The medical tape finished peeling off as Dr. Paloma raised the key to the crypt.
The black ink first appeared as a crooked smudge in the yellow candlelight. Then two letters formed. Then a surname.
“Charity Salgado”.
My name.
The baby cried with his mouth open, his face red, his fists clenched under the blanket. Sister Esperanza didn’t understand.
His eyes went from the child’s ankle to my face, from my face to Dr. Paloma, as if he were still looking for a pious explanation in the middle of that office with the smell of sweet medicine and old wood.
“Mother…” Esperanza whispered. “Why does the baby have your name?”
Paloma didn’t answer. She barely smiled, like someone listening to a child’s question.
I took a step back, the envelopes pressed against my chest. The red wax cracked beneath my fingers.
The key to the crypt gleamed in the doctor’s hand, and behind her, in the corridor, Sister Consuelo remained motionless with the spoon on the floor.
That was the first witness.
Consuelo didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She didn’t pray.
Her face went white, one hand resting on the doorframe, her eyes fixed on the baby, then on the cream-colored folder, then on Paloma. Her lips moved twice before a word escaped her lips.
-It just can’t be.
Paloma slowly turned her head.
—Sister Consuelo, go back to the kitchen.
But Consuelo didn’t move.
Behind her appeared the second witness: Julián, the young man who every Tuesday left sacks of beans, rice and soap donated by the San Ángel parish.
He still had the folded receipt between his fingers. His gaze dropped to the open medical bag, the used gloves, the folder with my forged stamp.
The blood drained from his face.
—I didn’t see anything—Paloma said calmly, before he could speak—. And neither did you.
Julian swallowed hard. The receipt trembled in his hand.
“The front door was locked,” he murmured. “I came in through the kitchen because Sister Consuelo asked me for help with the sacks.”
Leave a Comment