Page 36

Claudia raises her eyebrows, surprised.

"But all I see is a kind, well-meaning, lost woman. You give the impression of drifting without knowing where you belong." Claudia's throat closes. "And I can't imagine anything worse than that, because it must be suffocating to feel like what life puts in front of you just doesn't fit."

Claudia would like to ask her how she knows all that when Claudia herself couldn't have described it any better—but maybe that's part of her problem: not knowing how to connect the pieces of her own personal puzzle.

"It's right here—turn right and stop wherever you can," Laia says.

Claudia stops the car double-parked and is glad they've arrived, because if Laia does a second read on her life, she'll probably fall apart right there in the passenger seat.

"Thanks for the ride," Laia says from the doorway.

"Of course. If it happens again, call me and I'll pick you up in the morning."

"Deal. See you tomorrow."

Laia closes the door, and Claudia sits in the car watching her walk down the sidewalk until she stops at a building entrance. It's a small block with a yellowish facade and patches of peeling paint, only three stories tall. She lingers a moment longer, wondering if there's an elevator or if Laia is climbing stairs, imagining a warm, cozy home where a small family holds together in spite of missing one of its members—and she discovers, with surprise and with envy, that she would trade all her money, her designer apartment, and her car to have been born into a family where warmth came first, above status and power.

Chapter 14

They've finally moved her to a different section. Claudia started in sewing yesterday, and when Laia told her that morning and walked her over, she felt relief—she figured that having two pieces of fabric in her hands to join together and eventually turn into a finished garment would make her feel good, that she'd enjoy being here the same way she enjoyed being in pattern-making with Remei. But this is already her second day, and May has started off sunny, and even though the hours go by faster and she doesn't dislike what she's doing, it doesn't fill her up inside either, because she doesn't feel any of what she expected to feel. Here she just sits at one of the machines and tries to piece the panels together along the marked lines—and saying she tries is being generous, because the truth is she's not very good at it. She can't quite get the hang of it. She still hasn't managed to sew anything without drifting off the line, and when she does manage it, it takes her ten times longer than anyone else, and she gets frustrated.

Even so, she doesn't complain. She listens to instructions with her full attention, and sometimes she loses herself watching the people who sew there with a skill that leaves her in awe.

Right now she's at the machine she's been assigned, wearing her safety headphones, with a pile of pockets to sew onto shirts. She's been doing the same thing all morning, and even though it's tedious, she doesn't really mind, because she's been using the time to turn things over in her head—to try to find something like a mental map that tells her how to climb out of the increasingly deep cave she feels herself sinking into. And then she hears a sound that makes her back go straight automatically, her foot lift off the pedal, her hands go still. The sound is steady and getting closer, and the alarm signals in her body keep going off one after another: racing pulse, eyes wide open, sweat on her palms.

Heels. At least two pairs, but the one she'd recognize even under the noise of the machines is one of them—Blanca Vidal's. Her mother's.

Claudia turns slowly and spots her in the aisle, walking toward her alongside Elvira, who follows a couple of steps behind her older sister. Claudia turns back with her jaw tight and tries to focus on what she's supposed to be doing, but it's impossible, because her mother's presence always produces a kind of paralyzing effect that numbs her whole body. It's as if her toxic energy were contagious, and her brain can't function with a system it rejects.

"Well, look who it is," her mother says when she stops beside her.

Claudia turns toward her and, even though she knows her mother expects her to stand up, hug her, and pretend to be glad to see her—because there are people around and appearances matter enormously to her—Claudia only does the first part. She gets to her feet with the backs of her knees touching her chair.

"Hi, Mom," she says, and pulls off her headphones.

Blanca looks her up and down as if she doesn't recognize her, as if Claudia has committed some offense by wearing the same blue coat as every other woman and man who works here. What did she expect? For her to work in a blazer to prove she has more class than anyone else?

"Hi, Mom? That's all you have to say?" she asks, clearly annoyed.

"I don't know what you want me to say."

Her mother presses her lips together until they form a straight line and glances involuntarily at Elvira, as if she wanted to check whether she'd heard her daughter's impertinence. This is the real Blanca Vidal—not the one who came here just over two months ago and sat at the conference table speaking to her warmly, playing at being a wonderful mother.

"You could start by explaining why you've been here for more than eight weeks and haven't managed to come home a single day. Do I have to remind you that you have parents? Look what I have to do just to see my own daughter," she adds, turning toward Elvira, who doesn't change her expression or say anything—which only infuriates Blanca more, because she always expects everyone to agree with her and share her complaints.

"I haven't had time," Claudia says in her defense, catching out of the corner of her eye that several coworkers keep glancing over while they sew—something she couldn't do without sewing her own finger to the fabric.

Her mother lets out a dry laugh.

"You seem to have plenty of time for going out, though, and for sleeping in and showing up late," she snaps coldly.

Claudia bites her lips and shoves her hands into her coat pockets, fists clenched.

"Mom, I'm working, you can't—"

"If you could bring yourself to come see me or answer my calls instead of sending vague texts saying you're fine, I wouldn't have had to go to the trouble of coming all the way down here. Is it really so hard to come home and sit down to dinner with us one night?"

"I'm tired when I get home from work," Claudia answers with weak excuses, and she knows it, but she doesn't much care either. All she wants is for this conversation to end and for her mother to leave this factory and take her negative energy with her.