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eyes.
“I must’ve missed a lot of things. What are you doing here? How are you feeling?”
Olly steps closer, wanting to hear my answer. I wrap my arms around my stomach.
“I’m great,” I say, far too brightly.
“Tell her about the pills,” Olly says.
“What pills?” Carla demands, looking only at me.
“We got pills. Experimental ones.”
“I know your mama didn’t give you anything experimental.”
“I got them on my own. Mom doesn’t know.”
She nods, validated. “From where?”
I tell her the same thing I told Olly, but she doesn’t believe me. Not for a second. She
covers her mouth with her hand and her eyes are cartoon big.
I put my heart into my eyes and plead with her silently. Please, Carla. Please
understand. Please don’t expose me. You said life is a gift.
She looks away and rubs small circles into a spot above her bosom.
“You must be hungry. I’ll make you some breakfast.”
She directs us to sit on a bright yellow overstuffed couch before disappearing into the
kitchen.
“This is exactly the way I pictured her house,” I say to Olly as soon as she’s gone. I don’t
want him asking any questions about the pills.
Neither of us sits. I move a step or two away from him. The walls are painted in primary
colors. Knickknacks and photos cover almost every surface.
“She seems OK with the pills,” Olly says finally. He moves closer, but I tense up. I’m
afraid he’ll be able to feel the lies on my skin.
I wander around the living room, looking at photos of generations of women who all
look like Carla. An enormous one of her holding Rosa when she was a baby hangs over a
love seat. Something about the photo reminds me of my mom. It’s the way she’s looking
at Rosa with not only love, but a kind of fierceness, too, like she would do anything to
protect her. I’ll never be able to repay her for all she’s done for me.
*
Carla makes us a breakfast of chilaquiles—corn tortillas with salsa and cheese and crema
Mexicana, which is something like crème fraîche. It is delicious and new, but I only have
a single bite. I’m too nervous for food.
“So, Carla. In your professional opinion, do you really think the pills are working?” Olly
asks. His voice is overflowing with optimism.
“Maybe,” she says, but shakes her head as she says it. “I don’t want to give you false
hope.”
“Tell me,” I say. I need to ask her why I’m not sick yet, but I can’t. I’m trapped by my