“It’s better if I go alone.”
I study Lita’s hand now, memorizing the network of pale veins. My tears are starting to dry up, and I sniffle.
“You got atattoo?” she suddenly asks, her voice scratchy and gruff.
My heart soars as I glance up and see that Lita’s awake and smiling shakily at me.
“Lita.”
I try not to pounce on her, but it’s hard not to. I lean in and kiss her cheeks, squeezing her as gently as I can, inhaling her scent.
“Don’t change the subject,” she scolds weakly. “You got a tattoo?”
I laugh and sniffle. “It’s a little one.”
“Not so little from here. How wild of you. I always wanted one. Hold it up so I can see it better. I don’t have my glasses.”
I do as she says, explaining to her what it means. She pats my arm then my cheek, her arm shaking with the effort. “Beautiful, mi niña. You’re so beautiful. You know, you’ve never looked more Spanish. The sun has highlighted your hair and brought out your freckles.” She traces my chin with her finger while she studies me. “Your eyes have never looked more green. Impresionante.”
I hold her hand where it cradles my cheek.
She frowns. “Why are you crying?”
I shake my head, trying to work through the knot of emotion stuck in my throat. “I’m sorry.”
Her mouth turns down even more.
“You’resorry? For what?” It’s like she only now registers her circumstances, where she is, the bandage on her head, the splint on her arm. “This?This is nothing, Isabel. A fall. I’m fine.”
“I should have been there.”
“No,” she snaps sharply enough that I startle.
The door to her hospital room opens and my dad rushes back in. “I thought I heard talking. You’re awake. Thank god. How are you feeling?”
Lita tsks and tries to brush aside his concern, and then her eyes widen when she sees my mom step into the room as well. “What are you doing here? Both of you? Oh, how silly. I’mfine!”
For two days, Lita heals at the hospital while my parents and I dance around each other. I don’t leave her side and they don’t leave mine. The tension in the room is palpable. My parents aren’t going to forgive me for what I’ve done. The more they ask about it and the more I share, the angrier they get. The fact that I kept it a secret, that I lied to them over and over again—it feels like a personal betrayal even when I try to explain it wasn’tmeant to be. How can I share that I wanted a summer on Ibiza as Elle rather than living one more second as Isabel? That I wanted to escape from a life most people would beg for?
I know it was selfish. I wanted freedom and now I understand the full consequences of that decision. Had I been in Marseille with Lita all summer like we planned, I would have been there the day she fell. I could have helped her. Had my parents known Lita was on her own, maybe they would have checked on her more often. Maybe she would have been taken to the hospital sooner.
I apologize for all of this and more, but my dad is too concerned with Lita’s condition to listen, and my mom is swept up in making arrangements for Lita’s care. I endure my parents’ disappointment and anger in the confines of that hospital room until finally Lita is discharged and we take her home. There, I endure the same disappointment and anger, just in a new setting.
The constant shame has taken its toll. I feel it in my posture, my facial features, the tightness in my chest. My knees are going to give out under the weight of it. Lita’s the only one who seems to think none of this was my fault.
“Have you spoken to your friends?” she asks the afternoon we settle into her home. I’m at her bedside, ensuring her medications are in order and trying to memorize her pill schedule when I shake my head.
“No.”
They’ve called and I haven’t answered. I barely look at my phone.
“And Cristiano? Has he called?”
I let my vision soften on a bottle of medication, annoyed by all the French on the label. “Yes.”
“And?” she presses impatiently.
My mom walks past Lita’s open door, a hired nurse trailing after her. “—your duties. If you need anything, my daughter will be here—”
