Carla looks back and forth between us for a long second, noting the tension between us.
We’re still standing in her doorway.
“Come inside. Come inside,” she says.
“We didn’t think you would be awake so early,” I say as we enter.
“You stop sleeping when you get old. You’ll see.”
I want to ask, Will I ever grow old? But instead I ask, “Is Rosa here?”
“Upstairs, asleep. You want me to wake her?”
“We don’t have time. I just wanted to see you.”
She takes my face into her hands again and re-examines me, this time with nurse’s eyes.
“I must’ve missed a lot of things. What are you doing here? How are you feeling?”
Olly steps closer, wanting to hear my answer. I wrap my arms around my stomach.
“I’m great,” I say, far too brightly.
“Tell her about the pills,” Olly says.
“What pills?” Carla demands, looking only at me.
“We got pills. Experimental ones.”
“I know your mama didn’t give you anything experimental.”
“I got them on my own. Mom doesn’t know.”
She nods, validated. “From where?”
I tell her the same thing I told Olly, but she doesn’t believe me. Not for a second. She covers her mouth with her hand and her eyes are cartoon big.
I put my heart into my eyes and plead with her silently. Please, Carla. Please understand. Please don’t expose me. You said life is a gift.
She looks away and rubs small circles into a spot above her bosom.
“You must be hungry. I’ll make you some breakfast.”
She directs us to sit on a bright yellow overstuffed couch before disappearing into the kitchen.
“This is exactly the way I pictured her house,” I say to Olly as soon as she’s gone. I don’t want him asking any questions about the pills.
Neither of us sits. I move a step or two away from him. The walls are painted in primary colors. Knickknacks and photos cover almost every surface.
“She seems OK with the pills,” Olly says finally. He moves closer, but I tense up. I’m afraid he’ll be able to feel the lies on my skin.
I wander around the living room, looking at photos of generations of women who all look like Carla. An enormous one of her holding Rosa when she was a baby hangs over a love seat. Something about the photo reminds me of my mom. It’s the way she’s looking at Rosa with not only love, but a kind of fierceness, too, like she would do anything to protect her. I’ll never be able to repay her for all she’s done for me.
*
Carla makes us a breakfast of chilaquiles—corn tortillas with salsa and cheese and crema Mexicana, which is something like crème fra?che. It is delicious and new, but I only have a single bite. I’m too nervous for food.
“So, Carla. In your professional opinion, do you really think the pills are working?” Olly asks. His voice is overflowing with optimism.
“Maybe,” she says, but shakes her head as she says it. “I don’t want to give you false hope.”
“Tell me,” I say. I need to ask her why I’m not sick yet, but I can’t. I’m trapped by my lies.
“It could be the pills are delaying your sickness. Even without any pills, it could be you just haven’t met any of your triggers yet.”
“Or it could be that the pills are working,” Olly says. He’s moved beyond hope. As far as he’s concerned these pills are a miracle.
Carla pats Olly’s hand from across the table. “You’re a good egg,” she tells him.
She avoids looking at me and takes our plates and goes to the kitchen.
I follow behind her, shame making me slow. “Thank you.”
She dries her hands on a towel. “I understand you. I understand why you’re out here.”
“I might die, Carla.”