5
The next day, I showed up in Valencia, ready to deal with my mother”s accident. Indira was waiting for me at the train station, and she drove me to the hospital in her car. After I’d identified the body, the mortuary assistant handed me a see-through plastic bag, similar to the ones I used to take my sandwich to the office. A knot twisted in my stomach at the coldness of the whole procedure.
The label read Beatriz Exposito Díaz, 04/21/2016, although it could just as easily have read: Ham and cheese with lettuce, 04/21/2016. The procedure was fast, industrial, and matter-of-fact. I gritted my teeth, determined not to let a tear escape in front of the mortuary assistant. My mother was no more than just another number to him, another anonymous body.
I stopped in the lobby to read the autopsy report. According to the coroner, my mother had been involved in a fatal accident while driving under the influence of alcohol.
Ha. I knew her far too well to believe this.
In the hallway, I was approached by a salesman from a local funeral home. Had the situation not been so depressing, I would have laughed at his futile attempt to sell mehis services. I shooed the vulture away with my arms and got out of there as quickly as I could. If there was one thing I didn”t need, it was help planning funerals.
Indira was waiting for me outside the hospital door, sitting behind the wheel of her trusty blue Opel Corsa. I sat next to her, holding the ridiculous Ziplock bag full of wet, miscellaneous items.
“I”m so sorry,” she said, trying to hug me from her seat.
I leaned back, clutching the fogged bag to my chest.
“It”s all right.” I shrugged, feigning indifference. “She lost it when my father passed away, so it was only a matter of time. The thing that surprises me the most is that she didn”t do it sooner.”
“I had hoped that she would recover...”
I shook my head.
“Impossible, she was already dead when she got here. A truck driver saw the whole thing. He said she was driving like a madwoman before the car flew over the edge and crashed down into the swamp. She did it on purpose, whatever the report says. We both know that.”
Indira squeezed her eyelids together in grief.
“Let”s go,” she said gently, rubbing my hand, and I tried to smile. Indira had always been a good friend despite our differences.
We went straight to her house, and she parked in front of the building. As we exited the elevator, we stopped in front of the door to my mother”s apartment, which was right next to hers. I held the keys in the air, hesitant.
“Do you want to take a look inside?” she asked.
I reflected for a moment.
“No. To tell you the truth, I don”t know if I ever want to go into that apartment again or even touch her things. They only bring back dreadful memories.”
“Yes, I understand,” she said, nodding.
When I looked at her, I knew we were thinking about the same thing: the day Indira had let me stay at her apartment after the terrible final argument with my mother. I stayed there for a few weeks until, like a gift that fell from heaven, the opportunity to move to Madrid and start over came up.
“I can take care of emptying the apartment if you want,” she offered. “If I find anything important, I”ll let you know.”
“Would you really do that for me? I suppose I could sell it all or donate it. I don”t want anything from her. I just want to get everything sorted out as soon as possible and forget about it.”
“I’ll do whatever you want.”
“You’re a gem, Indira. I don”t know how to thank you.”
“Don’t even mention it. That”s what friends are for.”
She ushered me into her kitchen and reheated a thick vegetable soup spiced with curry and other Asian delicacies. I ate as if I hadn”t eaten in days. Actually, I couldn”t remember eating anything normal since Pedro”s party. While Indira made coffee, I opened the bag with my mother”s personal effects and scattered the contents across the table. The wallet with her documents, a broken cell phone, and an ethnic-style wooden pendant.
“What a strange pendant,” said Indira, twirling it between her fingers. It was a flat circle with an elongated point made of honey-colored carved wood. Etched into the circle was an angular mark that might have been a letter E or perhaps an esoteric symbol. “Did your mother wear jewelry like this? It reminds me of Viking runes.”
“I’ve never seen it before. It looks more like a guitar peg, doesn”t it? Although the tip is broken.”
“I wouldn”t know. It”s a bit ugly, to tell you the truth.”
It was, yes, but it was also quite unique. I shrugged and put it around my neck.
“Have you told Pedro what’s going on?” asked Indira cautiously.
“Pedro is not interested in my problems. You don”t get a mistress to be her psychotherapist, do you?”
Indira was aware of my relationship with Pedro, although she’d never really approved. That, apart from the distance, was the main reason why our friendship had cooled off in recent times: she judged me for sleeping with a married man, and I abhorred the truths my friend couldn’t keep to herself in my presence.
I took my mother”s wallet and opened it. It contained only a wet ten-euro bill, her papers, and a couple of cards. I took them out one by one: nothing interesting. I was about to put it all away again when something caught my attention.
A photograph.
“Unbelievable,” exclaimed Indira. “I thought your mother got rid of all the photo albums when your father died.”
“She did,” I answered, astonished. “She burned them all. I still remember that day.”
I turned the photo over; there was no name or date. It showed a man in his thirties, attractive and with a thick shock of dark hair in a very 80s style.
“Your father?”
I shook my head.
“I don”t think so. They say he had fair hair and eyes. I don”t know who this man could be.”
“Perhaps a relative?” Indira ventured, unconvinced. “A cousin?”
I kept silent, wondering why my mother, who hated photographs, would have kept one of this stranger for three decades.
“Well, don”t worry. I”m sure it”s not important. She must have forgotten it was in her wallet,” said Indira, waving her hand. “I”m going to call my cousin Alex, the notary. He”ll know what to do. I”ll ask him to help you with the inheritance.”
“Inheritance?” I snorted. “My mother had nothing of value. Not even the house or the car belonged to her. What little she had, she spent on alcohol. She never helped me while she was alive, and she won’t either now she’s dead.”
“Well, you might be in for a surprise. Who knows?”
My mind went back to my mother”s strange appearance on the subway. I wanted to think it had really happened, but the logical side of my brain denied it. If it were true... if there really was such an inheritance... I fumbled around inside my purse, making sure the plane ticket was still there.
“Your mother was a good person,” Indira said, pulling me out of my reverie. “But losing your father affected her so much.”
My father. But if she had loved him so much, why had she erased all traces of his existence? “He”s not here,” shehad told me on the subway. Here... where? I wondered. In purgatory? Was that where my mother was now?
I hesitated, not knowing how to phrase the question so as not to sound crazy.
“Where do you think people go after killing themselves?”
“Honestly?” She shrugged, handing me back the photograph of the mystery man. “I don”t think they go anywhere. I don”t think there”s anything after death.”
“So you don”t believe in the afterlife?”
“No, I don”t... I see too many horrible things in the hospital. Too many innocent people dying too young for no apparent reason. If there really were a higher being, he wouldn”t allow all this to happen. But some people say that those who commit suicide wander the Earth like ghosts until they finish their unfinished business. Do you like that version better?”
“I don”t know what to think, Indira. I wish I could believe in something... it would explain a lot… it would make me feel better. I think it would help me process all this.”
Indira took my mother”s cell phone and tried to turn it on, to no avail.
“Believe whatever you want, Vesna. My opinion doesn”t matter at all. If it helps you to believe in heaven and purgatory, do it. No one has come back from there to tell us what”s really going on, anyway.”