Was it?
The plastic crinkled as I handed the bag to her. She hesitated before taking it, her fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment. Her grip tightened on the handles as she stepped back.
“Well, thanks for the charity,mijo,” she said, thanking me like it mattered. Maybe it did to her.
Mijo.
I hated that she’d called me that. It brought back too many unwanted memories.
“It’s not charity,” I corrected. “It’s fourteen dollars.”
“Generousandcondescending,” she said as she turned toward the door. “Lucky me.”
The bell over the door jingled as she stepped outside, her coat flashing pink against the muted gray of the street. I stayed where I was, the plastic countertop cold under my palms.
Was it generous? I wasn’t sure anymore. It didn’t feel like generosity. It felt like penance. Cheap and hollow, wrapped in a bag with wine and Cheetos.
The clerk coughed, dragging my attention back. “Want your change?”
I shook my head, pushing off the counter. “Keep it.”
When I stepped outside, I lit the end of a cigarette and saw she was already halfway down the block. I told myself I wasn’t watching her, but my eyes stayed locked on the pink coat until it disappeared around the corner.
It wasn’t charity.
It sure as hell wasn’t generosity.
It was guilt.
CHAPTER 6
VALENTINA
DECEMBER 3
When I was little, my mom used to sing to me.Not with words. I never thought to ask why she never used any. Maybe she didn’t know them, or maybe she just liked the sound of her own humming. Either way, it always did the trick. I’d shut my eyes and listen until the world around me felt softer. Moments like those made everything okay.
I hadn’t thought about those moments in a while, but now, standing alone in front of the elevator, the memory hit me like a bruise I didn’t know I had until someone pressed on it. And god, did they press hard.
I found it ironic, how she used to be the one who held me together, and now she was lying upstairs in a hospital bed and I couldn’t even bring myself to step inside her room.
I stared at the silver elevator doors, then the button next to them.
One press, and I’d be on my way to room 308.
One press, and I’d have to face her.
I’d have to see her after weeks of avoiding her. I’d finally have to face her frail hands, the IV taped to her wrist, the squint in her eyes that always felt like an accusation, even when it wasn’t.
I hated coming here. I hated how it made me feel. I avoided it. Of course I did. I couldn’t stop avoiding things—it was what I did best. I was supposed to be stronger than this. I was supposed to be the one humming for my mama.
Finally, I pulled in a breath and pressed the button for the third floor. The ride was slow. Painfully slow. It gave me too much time to think—about hightailing it out of there.
But before I could, the doors opened with a soft ding, and the hallway stretched out in front of me. Room 308 was just ahead. There was no avoiding it now. Not with everything she was going through, and definitely not with everything Max was holding over my head.
Once I was outside the door, I stood there with my hand resting on the frame. I could hear the faint hum of those scary-looking machines that were always attached to her. All I could think about was how their hums replaced her own.
When I turned the corner, I could see Mama sitting up in the bed with her hair pulled into a low bun, just like it always was. When she saw me, her eyes lit up almost immediately.
