13

St. Vincent came for Orteño at eleven a.m. and transported him back to the Bethesda Institute of Mary Immaculate. Once again, Sister Margaret met them in reception and led them down the various corridors to the conservatory.

Lucy was sitting in the same chair but she was no longer playing cards. She held an iPod and was apparently listening to music through a pair of earbuds. As before, St. Vincent took up position by the door and Sister Margaret retreated back down the corridor. Neither of them had said a word to Orteño; it was clear to him that she did not approve of taking his niece off the meds prescribed for her by the in-house psychiatrist.

Flix sat down opposite Lucy, waited until she pulled out the earbuds, and then, smiling, he held out a small box wrapped in gaily colored paper. “I brought you a present, Lucy.”

She studied him as if he were a postmodern painting, trying to make sense of the scrawls and loops. Wordlessly, she took the box, unwrapped it with steady hands, and peered inside. She took out a necklace that held a cameo.

“That comes from Marilena, your mother,” Flix said hopefully. “It was given to her by your great-grandmother in San Luis Potosí, just before Mama Novia died.” He pasted a smile on his face. “You know, San Luis Potosí, where Mama Novia comes from, where she returned to die, was a very important city, Lucy. It was the capital of Mexico, not once, but twice in its history.”

Lucy said nothing, stared fixedly at the cameo in the palm of her hand.

Flix felt a sudden rush of anxiety. He had to stop himself from leaning toward her; he did not want to alarm her. “It’s beautiful, no? Do you like it? It comes from your mother with love.” That last part was untrue. St. Vincent had enjoined Flix from telling his sister anything about her daughter other than that she was alive and well. Marilena had given the heirloom to him years ago in hopes that it would encourage him to get married.

“My mother never loved me,” Lucy said without taking her eyes from the cameo.

Flix felt that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach again. His heart broke, both for his sister and for his niece.

“What has happened to you, Lucy?” The question was out of his mouth before he could stop it. He was sure he’d made a terrible mistake, that she would stand up and walk away, but he was wrong.

She looked up at him. Her coffee-colored eyes were clear as a spring brook, and there was an animation behind them, the sign of a mind at work without being dulled insensate by chemical cocktails.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Tío.”

Tío. She called him Uncle. “I want to know, guapa. Why don’t you try me?”

This produced in her the barest hint of a smile. “I remember how you used to call me guapa.”