Page 88 of Convenient Vows

I take a breath and dial, but it goes straight to voicemail. My lips part, but no sound comes. The only emotion whirling within me is dread, thick and rising like floodwater in my chest. I stare down at the phone, its screen dark again, my reflection faint and haunted in the glass.

My father never turns his phone off.

Not even when he’s on a plane or in the middle of a meeting.

This can only mean that something is wrong. Terribly wrong. I hold the phone against my heart and try to stop shaking. But my hands won’t listen, and they won’t stop shaking.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the phone still warm from the unanswered call to Papá. My breathing is too fast, too shallow, like my lungs are working against my ribs.

The blue jotter is still open in my lap. I flip past his name and go to my mother’s phone number. My fingers hesitate over the number, and even though I’m not ready, I dial anyway.

The phone rings once, twice, three times, and then—click.

“Mom?”

There is a pause on the other side, then her voice comes through, soft and steady, like honey melting in warm tea.

“Mija…”

The sob rips from my chest before I can stop it. I cover my mouth with one hand as tears burn down my cheeks. I haven’t heard her voice in years, and somehow it feels like no time has passed at all.

“Mom, I…”

“Oh baby…” Her voice cracks, and I can hear her smile through it. “I was hoping you’d call.”

I try to breathe, but I can’t get the words out fast enough. They tumble over each other like rocks in a flood.

“Is papa—?”

She doesn’t ask what I mean. She knows that I already somehow sense that all is not well.

“Your father is dying.”

The words tear through me like shrapnel. I crumple forward, the phone pressed tight to my ear, my hand still clamped over my mouth as if that might keep me from shattering completely.

Dying.

The word echoes like a final sentence. I try to pull myself together enough to speak.

“What happened?” I whisper. “Why didn’t anyone try to find me?”

Mom sighs. It’s the kind of sound that carries weight, and months of pain folded into one exhale.

“It started suddenly,” she says. “He was tired. Just tired, at first. We thought it was stress. He had back pain. Then swelling. He kept brushing it off. Said he’d get checked after the trade summit in Colombia.”

Her voice falters.

“But it got worse. He fainted two weeks ago. The doctors say it’s stage five kidney failure. He’s on dialysis now while they try to get a match.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, letting the tears fall freely now.

Dialysis.

That word alone tells me more than she’s saying.

“And he… he didn’t want me to know?” I whisper.

“No,” she says softly. “He said… ‘She left to be free. Let her have that.’”

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