Chapter 22 Claire
Claire
Time had been passing like Claire was wading upstream through molasses, but the next morning, she finally began to feel a bit stronger, buoyed by the love of the de Leóns. While the rest of his family read to him from books—or sang, if it was Abuela Gloria—Claire started playing Spanish audio lessons on her phone when she was with Matías, trying out new phrases and acting out the practice dialogues in his room in hopes that he would hear her trying to talk to him in the language he loved most.
Also, Claire had a plan about how to find Matías’s soul again.
She arrived at Hospital Universitario La Paz as soon as visiting hours began and took her place in the chair beside Matías’s bed. But today she had brought her computer. Between Spanish audio lessons, she was going to spend the morning researching ideas for things she could do with Matías’s soul in Madrid—basically, dates—while also keeping the physical part of him company.
Then, at 2 p.m. when everyone else took a break for lunch, Claire would go back to the drink kiosk in the park where she’d seen him yesterday. The most logical place to find something you’d misplaced was to retrace your steps. She hoped it went for souls, too, even though she hadn’t exactly “misplaced” him.
“Buenos días, Claire,” Soledad said as she and Armando entered the hospital room.
“Buenos días,” she said. “?Cómo estáis?”
Armando made a low noise in his throat and shrugged. Claire knew what he meant. When someone you love is in a coma, just getting through the night is a victory.
“You are not working, are you?” Soledad asked, forehead furrowed as she glanced at Claire’s laptop.
The thing is, Claire had been checking in with work once a day since she arrived in Madrid. It was impossible not to, because they needed her. But she wasn’t working at this very minute. And yet, how could she explain that she was brainstorming dates to go on with Soledad’s unconscious son?
“I’m writing down ideas for things to do in Spain with Matías when he wakes,” she said.
Soledad touched the cross she wore. “That is good. Optimism is a form of prayer. Matías will feel it.”
Armando squeezed Soledad’s hand.
Claire began searching the internet for ideas—things she could do with someone who didn’t have a solid body. She wasn’t sure what would happen if Matías were faced with having to hold or lift something. He’d been able to key her phone number into his phone yesterday, but what if he had to touch something in this world, something that didn’t already belong to him, like a fork or a glass of wine? Professor Hong had mentioned that Claire couldn’t touch Matías because she’d go right through him. So maybe a fork wouldn’t register and he’d gloss over it, like when she asked him what year it was and he got confused for a second, then brushed it off?
Or maybe it would jar his soul into realizing he wasn’t really Matías, and that might cause his tenuous connection to this world to break. And then the Matías who was lying in the hospital bed in front of her would be lost for good.
The third possibility was that Professor Hong was completely wrong about everything, but that wasn’t a chance Claire was willing to take.
Okay, so meals are out, she thought. But even though food was a big part of the Spanish culture, there were plenty of things to do in Madrid that didn’t involve eating.
Prado Museum (although being in crowds might be bad; Claire imagined a tour group inside the museum walking straight through Matías, and how shocking that would be for him, so she crossed off museums from her list)
Hot air balloon rides (she would just have to deal with the operator thinking she was off her rocker for talking to herself, because the operator wouldn’t be able to see Matías)
Visiting Plaza Mayor
Wander through Sabatini Gardens, the botanical gardens next to the Royal Palace
Take in a flamenco performance
Explore Retiro Park
Evening stroll along Gran Vía
Check out Puerta del Sol, the Times Square of Madrid
The last one made Claire smile. She remembered Matías’s horror when she took him to Times Square for the first time and Elmo and Donald Duck cornered him.
Matías’s relatives cycled in and out of his room all morning and into the early afternoon while Claire browsed Madrid itineraries and sightseeing guides online. Though at other times, she just watched Matías breathe, the oxygen cannula’s hiss as her constant companion.
Claire let out a sad sigh as she realized she’d become used to the hospital—the smell of bleach wipes and antibacterial floor cleaner no longer bit at her nose, and the open doors and nurses’ constant glances inside didn’t felt like breaches of privacy anymore. But she didn’t want Matías’s being in a coma to become the status quo, so Claire felt guilty, yet enormously relieved, when her phone’s alarm vibrated at a quarter to two.
Time to leave one Matías and hopefully find another.
—
“Una Coca-Cola, por favor,” Claire said to the man at the drink kiosk. “Y…”
Ice? What was ice in Spanish?
“?Con hielo?” the man asked.
“ ?Hielo! Sí, por favor,” Claire said as she opened her wallet.
But then she paused. It wouldn’t be hard to pick the right coins out today—she remembered what she needed—but still Claire hesitated, hoping that Matías would appear to help her out. Her fingers hovered over her wallet, waiting…
No voice, no amused laugh that she was confused again by the euros; nothing.
She turned to see if he was in line behind her, but unlike yesterday, she was the only customer.
With a sigh, Claire plucked the correct coins from her wallet, paid the man at the kiosk, and took her Coke.
What was she supposed to do now? She’d been counting on the repetition of yesterday’s meeting to trigger Matías’s return. But if that didn’t work, should she still hang around? At home, he was perpetually late—so much so that she’d started telling him appointments and events were thirty minutes (at least) earlier than they really were. It wasn’t that Matías didn’t respect other people’s time; it’s that he was often so lost in the ideas in his head or—if he was in his studio—so immersed in painting that time ceased to exist for him.
Maybe it was the same for his soul. After all, they were really parts of the same person.
The logic was shaky, and if it were a legal contract, Claire would’ve poked a dozen holes in it. But since she had no other ideas for how to get Matías’s soul to meet her, she parked herself on the nearest bench and crossed her fingers that he would arrive.
Two hours later, she’d drunk all the Coke and really had to pee. The de Leóns would be back at the hospital from lunch and wondering where she was. And the man at the drink kiosk had started to look at her with pity. Was it that obvious that she’d been stood up by her date?
Not that Matías could stand her up if he hadn’t known they’d had a date.
Claire rose from the park bench, the slats probably imprinted onto the backs of her legs from sitting in the same place for so long.
“See you tomorrow?” the man at the kiosk asked in tentative English.
“I don’t know,” Claire said. “Maybe.”
—
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of beeps and rotating family members in Matías’s hospital room. Claire tried to analyze what she’d gotten wrong about her lunch break, but who knew what laws governed souls, or if there were any rules at all?
But even if she managed to find his soul, could she make the impossible happen twice? Somehow, Matías had fallen for Claire back in New York, even though he was a Tasmanian devil of paint and curiosity and she was a lawyer who planned out the calendar of her outfits a month in advance. How could she replicate their relationship here, when the odds of someone like him ever loving her in the first place had been so slim?
In the early evening, Claire took her leave from the hospital because she really needed to buy underwear. She had found an emergency pair in the side pocket of her purse—a backup in case of early periods—but washing her panties in the sink with hand soap and alternating between only two pairs was hardly ideal, so it was time to take care of that problem.
The store the hotel receptionist had recommended was far more upscale than Claire was used to. Being the practical sort and also having grown up without much money, she usually bought cotton underwear in bulk packs. So she stood in the entryway of Oysho for a few hesitant seconds, flanked by mannequins in lacy bras and panties that certainly required more care than just tossing them into the laundry with everything else.
Plus, I have no one to wear such pretty things for, she thought, her chest tightening.
No, don’t think like that. Matías would wake up.
Claire forced herself into the store. Most places in the U.S. put their most expensive, aspirational clothes up front, and their cheap utilitarian stuff in the back, and fortunately, the Spaniards had the same idea here. Their “plain” underwear was still more stylish than the twelve-pack kind she bought at home, but Europeans seemed to have better fashion sense than Americans in general, so it wasn’t a huge surprise.
The sign over the underwear display made the decision for her. Her translation app showed that if you bought nine pairs, you’d get one free. Claire counted out a set of ten and took them to the register.
As she waited her turn in line, she looked over the pretty underwear in her hands. Even the simplest designs had a line of tiny buttons on the front, or a small bow, or just a touch of lace trim.
Was she buying too many pairs, though? Because what if buying so many jinxed Matías’s recovery, because it indicated to the universe that Claire was ready for the long haul? Like, it meant she didn’t believe he would get better quickly and wake up tomorrow. Ten pairs was one and a half weeks of no repeats…
She clutched the underwear tighter, wishing again that Matías were here. He always had a way of simplifying things when she started overthinking decisions.
“?Se?ora?”
Claire looked up. One of the cashiers was now free and waving to her. As Claire reached the counter, though, she glanced out the window.
There was Matías, walking by the fountain in the square.
Claire gasped.
“Please hurry!” she said to the cashier.
The girl shot Claire a nasty look.
“I cannot help you unless you give me what you are buying.”
“What? Oh!” Claire was still clutching the underwear in her hands. “Here.”
The cashier muttered something.
“I’m sorry,” Claire said. “Un hombre…outside. I want to talk to him.”
“Ohh,” the girl said, a pierced eyebrow lifting appreciatively now. But she frowned at the tame underwear Claire had bought—maybe thinking that a few sexier ones would’ve increased Claire’s chances with a man. Regardless, she rang up Claire’s credit card, wrapped the purchases in pretty tissue, and slid them into a nice handle bag. “Good luck!”
“Gracias,” Claire said, practically running out the front door.
“Matías!”
He spun around, and when the sunlight hit him, she could have sworn he was slightly less diaphanous than he was yesterday. But maybe she was just imagining things, because he was definitely still transparent until he stepped forward, out of the sunbeam.
“Claire! Wow, what are the chances?”
She didn’t know. She had no idea why he had shown up here, right now, when her more thought-out plan at the drink kiosk hadn’t worked. But she wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass.
“Go out with me!” Claire blurted.
Matías seemed confused for a second, but quickly recovered. “I’d love to. I probably need a week to settle in once I get to New York, but then it would be wonderful to see you.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I mean, go out with me tonight,” Claire said.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m busy for the next two weeks, preparing to leave.”
Déjà vu, but the mirror image of it, because the first time Matías asked Claire out—when he’d called her at the firm about having dinner with him the same day—she’d told him she was too busy.
Yet he’d persisted, and she’d given in.
“I refuse to accept no for an answer,” Claire said, crossing her arms and trying her best not to look like she was bluffing.
But she didn’t actually know what ultimatum she’d use if he declined again.
He cocked his head and studied her. “Are all American women this stubborn?”
She balked. “I am not stubborn!”
Matías laughed. “I believe that proves my point.”
Claire made a face at him.
“However,” he said, “I happen to be an expert in stubborn women, because my mother and sister are both incredibly strong-willed.”
“Oh? And what does an expert say, then, about this situation?”
“An expert says if you’re smart, you do what the stubborn woman asks.” Matías winked. “Let’s go out, then. I know exactly where to take you.”
—
Museo Sorolla was only a twenty-minute stroll away. At first, Claire had balked at going inside, worrying about crowds walking straight through Matías, but it turned out that tourists were all museumed out by the time early evening came around because they’d spent their energy at the bigger names, like the Prado and Reina Sofía.
“Joaquín Sorolla is one of my favorite painters, because he was a master at playing with light in landscapes,” Matías said as they approached the museum. “Oh, I didn’t even think to ask before I brought you here—do you like art?”
“I do since I met you,” Claire said.
He laughed. “One fainting outside a hotel and a walk around the park, and I’ve already made such a strong impression!”
Claire blushed. She had spoken the truth, but it was for the other Matías. It’s just that his soul was so exactly like him, that she’d momentarily forgotten this Matías wasn’t quite the same.
She paid for their tickets while he was distracted by a display about Joaquín Sorolla. But it turned out that she hadn’t needed to buy two tickets, because the docent at the door took only one of them from her. He definitely did not see Matías, and thus Claire finally had confirmation that she was the only one who could.
Luckily, Matías was too enraptured by art in the entryway to notice that the docent had taken only one ticket.
“This used to be Sorolla’s home,” Matías said as they stepped into a room with vivid red-orange walls. Framed paintings hung in every open space—small ones of gardens and fountains, medium-sized ones of arched building facades and reflecting pools, and large portraits of girls in white dresses at the seaside, the salty wind blowing at their hats and parasols. There was an intricate metal-and-glass chandelier hanging from the beamed ceiling, and sculptures and vases and other curios lined every shelf.
No wonder this was one of Matías’s favorite artists. Claire could feel the hum of life here even though the painter was long gone.
“See how you can feel the sun in every one of his pieces?” Matías asked. His eyes gleamed and he breathed in deeply—signatures Claire recognized from whenever he was in awe of another artist. Her heart ached, missing Matías, even though he was also right here beside her.
“Tell me more about Sorolla and his paintings,” Claire said, because all she wanted right now was to listen to Matías talk forever.
“Be careful what you wish for,” he said. “I might bore you if you give me free rein.”
“Never,” she said.
Matías laughed. “Okay, you asked for it. Look at this one.” He pointed at a portrait of a woman clad in all black, with an enormous black hat on her head. “The room behind the subject is dim; the curtains are drab and muted, and they disappear completely into a blur of murky olive color on the left. And yet, look at how Sorolla highlights the woman’s face with light. You can almost feel the sun coming through a small, narrow window just to shine on her, and because of that, you can feel her solemnity more potently than if she were cast in shadow, too.”
As he was waxing rhapsodic about Sorolla’s use of light in the portrait, soft golden evening sun filtered through a small window in the room and landed on Matías’s face. He went transparent, though definitely less so than before, so the sunlight was able to bring out the gold in his eyes and make the contrast of his black hair even more stark against his skin. A shadow of stubble lined his jaw, and Claire closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the roughness against her own cheek, how it felt to press her mouth against his. How sometimes, in the beginning of their relationship, they would kiss so ferociously and for so long that hours later, she would come away with sandpaper burns on her mouth, her lips red and swollen even the next day. At the office, George would ask her if she’d had an allergic reaction to something; Yolanda would just snicker knowingly, being married to a fiery member of the art world herself.
In recent months, Claire had stopped letting Matías kiss her like that. She’d tired of going to work looking like a teenager after a backseat make-out session. She would be up for partner soon, and she had to look the part.
Now, though, as Claire looked at him with the sun caressing his face, she wondered: Why?
Why should the joy of her personal life mean she couldn’t excel in her professional life, too? Why had she started pushing Matías away, nitpicking at the idiosyncrasies that made him him?
Claire wanted to kiss him. She wanted to cross the small patch of museum floor between them, stand on her tiptoes, and taste the sun on his skin. She wanted to kiss his neck, scrape her mouth against the stubble, feel his arms wrap around her and his hands slip under the edge of her shirt.
But she couldn’t touch him. Professor Hong had made that clear.
So Claire stood rooted to her spot.
Matías was still looking at the painting. Then he turned and smiled at her. “What do you think?”
I think you’re extraordinary, she thought. And I don’t know why I didn’t see how lucky I was before.
—
They stayed until the museum was about to close. Claire never liked to be the kind of person who stayed in museums or restaurants until the very last minute. She imagined it was probably uncomfortable for the docents or waiters to have to go to each guest and politely tell them it was time to leave. So she always made sure she left early enough to save them from having to do that with her.
“What should we do next?” Claire asked as she and Matías stepped back out into the city. “It’s only eight o’clock. The night is still young.”
“Actually, I should go home,” Matías said. “I had a really good time with you, but I have so much I need to do before I head to New York.”
“That’s two whole weeks away, though,” Claire said. She didn’t know when or how she’d see Matías again, and she didn’t want to let tonight go. It was also still difficult to understand the fact that for him, going to New York was in the future, while for her, that was already well in the past.
And how much time did she really have? What if Claire wasn’t able to make this Matías fall in love with her before two weeks was up, when his memories of Madrid were supposed to end and shift to New York?
Claire shuddered. She didn’t want to think about that.
For now, she just had to be with him as much as possible, to keep his soul connected to her, his anchor. Their past interactions had seemed to help with the version of Matías in the hospital, and she hoped that his vital signs were perking up again tonight.
“You have two whole weeks before your flight. That’s so much time,” she said, although she was trying to convince herself, too.
“Well, you have to remember that I’m moving out of the country for two years,” Matías said. “It is not as simple as taking a business trip or short vacation. There are many things I must take care of.”
“Yes, but—”
“Claire.” A touch of annoyance tinged his voice. “Maybe we can see each other once I am in New York?”
“I don’t want to wait,” Claire said.
Ugh. She sounded pathetic. Desperate. But too much was at stake to care about that.
“I really must go now,” Matías said. “I have your number. I will look you up when I get to the United States.”
But Claire had heard “I’ll call you” or “We’ll go out soon” from other men too many times in the past. They never asked for another date. It was the way they ghosted her, which was sadly ironic here.
It’s possible Matías did mean to reach out to her when he got to New York. But it was just as possible that Claire had pushed too hard, and now he was retreating.
He waved and crossed the street. A bus drove by, briefly blocking Claire’s view.
And when the bus passed, Matías was gone.