Chapter 14 - MY MOTHER'S VOICE
My mother had been dead for four years.
Hearing her voice in a bus terminal nearly put me on the floor.
“Ernesto, I don't care what Rafael did.”
She sounded angry.
Alive.
“I want my daughter kept out of it.”
Ernesto answered, “Then tell Mariana the truth.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because she will try to save him.”
My mother's voice cracked.
“And Rafael does not deserve to be saved again.”
The recording ended.
I stood motionless.
Rafael looked worse than I felt.
“She knew.”
“Yes.”
“She knew I was alive.”
“Yes.”
He sat on a plastic terminal chair.
For once, he had nothing clever to say.
I almost touched his shoulder.
I didn't.
There were more recordings.
My mother meeting Carmen.
My mother paying Ernesto.
My mother demanding that no one contact me.
Then one recording from two years before she died.
She was crying.
“I made Mariana think Rafael was dead because I wanted one child who didn't disappoint me.”
I stopped the audio.
Rafael stared at the floor.
“That sounds like her.”
I hated him for saying it.
Because it did.
My mother had not been protecting me.
Not only.
She had edited our family into something she could tolerate.
I had inherited that habit.
I had edited Daniel into a supportive husband.
Carmen into a difficult but dependable grandmother.
Myself into a woman who could solve everything by paying for it.
The recorder contained one final conversation.
A woman I didn't recognize.
She told Ernesto, “Ignacio's accounts are moving Friday.”
“Where?”
“Panama first.”
“And Navarro?”
“He'll leave after.”
“Name your price.”
The woman laughed.
“You already paid it.”
The file ended.
Sofía listened twice.
Then whispered, “I know that voice.”
“Who?”
She looked at me.
“My mother.”
I stared.
“You said your parents were together.”
“They are.”
“Does your mother know what Ignacio does?”
“I thought she didn't.”
Sofía called her.
No answer.
Then a text.
MOM: Don't come home.
Another.
MOM: Your father knows you helped Mariana.
Sofía went pale.
We drove to her parents' house anyway.
The front door was open.
Inside, every drawer had been emptied.
A chair was overturned.
No blood.
On the dining table sat six plates.
Still warm.
Someone had been eating minutes earlier.
Sofía called out.
“Mom?”
A sound came from the pantry.
We opened it.
Her mother, Teresa, was sitting on the floor.
Hands tied.
Lip bleeding.
She looked at Sofía.
Then at me.
“Where is Camila?”
My heart stopped.
“With police.”
Teresa shook her head.
“No.”
She struggled to stand.
“Ignacio sent someone to the protection apartment twenty minutes ago.”
My phone rang.
The police officer assigned to Camila.
I answered.
Static.
Then a man's voice I didn't know.
“Mrs. Salgado?”
“Yes.”
“We have a problem.”
(To be continued)
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