Joaquín

The therapist opens his legal pad, a black Bic pen in hand. “How are you sleeping? Better?”

“If you call startling awake in the middle of the night only five times instead of twenty, then yes. Better.”

“The pills aren’t working?”

María shifts in her chair. “I don’t like the pills. They slow me down during the day. I can’t afford to slow down.”

“Have you talked to Esteban?”

“I have to. He has Mariana and Daniel.”

The therapist sits straighter. “But talked talked? Like in a conversation—”

“Hola. How are you? Bien y tú? Bien también. That sort of thing.”

“It’s an improvement.”

“I can’t look him in the eyes, though. He reminds me too much of, of—”

The therapist waits while María hugs her chest, her lips pressed into a thin line. “It must be hard to say his name. Why don’t you tell me something about him?”

María squirms in her seat, unable to find a comfortable position. “He was soft-spoken and kind. Wasn’t into sports. He’d sit in the stands during his friends’ games, cheer them on. They called him the scorekeeper.” She interlaces her fingers over her lap. “Maybe I should call him that, too.”

The therapist takes seven seconds to respond. “You will eventually need to address—”

“Eventually,” María cuts in.

The therapist nods. “Eventually.”

María sits cross-legged, staring off into the distance. “Why am I here?”

“You were the one who made the appointment.”

“Hmm.” She crunches into a ball, hiding her head between her arms. “I didn’t even remember, but your secretary called. I thought about cancelling, but then—” She rests her chin on her knees. “The days are a blur. It’s as if someone else is making my decisions, and I follow.”

“It’s called dissociation.”

María’s eyes slant. “It’s called the abduction of your firstborn son.”

“It’s also a sign of grief.”

“Grief?” Her jaw tenses. “This isn’t grief. Grief would mean—”

The therapist leans in without breaking eye contact. “Grief would mean?”

María lets her feet down and grabs the armrests, her knuckles white. “I close my eyes, and all I can see is the scorekeeper. My other two children, Mariana and Daniel, they need me. But I can’t.”

“You’ve been through a lot.”

“I haven’t been through anything. My son. He’s the one—” her voice shrinks. “Do you think he’s still alive?”

The therapist stares at her without responding.

María rests her chin on her hands as her lip quivers. “It was horrible.”

“What was horrible?”

“Have you ever smelled a body left to rot?”

The therapist shakes his head.

 “They were melting in the sun. There were so many flies. I saw his face in every corpse. I wanted to hug them, but they were—” She blinks repeatedly. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

“You have to assess what this means for you and your family. If it’s helpful.”

She steps up from her chair and paces, shaking her hands as if they were wet. “Helpful? I don’t know what that means anymore. But I have to keep looking. If not me, who’s going to find him? The police have made it clear they won’t be of help.”

“You’ve reached that conclusion, yes.”

“Am I delusional? I am delusional. There have been no ransom notes. No news.” She sits down again. “Esteban says we should pray.” She scoffs. “As if that ever helped anyone.”

“People use different ways to cope with stress.”

“He’s become a fanatic. Instead of accompanying me to the police or on search missions, he goes to church. Prays the rosary every day.”

“Prayer has been proven to bring peace in times such as this, as is meditation.”

She halts, her shoulders dropping an inch. “I asked for a divorce.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The therapist takes off his glasses and places them over his legal pad.

“I can’t stand being close to him.” She wrinkles her nose. “He smells of mint and nicotine, of chewing gum to mask his smoking. Every time he approaches, it takes me back to that moment.”

“Smell is deeply tied to our cognitive centers and memories. It’s common for a scent to trigger vivid recollections of past experiences.”

María stares blankly at the wall. “I want to forget everything about that day. It’s impossible with that smell.”

“Now, I’m the enemy.” María barely makes a dent in the chair’s cushion. Her hair is balding at her midpart, and she wears no makeup. “I ask for the truth about our children. They make me the criminal.”

“You knew this would happen. You anticipated—”

“I braced myself for it. But I never thought—” She shakes her head, the lines on her forehead thicker than strings. “All these people who’ve lost someone. We’re so many. No one listens to us.”

“There is always something to look forward to. Mariana and Daniel.”

“They’re strangers to me now. Esteban is the reliable one. Even my parents want me to stop. But I can’t stop! I can’t. The scorekeeper slipped through my fingers. He—”

“Every day, you have a choice. You can always—”

María snaps her head back. “Always what? Give up on him?” She extricates herself from the chair, her hands curled up in fists. “Why doesn’t anyone understand? My son was taken away from me!” The veins on her forehead jump out like spider webs. “Do you have any children?”

“We are not here to talk about me—”

“You don’t have any children. I would see it in your eyes. Did you know that the DNA of a child stays inside the mother for years after birth? Mother and baby are forever connected.”

The therapist lowers his legal pad. “María, please sit down.”

María scoffs. “You’re supposed to listen to me. No one listens to me!”

María storms out of the therapist’s office, slamming the door behind her.

María parks her car outside the therapist’s office. She hangs her head between her arms and bangs her hands on the steering wheel. After five minutes, she turns the ignition on, backs off, and drives away.

María cocoons herself inside her chair. The therapist waits. She stands and stomps through the room, screaming. She calms down by whispering things to herself. When she sits again, the therapist hands her a box of tissues. She takes one, blows her nose, and meets his gaze. Her eyes are bloodshot, her fingers bony, her lips wrinkled into tiny grooves.

María breathes out. “I’ve never told you what happened that night, have I?”

“No, you have not.”

“There’s never going to be a right time to talk about this.” She looks away.

“I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

She writhes her body like a snake shedding its skin.

“He said he was going to play at Manuel’s house. We knew everyone in the neighborhood. Or at least, we thought we did. My son kissed me on the cheek before stepping out the door. He’d just turned fourteen but was as loving as a little boy.”

María caresses the right side of her face as if tracing the fading kiss.

“My phone rang less than five minutes later. ‘Mami.’ His voice was hushed, and I could almost hear his heartbeat racing over the phone. ‘They’re taking Manuel’s family—men in masks. I’m scared. Come, please.’ I asked him to describe what he saw. ‘It’s a Suburban with black windows. They have guns! Hurry!’ I wanted to keep him talking, but the line went dead. I screamed his name. Esteban read the panic in my face and followed me out the door.”

María pauses. The therapist uncrosses his legs and leans forward. She stretches her neck to the right and continues.

“The house was just two blocks away, but the streets seemed to stretch and elongate. He was so close, and I was so far. I slipped on the sandals I was wearing, kicked them off, and continued barefoot. The truck’s ignition was already on when we got there. I stepped in front of the Suburban, waving my arms. “You have my son! He’s innocent! Let him go!’ They threatened me with the high beams and revved the engine. The blinding headlight wouldn’t let me see their faces. ‘Give me my son! I will not move until you give me my son!’”

María slams the chair’s armrests, her breathing haggard. She closes her eyes, rocking back and forth ever so slowly. She opens her eyes and continues. “Esteban stood to the side, paralyzed. ‘María, they’ll run you over!’ he repeated. I didn’t care what happened to me. The Suburban was almost touching my knees, but I wouldn’t move. I kept staring straight at whoever was behind the wheel, hoping they’d see the determination in my eyes.”

María stops to take a breath. Tears roll down her face, but she doesn’t wipe them away.

The tension in the room charges like a magnetic field, the therapist drawn to the opposite pole. “You don’t have to do this right now.”

María shakes her head. “I’ve never told anyone the whole story. Esteban always wants to talk about it, but I can’t. I run out of the room every time he brings it up.”

The therapist sits back.

María breathes in for three seconds, holds it for eight, and breathes out for six. “They were going to kill me if I didn’t get out of the way, but I didn’t care. I only cared about getting my son back. I couldn’t see him, but I felt his stare. I wanted him to know his mother would never let anyone harm him.”

The therapist nods.

María’s fingers tremble as she combs back dry wisps of hair. “They swerved right, missing me by mere inches. I lunged to the side door and grabbed onto the railing. If they were going to take him, they’d have to take me too. I banged on the window with my fists, demanding that they give me back my son. I almost fell over when they hit the brakes. The opposite side door opened, but Esteban grabbed my arm before anyone got out of the truck. ‘María. We have two other kids at home.’ I begged him to let me go, but he wouldn’t. ‘We can still escape.’ Escape, he said. He wanted us to escape. Shots rang, but I clung to the side of the Suburban until Esteban pulled me away, and we fell onto the pavement. The truck sped past the exit gates before I could get back on my feet.” María pants, her chest heaving. “‘We’ll get him back,’ Esteban repeated when I wailed my son’s name. He hugged me while I howled. ‘The police will help us get him back.’ He truly believed that.”

The therapist waits for María to finish her story.

“I escaped death in body without knowing I’d face death in spirit.”

 “You can still rebuild your life. There’s much for you still.”

“Is there?”

“Esteban is right. You have two more children.”

“I want justice.”

The therapist lowers his voice almost to a whisper. “They have left threatening messages outside your house and slit your watchdog’s throat. They don’t play around. They’ll keep trying to silence you.”

María grabs a small urn from her bag and shows it to the therapist.

He squints through his glasses. “Are those the scorekeeper’s remains?”

“No, this is Joaquín.” She lifts her chin and steels her lower lids. “I’m the scorekeeper now.”