I Faked My Death and He Lost His Mind novel · Chapter 1 of 12
Chapter 1: The Baby
Estefanía gave birth at six in the morning.
By ten I was already in her room at the clinic, with a bouquet of lilies.
I wore the wedding ring on my right hand.
It still felt heavy.
We'd gotten married in a civil ceremony the day before, at the Miraflores municipal building, with two witnesses and a lunch for five.
I still couldn't get used to the word wife.
Aníbal, my husband, was standing by my best friend's bed, his hands in his pockets.
He'd arrived before me.
He told me Estefanía had no one and that someone should keep her company.
I'd thought he was being generous.
Estefanía was pale, disheveled, beautiful.
She had the baby on her chest, wrapped in a light blue blanket.
"Fio," she said in a weak voice. "Look what I made."
"He's perfect."
I moved closer.
The baby had a wrinkled face, clenched fists, and a dark fuzz stuck to his forehead.
Nine months ago, my father had died of a heart attack, on a Sunday night.
That week, Estefanía showed up at my house with a suitcase.
She stayed and slept beside me for twenty days.
I was so grateful I didn't know how to show it.
Now she was holding out her son to me.
"Hold him," she said.
I took him.
He weighed less than he looked.
He smelled like milk and new skin.
I rocked him, laughing softly.
"What a cute little thing. You're such a cute little thing, little one."
Beside me, Aníbal spoke suddenly.
"He's my son."
I didn't understand.
Maybe the air conditioning had been buzzing in my ears.
"What?"
Aníbal smiled.
It was his usual smile, the one from toasts, from board meetings.
The calm smile of someone delivering unimportant news.
"Mateo is mine, Fio. Estefanía and I slept together the night your dad died. Without a condom."
The room went silent.
I didn't know if I was breathing.
Estefanía stared at the sheet.
She didn't look up.
She didn't say it was a lie.
"But we got married yesterday," I said.
A voice came out that wasn't mine.
Aníbal stepped closer.
He put an arm around my shoulders.
A warm, comfortable arm, the kind that comforts you at funerals.
"Don't be scared, love. What I had with Estefanía was a slip. One night. If I'd wanted something else, I'd have married her years ago."
He paused.
He smiled more.
"Didn't I tell you? We were lovers in college. I was Estefanía's first."
I felt like the baby weighed a hundred kilos.
Like the room was spinning slowly.
Like my husband's hand on my shoulder was the weight of a tombstone.
I looked at Estefanía.
She raised her eyes, big, honey-colored, wet.
"Forgive me," she said in the sweetest voice in the world. "I was afraid to tell you."
I didn't cry.
That surprises me when I remember it.
I'd read hundreds of times about women who faint or scream.
I stood there, holding someone else's baby, and I clearly noticed just one thing.
That Aníbal expected me to say it was nothing.
His arm was still on my shoulder.
His smile was still on his face.
He'd said it like someone showing off an ultrasound.
He was sure I'd accept it.
I'd always accepted everything.
I set the baby down in the plastic crib, carefully.
I adjusted his blanket.
I touched his forehead with one finger.
He wasn't to blame.
"I'm going to the bathroom," I said.
"Fio..."
"Just a moment."
I went out into the hallway.
I walked at a normal pace.
Two doors, a nurses' station, an elevator.
I went down to the ground floor.
I went out the side door to the parking lot.
I sat on a bench under a tree, in the shade, and pulled out my phone.
My fingers were shaking.
I searched for a number I hadn't dialed in a year.
They answered on the second ring.
A deep male voice, with the sound of waves in the background.
"Fiorella?"
"Aarón."
"What's wrong?"
I looked at my ring.
I pulled it off my finger with two tugs and left it on the bench beside me.
"I'm going to die tonight," I said.
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