I look over at the counter, where Abuela is showing a recalcitrant Beatriz how to knead lard into flour to make dough. Curling the phone line around me, I turn, hunching my shoulders for privacy. “Is there a problem with my account? Because I’m not in New York at the—”
“No, no. Everything’s fine there. It’s just that … ?we’ve had an outbreak of Covid at our facility, and your mother is ill.”
Everything inside me stills. My mother has been sick before, but it’s never merited a call.
“Is she … ?does she need to go to the hospital?” Were they calling to get my permission?
“Your mother has a DNR,” she reminds me, a delicate way of saying that no matter how bad it gets, she won’t be given CPR or taken to the hospital for life-sustaining measures. “We have multiple residents who’ve contracted the virus, but I assure you we’re doing everything we can to keep them comfortable. In the spirit of transparency we felt that you—”
“Can I see her?” I don’t know what I could possibly do from here; but something tells me that if my mother is really, really sick, I will know by looking at her.
I think of Mrs. Riccio, in apartment 3C.
“We’re not allowing visitors right now.”
At that, a crazy laugh breaks out of me. As if I could even come. “I’m stuck, outside the country,” I explain. “I barely have any phone service. There has to be something you can do. Please.”
There’s a muffled sound, an exchange of words I can’t hear. “If you call back this number, we’ll get one of our aides to FaceTime with you,” I hear, and I fumble around for a pen. Abuela has a marker attached to a whiteboard on her fridge; I grab it and write the digits down on the back of my hand.
When I hang up, my hand is shaking. I know that people who catch this virus do not always die. I also know that many do.
If my mother sees me on video, she might not even recognize me. She could get agitated, just by being forced to talk to someone she can’t place.
But I also know I need to see her with my own eyes.
I am so focused on this, I forget I am in a place that lacks the technology to make this possible.
I hang up Abuela’s phone and punch the new number into my cell, but there isn’t a signal. “Dammit,” I snap, and Abuela and Beatriz both look up. “I’m sorry,” I mutter, and I dart out to the porch, holding my phone up in various directions as if I could attract connectivity like a magnet.
Nothing.
I smack my phone down beside me and press the heels of my hands to my eyes.
She has been an absent mother, and now I am an absent daughter. Is that quid pro quo? Do you owe someone only the care they provided for you? Or does believing that make you as culpable as they were?
If she dies, and I’m not there …
Well.
Then you won’t be responsible for her anymore.
The thought, shameful and insidious, vibrates in my mind.
“Diana.”
I look up to find Gabriel standing in front of me, holding a hammer. Has he been here the whole time? “My mother’s sick,” I blurt out.
“I’m sorry …”
“She has Covid.”
He takes a step back involuntarily, and rubs his free hand across the nape of his neck.
“She’s in an assisted living facility and I’m supposed to video-chat but my stupid phone still won’t work here and—” I swipe at my eyes, frustrated and embarrassed. “This sucks. This just sucks.”
“Try mine,” he suggests. He pulls out his own phone, but it’s not the device that’s the problem. It’s this whole damn island. While the local cellular network seems to function, anything that requires any real bandwidth is a complete loss.
Gabriel types something into his phone and then says, “Come with me.” I fall into place beside him, but he is walking so fast I have to jog to keep up. He stops at the hotel I was supposed to stay at. Although I’ve tried to steal its Wi-Fi, as Beatriz suggested, the network hasn’t shown up—likely because the business is shuttered. This time, however, Elena is standing outside the door, waiting with a ring of keys. “Elena,” Gabriel says. “Gracias por venir aquí.”
She dimples, combing her hands over the long tail of her braid. “Cualquier cosa por ti, papi,” she says.
I lean closer and murmur, “Do I want to know—”
“Nope,” Gabriel cuts me off just as Elena loops her arm through his and presses herself up against him. She glances over her shoulder at me and whips her head back to Gabriel so fast her braid smacks against my arm.
Is a hotel with no guests even a hotel? The lobby feels small and stale, until Elena turns on the lights and an overhead fan. She boots up a modem behind the front desk, chattering to Gabriel in Spanish as we wait. She seems to be talking about her tan or a bra or something because she pulls aside the fabric and peers down at her bare shoulder, then sends a blistering smile toward him.
“Um,” I say. “Is it ready?”