Javier came and went twice. One to leave me a juice that I didn’t touch. Another to insist on the papers. I feigned sleep, confusion, weakness. Every time he stroked my hand, I had to hold back the urge to rip it off. At some point he stood by the window, sending messages on my cell phone. She smiled barely.
I watched him from under his eyelashes, accumulating each gesture as if it were already evidence.
At a quarter past six there was a knock on the door a woman in a white coat with her hair pulled back in a stern ponytail and a look so clean that it almost made me want to cry.
“I’m Dr. Andrea Montalvo. I have come to review Mrs. Serrano by request for interconsultation.
Javier straightened up immediately.
“We don’t ask for any.
Andrea didn’t even look at him.
The patient asked for it. And as long as it can speak for itself, it is enough for me.
For the first time since I heard his whisper from the hallway, I saw Javier really get out of place.
Andrea examined me in silence. He read studies. He asked me exact questions: when the deterioration started, who was administering my medications, if I had had episodes of sudden drowsiness, nausea after certain drinks, sudden changes since someone took control of my pills.
I answered everything.
Javier tried to intervene twice.
“Excuse me,” Andrea cut him off the second time, “if he answers for her again, I’ll take him out.”
He stormed out saying he would call the hospital director. Andrea waited for the door to close and then turned the screen of the tablet towards me.
“Your liver is bad,” he said quietly, “but not enough to say ‘two days’ without another fight.” Here there are peaks that do not add up. I want to repeat analyses and review toxicology. Has someone been giving you something extra?
I stared at her.
“Yes.
She held my gaze for a second and understood that I wasn’t delirious.
“Good,” he said. So don’t eat or drink anything that I don’t bring you or a nurse that I authorize. And I need a taste of everything he’s been giving you at home.
“Maria is going to get it.
Andrea barely frowned.
“Maria?”
“The woman who is going to save me.”
He didn’t smile. But he nodded.
“Then move quickly.
At ten past seven, Maria sent me a note through a nurse whom Andrea had put on her side. It was a folded piece of paper, hidden inside a gauze bag.
“I already have the folder. I also found an unlabeled jar hidden behind the flour. And there’s more: a life insurance policy signed three weeks ago. Sole beneficiary: Javier. A very high sum.”
The lyrics danced in front of my eyes.
Three weeks.
Just when he started insisting that I stop seeing certain doctors because “they stressed me out.”
I folded the paper with icy fingers.
When Javier returned, he brought coffee and a twitching expression that poorly disguised the panic.
“Who the hell is Dr. Montalvo and why is she ordering new studies?”
“Because I want to live,” I said.
His face hardened for an instant. Just an instant. Then he became the premature and loving widower again.
“Don’t talk nonsense. We all want that.
All of them.
The word made me laugh inside.
“Javier,” I murmured, feigning tiredness, “if I really have so little left… I want you to sleep here with me tonight.
He blinked, bewildered.
I expected resistance, not closeness.
“Of course,” he said at last. Of course.
“And tomorrow… I will sign whatever it takes.
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