Chapter 17 Claire
Claire
After five hours in the hospital, Claire needed a break. The family was going back to Aracely’s for lunch—Spaniards ate late, around two o’clock—and they invited Claire to come along, but she begged off, wanting fresh air and some quiet for a bit before she returned to Matías’s bedside.
Outside the hospital, life in Madrid continued without notice that Claire’s life had been put on pause. The sun beamed cheerfully on the poplar and juniper trees. Office workers took casual lunches with colleagues in sidewalk cafés. Grandmothers pushed strollers under the shaded arcades of the buildings, and everywhere birds chirped garrulously as if it were their midafternoon gossip break.
Claire knew she ought to eat—she’d promised the paramedics yesterday that she would—but she had no appetite. Who could eat in such circumstances? But with the heat the way it was in July in Spain, she at least had to hydrate or risk another ambulance visit, and the medics probably wouldn’t let her out of a hospital stay the second time around.
There was a drink kiosk in the nearby park—Madrid was full of wide-open green spaces in the middle of all the hustle and bustle of the city—and Claire got in line to buy a Coke. The man working the kiosk had a kind smile, and his skin was lined and browned from hours each day in the sun. He greeted several of the other people in line by name. At least, that’s what Claire could gather with her limited Spanish.
When it was her turn, he smiled and said something rapidly that she didn’t catch.
Flustered, she resorted to pointing and a broken attempt that wasn’t even a complete sentence. “Um. Uno Coke?” At the last second, she remembered to add, “ por favor .”
“ Una Coca-Cola para la se?orita, ” the man said. “ Será un euro veinticinco .”
Claire fumbled in her purse and grabbed a few coins. But on top of not knowing what the Coke cost because she couldn’t understand numbers in Spanish that fast, she was also unfamiliar with the denominations of euro coins, and she just stood there like an idiot with a handful of money, uncomprehending. Here, they made coins not only for cents, but for one and two euros. Why would you mix things like dollars and change? What god of discord was in charge of that decision?
“ ?Eres estadounidense? ?Quieres hielo? ” the man asked.
She looked at him blankly, her heartbeat speeding up in her throat. If only Matías were here to translate for her, to take care of this thing that should be so easy but somehow, at this moment, seemed too hard.
“Um…”
“He’s curious if you’re American,” a man said behind her. “And if you want ice with your Coke, since that’s something Americans are known for.”
Claire couldn’t move. Because she knew that voice. It had whispered to her many nights while kissing the length of her skin. Greeted her in the mornings with strong coffee and toast. Echoed through museums when showing her his favorite paintings.
Matías .
When she didn’t answer either him or the man holding her Coke, Matías said, “If you’d like ice, you can say, Con hielo, por favor. ”
“Con hielo, por favor,” Claire repeated robotically.
The man nodded and filled a paper cup with ice.
Claire was still unable—unwilling—to turn around to look at the ghost or whatever it was of Matías’s voice, lest he disappear like he had yesterday. So instead, she asked the man at the kiosk, “Er, how much was the Coke again?” while helplessly holding out the coins in her hand.
“I can help, if you don’t mind?” Matías stepped forward into her line of sight, and Claire let out a small cry. He was so beautiful. So alive. Nothing like the comatose man she’d just left in the hospital.
This Matías had his full head of hair, none of it shaved off so the brain monitor diodes could measure activity. His bones were intact, his skin was tanned and free of bruises, and his eyes…oh god, those golden eyes…
“Oh!” he said, seeing her face. “It’s you again. From the hotel. You seem to be feeling better.”
Claire wasn’t sure that was true. She was hallucinating again. Did she have a concussion? And did concussions make you imagine things?
But yesterday she had seen the vision of Matías before she’d fainted and hit her head.
“Let me help you with those coins,” he said, “and then maybe we could go for a walk through the park?”
Claire nodded, still shocked by his presence—and his coherence, because do imaginary people make this much sense?—and she wordlessly held out the coins to him.
Being respectful of a stranger, Matías didn’t touch her, but only pointed out which ones she needed to pay for her soda. She transferred the money to the man at the kiosk, whose eyebrows were now knitted quizzically at her. Could he see Matías? If not, her behavior must’ve seemed incredibly bizarre.
Claire and Matías walked toward one of the long, tree-lined paths in the park. She wasn’t sure what to do. She was definitely hallucinating, and she didn’t know if it was safe to indulge it. Would conversing with this imaginary version of Matías do her mind harm? Would it be better to block it out and go straight back to the hospital, where she could ground herself in the reality of Matías’s true state?
And yet, she didn’t want to give up this moment. She couldn’t . Because here, right now, Matías was strolling slowly beside her. The familiar pine and spice of his cologne wafted over to her—just a hint, but enough for her to sigh. The sunlight might shine straight through him, but this was her Matías. The one she wanted to remember if the real Matías didn’t wake up.
But maybe there was something she could do about that! His vitals had spiked at the hospital last night at the same time she spoke with the ghostly version of him at the hotel, right?
So maybe if Claire could keep Spirit Matías with her for a while, it would also help the real version in the coma?
It was worth a try.
“Thank you for helping me back there,” she said.
He smiled his crooked smile, and Claire had to swallow the little whimper of wanting that almost escaped from her.
“It was my pleasure,” Matías said. “I know it can be intimidating to speak a new language.”
“Very.”
“I still remember when I was a boy, learning English. We’d studied it for several years in school, so our teachers decided it was time for us to use our skills outside the classroom. They planned an excursion to a British candy shop owned by a former Londoner, where we could buy whatever we wanted, but only if we spoke in English.
“My friends and I were thrilled at the possibility of a sugar-fueled afternoon, but my stomach tied up in knots the moment we set foot in the store. Learning a language from textbooks and in planned dialogues in a classroom is one thing, but speaking it out loud with an actual British person—an adult, no less—was another entirely.”
“Did you manage?” Claire asked, genuinely curious. She’d never heard this story from Matías before. Part of her knew it wasn’t a real memory—her traumatized mind was making up this whole conversation—but nevertheless, part of her wanted to believe that this was truly something that had happened to the man she loved.
Matías laughed. “I made a mess of the English language that afternoon. So did all my classmates. But the shopkeeper was patient, and he rewarded us for our efforts, if not our accuracy. The day was, ultimately, a success, because not only did we get candy, but I was never as tongue-tied again in the future. I’d gotten through an embarrassing situation, so I knew I’d survive if it ever happened another time. Ironically, the disastrous field trip ended up being what built my confidence in English.”
Claire smiled privately as she sipped her soda and thought of Matías as a little boy. It wasn’t a difficult leap to make, because he still had a similar kind of boyish wonder as an adult, evidenced by the kind of paintings he created and his ten thousand hobbies.
“I just started learning Spanish,” she said, “but you’re right that studying from a book and listening to prerecorded comprehension exercises is completely different from talking to a live human.” She winced at that last part, not wanting to insult Matías. Then she winced again upon remembering that she couldn’t insult him, because he wasn’t real.
“What brings you to Madrid? It’s Claire, right?”
Hearing her name on his lips liquified her heart. She wanted to throw herself at him, feel his arms around her, bury her face into the crook of his neck.
But he didn’t know her. And even if he did—and even if he weren’t made-up and transparent—Claire was pretty sure that no one else could see Matías. The kiosk man had definitely seemed puzzled by her, and since then, Claire had caught other people in the park looking at her oddly. Because she probably looked like she was talking to herself, and she didn’t have earphones in to credibly be on a phone call.
So throwing herself at what might as well be a ghost would be a bad idea on many levels. Not to mention she’d probably end up in the dirt with scraped knees and the burden of disappointment.
“I’m in Madrid to visit—” Claire stopped herself before saying she was here because her boyfriend was in a coma. For stupid, inexplicable reasons, she didn’t want Imaginary Matías to know she was in a relationship, because then Imaginary Matías might not want to spend more time with her.
Ridiculous. Illogical. What are you thinking, Claire?
But that was the point. She wasn’t thinking, and she didn’t want to. At least for a little longer. Her brain had conjured this fantasy to give her a respite from the worry of her real life, and she was going to take the out. Just during her lunch break.
“I’m visiting a client,” Claire said, which could be true. Intelligentsia Tech did have offices all over the world, including in Madrid.
“Where are you based, normally?” Matías asked.
“New York.”
Matías’s eyes glimmered under the midday light. “Really? I’m moving to New York in two weeks. I’m a painter, and the New York Academy of Art has offered me a position in their fine arts department as a visiting professor for a couple years.”
The Coke sloshed over Claire’s hand as she stopped suddenly in the middle of the park path.
“You’re moving to New York in two weeks ?”
That professorship was why Matías had moved to New York just under one year ago .
“Yes,” he said. “I was actually on my way to my studio to pack up my paintings when I ran into you. Before the school year begins, I’ll be showing an exhibit of my work at a place called the Rose Gallery. Have you heard of it?”
“I have…” Claire whispered. The Rose Gallery was where she and Matías had met. Eleven months ago. The gallery that Jason owned.
“What’s today’s date?” Claire asked him.
“What?”
“Today’s date,” Claire said.
“July 23,” Matías said promptly.
Claire inhaled sharply. Today was indeed July 23. “What year?”
Matías frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Today is July 23 of what year?”
He let out a small laugh. “Oh, I see, you’re teasing me. That’s funny. Everyone knows what year it is.”
Claire didn’t laugh, though. Matías was evading the question, and she couldn’t think of a reason her brain would make the hallucinatory version of him do that if she had in fact made him up.
So could it be that he wasn’t a figment of her imagination?
That this was somehow Matías from one year ago today? But how?
They came upon a fountain sculpture of a family of toads, where one toad child carried an umbrella to shield the other little ones from the sprinkles of water.
“This was my favorite fountain as a kid,” Matías said. “I loved the unexpected detail that a toad would hold an umbrella, and the subtle humor that they were afraid of getting wet.”
“I can see why you’d like it.” She didn’t mention that she could also see how this fountain might have been an inspiration for the whimsical art he became known for.
“I think I also identify with it because I’m one of three kids,” Matías said. “The one with the umbrella reminds me of my sister, Aracely, who is always looking out for me and our little brother, even now that we’re all adults. She paid the rent on my studio when I was first getting started, even though she was still in college. And she actually offered to pack me a snack and dinner for my upcoming flight to New York.” He laughed fondly. “What about your family? Do you have siblings?”
Claire furrowed her brow. Again, this was something her brain wouldn’t choose to rehash if it were in charge. But if this was a version of Matías from a year ago—from before he met Claire—he wouldn’t know that she had no family, that both her biological parents and her adoptive ones had died tragically.
What in the world was happening here?
“I’m an only child,” Claire said, answering his question without going too deep.
“I cannot imagine life without my brother and sister,” Matías said. “But anyway, Claire-who’s-in-Madrid-visiting-a-client, what type of work do you do?”
“I’m an attorney. I specialize in international mergers and acquisitions.”
Matías whistled. “Impressive. But I would’ve thought someone as smart as you could figure out how to count coins for a Coke.”
Claire laughed. “You’re cruel.”
“You’re bad at math.”
“I just got here a day ago! Give a girl a break and at least a week to figure out which coins are which, will you?”
“Fair enough. Anyway, it will be my turn soon in the United States to be confused by your money.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll help you,” Claire said without thinking.
“You will?” Matías looked at her in surprise.
Oh shit. She’d momentarily forgotten that this wasn’t her Matías. That she was talking to an illusion. Or a Ghost of July Past? Whatever he was, he didn’t know they would end up together, that this was more than a passing walk through the park with a stranger.
“Um, sure,” Claire said, trying to figure out how to cover. “It’s nice to have a familiar face in a new city.”
“That’s very sweet of you,” Matías said. “So…could I have your number so we can connect once I’m there?”
“Yeah, okay…”
“I mean, if you don’t want to, I understand—”
“No, no. It’s fine.”
It was just that, to Claire, Matías should have known her number by heart.
But she pulled herself together and recited it.
He keyed the digits into what must’ve been his phone, but Claire couldn’t see it, even though he obviously could.
The reflection off the fountain’s surface shined through Matías, rendering him momentarily transparent. Claire felt his flicker viscerally, the brief second he vanished hollowing her out, only to be relieved and refilled when he reappeared.
“Okay, I’m going to text you a message so you have my number, too,” Matías said. He typed something and hit send.
But then he made a face at his phone. He jabbed at it again.
“Strange. It says the message can’t be delivered.”
A chill shivered up Claire’s spine. Was she suffering a mental breakdown? Was her usually logical, lawyerly mind trying to make sense of her walking and talking with an apparition, and then concluding that a Matías of the past wouldn’t be able to send a message to Claire in his future?
Matías was still looking at his phone.
“Oh no, I lost track of time!” he said. “I need to get to my studio—the boxes for shipping my paintings will be delivered soon. But it was very nice chatting with you, Claire. I’ll call you when I land in New York in a couple weeks, if you’re back by then? Or if you’re interested, come find me. My exhibit will be at—”
“The Rose Gallery,” Claire said.
Matías ran his hand through his hair and gave her a long, admiring look. “You have a sharp mind. Except when it comes to counting coins.”
Claire laughed despite herself.
“I look forward to seeing you again, Claire.”
And with that, he waved and jogged off in the opposite direction, back toward the part of the park where the drink kiosk had been.
Claire watched him. Her Matías.
Until a patch of sunlight hit him full-on, and he vanished into thin air.