Hospital, 33 Years Ago
Could you explain to me what you have done to my son?
Due to my inexperience I felt somewhat out of my depth, and tried to stammer a few words — but honestly, I had no idea what she was talking about. I stood there staring at her, my mind racing through all the terrible things I might have done without knowing it. There we were, the two of us in the middle of the corridor on the third floor of the hospital — in the middle of nowhere! Suddenly I became aware that I was surrounded by nurses, doctors, patients, and family members who had come to visit their loved ones, all of them also admitted and trying to recover, just like me. Their accusing stares made me want to vanish on the spot. I didn’t know where to hide. I wanted to run but my legs wouldn’t cooperate; with every passing second the situation grew more suffocating. I looked at that poor woman — David’s mother, a boy barely 7 years old — who until barely a week before had shared our corridor at the hospital.
Every morning — after breakfast — he would come to find me in my room, intending to take our classic morning walk through the hospital to visit the patients who couldn’t walk or were worse off than we were, which was most of them. When we went into the rooms, especially those of the elderly ladies, David’s face would light up at the sight of the joyful looks his presence provoked. It was extraordinary! He lifted their spirits simply by being there, and they would tell him how handsome he was and that he was going to have many girlfriends. He would smile mischievously and answer that he already had plenty and they were all very pretty.
When we returned to our rooms — his across the hallway from mine — David would take the chance to tell me things about his life: his friends, school, his mother… above all his mother, whom he loved very much, but since his father had left, he hadn’t dared tell her so because she was always sad. He barely spoke to her, not wanting to bother her — he didn’t know what to say. I listened in silence without interrupting, so as not to break “the spell,” until suddenly I was pulled back to reality.
—You see — his mother explained to me — before my son came here, he couldn’t have cared less about me. But now he loves me. I only wanted to know how you managed it.
Pdta.: Historia verídica. Me rompí el brazo, me ingresaron, y conocí a David, un diablillo. El resto es ficción.
CARLOS.