Page 26 of One Year Ago in Spain
When Luis couldn’tsleep, he drove. It was not only a significant part of his job—he was a test engineer for Stellantis, which designed Fiats and Alfa Romeos, among others—but it was also a comfort. When he was a baby—a fussy one—his dad had figured out that Luis would sleep if he was in his car seat with the engine running. As he got older, he fell in love with kart racing. He never became good enough to be a professional race car driver, but when he got to university, Luis discovered engineering and how he could make working on cars and driving them part of his career.
Now, in the middle of the night, he hit the freeway toward Valencia, settling into a speed fast enough that he could hear the wind resistance but not so fast as to be reckless, not after Matías’s boat accident. It would be a seven-hour round trip from Madrid to Valencia and back, but there was an art to driving long distances that Luis had mastered from all those hours spent on racetracks over the years. He turned on his playlist of classical music, slowed his breathing to a meditative state, and did not allow himself to envision the end of the journey, only the road immediately beneath his tires.
But it was harder than usual to clear his mind, because of Matías. Older than Luis by thirteen years, he had been adifferent sort of brother. For as long as Luis had memories, Matías had basically already been an adult. It was Matías who had suggested that their parents allow Luis to try kart racing. Unlike the rest of the family, Luis and Matías shared the same fearlessness—and if not for his older brother’s constant reassurances to their parents, Luis would not have the career he had today.
He clenched the steering wheel in a decidedly nonmeditative way.
Even though Matías could be absentminded about some things, he never forgot birthdays or their parents’ anniversary. He picked up the phone anytime Luis or Aracely called, regardless of the hour in New York. Even his art was a gift, a smile in a world that too often frowned.
He is too good to die,Luis thought.
“You promised you would be there the first time I led a design team for Maserati,” Luis said out loud as the road to Valencia curved and then stretched out before him. “I haven’t done that yet, and since you always keep your promises, I guess that means you can’t die.”
He imagined Matías laughing at the joke.
It made Luis feel a little better. Not entirely, but enough for him to keep going.
And that was the most he could ask of this night.
Claire
“Buenos días,”Clairesaid as she got into Luis’s car in the morning. The bags under his eyes were even grayer than the day before, and there was a huge silver travel mug of coffee in the cup holder. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
Luis shook his head. “I drove out to the beach house Matías and his friends had rented near Valencia so I could pick up his things.”
“Is it far?”
“Some would say so,” Luis said. “But I did some thinking, so…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to. Claire understood. A lot of times, having something to do was better than just lying in the dark with your fears.
“If the boating accident happened way out there,” Claire said, “why is Matías in the hospital in Madrid?”
“Because a high school classmate of my parents is a top doctor here,” Luis said. “She helped us get Matías airlifted to her hospital.”
“Lucky Matías,” Claire said, realizing as soon as the words came out that he wasn’t lucky at all. He was in a coma. He still might die.
“What about Leo and Facu?”
“They’re in the hospital in Valencia. Their dog and cat keep crying without them and won’t eat.”
Claire’s eyes welled up.
She couldn’t bring herself to ask about Carlos and Diego, the two who had already died. How were their wives handling the loss? And what about their children? Their daddies would never come home.
Luis grabbed a box of tissues from the dashboard and silently passed it to her.
They drove the rest of the way to the hospital without speaking, both lost in their own thoughts. When they’d parked in the garage, Claire opened the car door immediately, barely resisting the urge to sprint to the hospital building and throw herself over Matías’s unconscious body.
But Luis opened the trunk first, and Claire gasped at the familiar sight of Matías’s well-traveled suitcase, the edges frayed, the colorful baggage tag he’d designed while in art school, smudged with the dirt of age and international travel.
“I found something this morning that I think you should have,” Luis said. He unzipped the front pouch of the suitcase and pulled out what looked like a small diary with a plain black leather cover, but the sides of the pages were painted in brightly hued paisley.
“What is it?” Claire asked.
“I didn’t mean to pry,” Luis said, “but it was sitting out on the living room table in the house they rented, so I had to look inside to figure out if it belonged to Matías or one of the other guys. Once I saw your name, I didn’t read any more.”
Claire opened the journal.
A first entry was dated two weeks ago.
