something? I spaced out.”
He nodded, following along with what I was saying. I smiled, knowing very well it was fake and stiff.
“Anyway, glad we cleared the whole tongue depressor fiasco,” he said with a shy smile on his face. “I’ll getout of your hair.”
“Okay,” I said in response and stood to walk him to the door and lock it behind him. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“No problem.” He saluted, then walked out the door, down the few steps to the sidewalk, and back in the direction of the town square.
16
FRANCISCO
“¿Dónde estás?”he asked, his voice deep and raspy from his many years as a smoker. “I’ve been calling you.”
A statement. An expectation.
“Hello,” I drawled. “Happy New Year.” My phone started buzzing incessantly while I was sitting in Lucía’s office, and without even looking, I could tell who it was. The street outside the small house was quiet, the mid-morning sun shining in between the tall trees, creating random shadows on the sidewalks.
“Are you done with your stupid games, Francisco?” he sneered, his steps moving quickly in the background. He was probably walking in the house, an annoying habit he had when he needed to think. He would pace the hallways, back and forth, back and forth. “When are you coming back?”
“Father.” I took a deep breath, my jaw already clenching in response to his small inquisition. “I am on vacation.”
“We don’t take vacations, boy.”
He was right; we didn’t. Because politics never slept, according to him. I sighed, trying to control my temper. Another one of those things that I had been working on, along with that stupid, childish fear. It was easy for me to just revert to the old ways—the screaming and the arguing and the constant gaslighting. It was how I was raised, and logically, I knew better, but it got out of control.
As I grew up, I started realizing some things about my family. Mainly that it wasn’t normal to be treated like a publicity prop, paraded around from the moment I could form sentences. I clearly remember going to late-night talk shows with my father, a toy in hand to keep me quiet and proper next to him. Why would someone do that to a child? My parents worried more about keeping my clothes free of dirt stains than putting me to bed at a decent hour. It was all for show.
And it still was, even in my early thirties as I tried to separate from that by choosing a different path.
“Okay,” I said, my jaw clenched. “How’s Mom?”
“You need to come back,” he said, the sound of his footsteps lighter in the background. “I’m starting the campaign soon, and I need you here with us.”
Deep breaths. “I’m on vacation until we are back up and running. So, February.”
