Her house, if you could call it that considering there was only one room, was made entirely out of reed. The place looked more like a storage room than a home, but after I’d knocked on her door and requested her professional services as a healer, she led me into a clear corner of the room with a table and two chairs.

I sat in front of the curandera. I didn’t know exactly what I was going to tell her but figured that by offering to pay for her services, she would be more willing to talk to me. Now, how was I going to deceive a healer into believing I was a man? And how did I turn the subject to her son?

“You’re not from here?” she asked in a kind voice.

“No,” I said.

“What brings you to these lands?”

“Well,” I said in a low pitch. “I’m a writer and I came here to do some research for my novel.” I purposely spoke slowly in an effort to keep my voice at the bottom of my range.

She smiled. “And you need a curandera for that?”

“No,” I said. “I came to see you for something else. A more personal reason.” I’d once heard that the best way to deceive someone was to say a partial truth. “I’ve been suffering from melancholia. I don’t have any enthusiasm to do the things I used to find enjoyable. Sometimes I have to force myself to get out of bed every morning.”

She studied me carefully. “Yes, there is a sadness about you. I noticed it the minute you walked in. Did you lose someone close?”

Cristóbal’s shocked face seconds before falling off the stern flashed through my mind.

“Yes.”

She nodded, lighting a candle on the table.

Why did I have this sudden urge to cry? Right here, in front of this stranger? And the mother of Cristóbal’s assassin, at that. Her soothing voice, her compassionate expression, her delicate hands—every part of her urged me to open up. It wasn’t just about Cristóbal and his horrendous demise, it was also the fact that I was so far from my home, so lonely. If at least I’d had the child I’d always wanted, someone who would be with me always. Under different circumstances, I might have asked this woman to help me become a mother.

“Losing someone is not easy,” she said. “Your feelings are normal, Señor . . .”

“Balboa.” I shifted in my seat. Behind a halfway-opened curtain was a little altar with a hand-sized statue of the Virgin Mary. In front of it was a small photograph of a child in what looked like a First Communion outfit. He was dressed entirely in white and held a rosary and a Bible in his hands. Surrounding the portrait were lit candles and gardenias.