I don’t have it in me to argue with her since she’s right. We avoid hospitals like the plague. Too many questions, but I know my limitations.
“Chica, O positive, December seventeenth, tonsillectomy when I was twelve, and appendectomy when I was nineteen.”
I rattle off my social security number, not that I believe she’ll remember. I convey the vital information she’ll need and tell her she’ll find my insurance card in my wallet.
She pulls the phone from where I tucked it down the front of her pants. I rattle off my father’s number as she dials.
“Matáis? Oh, thank God. Alejandro’s hurt. He needs a hospital, but I don’t know where we are. Can you ping his tracker?”
She has the phone on speaker, and it’s a good thing, or my father’s voice would’ve burst her eardrum.
“Alejo! Alejo!”
“Sí, papá.”
“Háblame. ¿Qué pasó?” Talk to me. What happened?
“Fuego.” Fire.
“¿Qué tan gravemente herido estás?” How badly are you hurt?
I look up at Vita as she pulls a knife from my pocket and cuts away at my shirt. I don’t remember when I put them away, but I did. They’re such a part of me—like a limb or an organ—that I only notice when I don’t have them—which is pretty much only when I’m in the shower or in bed. Then they’re on the bedside table.
“Yo—”
I cough too hard to continue; I’m not sure what I was going to say. Fortunately, Vita speaks Spanish, so she continues in that. I know she understands that in this crisis, bothPapáand I reverted to the language we’re most comfortable in. I grew up speaking English and Spanish equally, not realizing they were different languages until I reached preschool. ButPapá’sfirst language was Spanish.
“We have to get Jandro to a hospital. He needs a burn unit. Can I call an ambulance?”
“If you believe it’s that bad, then yes. Alejo?”
“Yes,Papá.”
“Your tracker just came back up. We lost you five hours ago. You’re just outside Yonkers.”
I can only imagine the panic my family’s been in.
“Mamá?”
“I hear her. She’s coming.”
Just as my father finishes speaking, it’s my mom’s turn to practically burst an eardrum.
“Frijolito!”
Little bean. Apparently, she’s been calling me that since her first ultrasound because I looked like a tiny bean in the grainy image.
“Sí, Mamá.”
Just like with my papá, her first language was Spanish. They both grew up in Colombia and didn’t move to the States until college. We continue in that, and I don’t have to think as hard.
“What hurts, little bean?”
“Everything.”
“Catalina, I need to get off the phone to call the ambulance. As soon as they’re here, and I know where they’re taking us, I’ll call back. I’m sorry, but we have to hang up.”
“We understand. We’ll meet you wherever you go. The SUVs are waiting.”
