Chapter 9: My Wife Is Valeria

The doctor let Valeria go home at nine the next morning.

She gave her instructions to rest and a prescription for iron.

Rodrigo had slept in a plastic chair in the corridor.

He stood up when she came out in a wheelchair, with her sister pushing.

His shirt was creased, and he had not shaved.

"Four rules," Valeria said before he could speak.

"Tell me."

"One. You fix the lie you told at this hospital. In front of everyone, out loud, today."

"Yes."

"Two. You end the agreement with Brenda, in writing, and you tell her yourself."

"Yes."

"Three. You don't come to my sister's flat, and you don't call me at night."

"I'll answer when I'm ready."

He nodded slowly.

"And four?"

"You don't touch me," Valeria said. "Not my hand, not my shoulder. Nothing."

Fabiola leaned down from behind the chair.

"I'd like to add a fifth," she said. "He carries my groceries."

"Fabiola."

"Every Saturday. In the rain."

"Done," Rodrigo said, and meant it, and nearly smiled.

Valeria did not smile back.

"The desk," she said.

The line at the admissions desk was a dozen women long.

It was the same line she had stood in on the worst morning of her life.

The same clerk sat behind the glass, with the same pen.

Rodrigo walked to the front of the queue, past a woman holding a toddler.

He put both hands on the counter.

"Excuse me," he said. "I need to correct a record."

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