Theyâre like worms.
What kind of worms?
Like worms, all over.
Itâs the boy whoâs talking, murmuring into my ear. I am the one asking questions.
Worms in the body?
Yes, in the body.
Earthworms?
No, another kind of worms.
Itâs dark and I canât see. The sheets are rough, they bunch up under my body. I canât move, but Iâm talking.
Itâs the worms. You have to be patient and wait. And while we wait, we have to find the exact moment when the worms come into being.
Why?
Because itâs important, itâs very important for us all.
I try to nod, but my body doesnât respond.
What else is happening in the yard outside the house? Am I in the yard?
No, youâre not, but Carla, your mother, is. I met her a few days ago, when we first got to the vacation house.
What is Carla doing?
She finishes her coffee and leaves the mug in the grass, next to her lounge chair.
What else?
She gets up and walks away. Sheâs forgetting her sandals, which are a few feet away on the pool steps, but I donât say anything.
Why not?
Because I want to wait and see what she does.
And what does she do?
She slings her purse over her shoulder and walks toward the car in her gold bikini. Thereâs something like mutual fascination between us, and also at times, brief moments of repulsion; I can feel them in very specific situations. Are you sure these kinds of comments are necessary? Do we have time for this?
Your observations are very important. Why are you in the yard?
Because weâve just gotten back from the lake, and your mother doesnât want to come into my house.
She wants to save you any trouble.
What kind of trouble? I have to go inside anyway, first for some iced tea with lemon, then for the sunscreen. That doesnât seem like sheâs saving me any trouble.
Why did you go to the lake?
She wanted me to teach her how to drive, she said sheâd always wanted to learn. But once we were at the lake, neither of us had the patience for it.
What is she doing now, in the yard?
She opens the door of my car, gets into the driverâs seat, and digs around in her purse for a while. I swing my legs down off the lounge chair and wait. Itâs so hot. Then Carla gets tired of rummaging around, and she grips the steering wheel with both hands. She stays like that for a moment, looking toward the gate, or maybe toward her own house, far beyond the gate.
What else? Why are you quiet?
Itâs just, Iâm stuck. I can see the story perfectly, but sometimes itâs hard to move forward. Is it because of the nursesâ injections?
No.
But Iâm going to die in a few hours. Thatâs going to happen, isnât it? Itâs strange how calm I am. Because even though you havenât told me, I know. And still, itâs an impossible thing to tell yourself.
None of this is important. Weâre wasting time.
But itâs true, right? That Iâm going to die.
What else is happening in the yard?
Carla leans her forehead against the steering wheel and her shoulders start to shake a little; sheâs crying. Do you think we could be close to the exact moment when the worms are born?
Keep going, donât forget the details.
Carla doesnât make any noise, but she gets me to stand up and walk over to her. I liked her from the start, from the day I saw her walking in the sun and carrying two large plastic buckets. She had her red hair pulled back in a big bun and she was wearing denim overalls. I hadnât seen anyone wear those since I was a teenager. I was the one who insisted on iced tea, and I invited her over for mate the next morning, and the next one, and the next one, too. Are these the important details?
Weâll know the exact moment from a detail, you have to be observant.
I cross the yard. When I skirt the pool, I look in the window toward the dining room to be sure that my daughter, Nina, is still asleep, hugging her big stuffed mole. I get into the car on the passenger side. I sit, but I leave the door open and roll the window down, because itâs very hot. Carlaâs big bun is drooping a little, coming undone on one side. She leans against the backrest, aware that Iâm there now, beside her once again, and she looks at me.
âIf I tell you,â she says, âyou wonât want me to visit anymore.â
I think about what to say, something like âNow Carla, come on, donât be silly,â but instead I look at her toes, tense on the brakes, her long legs, her thin but strong arms. Iâm disconcerted that a woman ten years older than me is so much more beautiful.
âIf I tell you,â she says, âyou wonât want him to play with Nina.â
âBut Carla, come on, how could I not want that.â
âYou wonât, Amanda,â she says, and her eyes fill with tears.
âWhatâs his name?â
âDavid.â
âIs he yours? Is he your son?â
She nods. That son is you, David.
I know. Go on.
She wipes away her tears with her knuckles, and her gold bracelets jangle. I had never seen you, but when Iâd mentioned to Mr. Geser, the caretaker of our rental house, that Iâd made friends with Carla, he asked right away if Iâd met you yet. Then Carla says:
âHe was mine. Not anymore.â
I look at her, confused.
âHe doesnât belong to me anymore.â
âCarla, children are forever.â
âNo, dear,â she says. She has long nails, and she points at me, her finger level with my eyes.
Then I remember my husbandâs cigarettes, and I open the glove compartment and hand them to her with a lighter. She practically snatches them from my hand, and the perfume of her sunscreen wafts between us.
âWhen David was born, he was the light of my life, he was my sun.â
âOf course he was,â I say, and I realize I need to be quiet now.
âThe first time they put him in my arms, I was so anxious. I was convinced he was missing a finger.â She holds the cigarette between her lips, smiling at the memory, and she lights it. âThe nurse said sometimes that happens with the anesthesia, it can make you a little paranoid. I swear, until I counted all ten of his fingers twice, I wasnât convinced everything had turned out all right. What I wouldnât give now for David to simply be missing a finger.â
âWhatâs wrong with David?â
âBut back then he was a delight, Amanda, Iâm telling you: my moon and stars. He smiled all day long. His favorite thing was to be outside. He was crazy about the playground, even when he was tiny. You see how around here you canât go for a walk with a stroller. In town you can, but from here to the playground you have to go between the big estates and the shanties along the train tracks. Itâs a mess with all the mud, but he liked going so much that until he was three Iâd carry him there, all twelve blocks. When he caught sight of the slide heâd start to shout. Whereâs the ashtray in this car?â
Itâs under the dashboard. I pull out the base and hand it to her.
âThen David got sick, when he was that age, more or less, about six years ago. It was a difficult time. Iâd started working at Sotomayorâs farm. It was the first job Iâd worked in my life. I did the accounting, which really wasnât anything like accounting. I just filed papers and helped him add, but it kept me entertained. I went around town on errands, all dressed up. Itâs different for you, coming from the capital, but around here you need an excuse for a little glamour, and the job was the perfect pretext.â
âWhat about your husband?â
âOmar bred horses. Yes, thatâs right. He was a different guy back then, Omar.â
âI think I saw him yesterday when Nina and I were out walking. He drove by in the pickup, but when we waved he didnât wave back.â
âYes, thatâs Omar these days,â says Carla, shaking her head. âWhen I met him he still smiled, and he bred racehorses. He kept them on the other side of town, past the lake, but when I got pregnant he moved everything to where we are now. Our house used to be my parentsâ. Omar said that when he hit it big, weâd be loaded and we could redo everything. I wanted to carpet the floors. Yes, itâs crazy living where I do, but oh, I really wanted it. Omar had two spectacular mares that had given birth to a couple of big winners. Theyâd been sold and were running racesâstill doâat Palermo and San Isidro. Later, two more fillies were born, and a colt; I donât remember any of their names. To do well in that business you have to have a good stallion, and Omar got hold of the best. He fenced in part of the land for the mares, built a corral behind it for the foals, planted alfalfa, and then he could take his time building the stable. The deal was that Omar would borrow the stallion for two or three days, and later, when the foals were sold, a fourth of the money went to the stallionâs owner. Thatâs a lot of money, because if the stallion is good and the foals are well taken care of, each of them goes for between 200,000 and 250,000 pesos. Anyway, one time we had that precious horse with us. Omar watched him all day long, followed him around like a zombie to keep track of how many times he mounted each mare. He wouldnât leave the house until I got back from Sotomayorâs, and then it was my turn, though I would just take a look out the kitchen window at him every once in a while, as you can imagine. So one afternoon Iâm washing the dishes and I realize I havenât seen the stallion in a while. I go to the other window, then to another that looks out behind the house, and nothing: the mares are there, but no sign of the stallion. I pick...