Chapter 23: Day One Hundred

On the hundredth day the hematologist read my results twice before she looked up.

My father sat in the corner chair with his glasses in his hand.

Abuela sat beside him with her cane across her knees.

Gael stood by the door, because he said chairs made him nervous.

"There is no sign of the leukemia," the doctor said. "Your blood is now your father's blood, and it's doing very well."

Nobody said anything.

"You may stop wearing the mask in most places," she added. "I'd keep it in a hospital."

My father made a small sound and put his glasses back on, very slowly.

He needed something to do with his hands.

"So she's clear," Abuela said.

"She is clear, señora."

"Good," said my grandmother. "Then I may hit someone with a clear conscience."

The doctor looked at her.

"I'm joking, doctor."

"I know," the doctor said. "I hope so."

Out in the corridor my father hugged me so hard my feet left the floor.

He smelled of soap and the peppermints he kept in his jacket.

"Thank you," he said into my hair, which had grown back a soft dark inch all over my head. "For letting me be in the room."

"You were in the room, Dad."

"I'd like to keep being."

"We'll see."

He laughed, and he wiped his eyes with his thumb, and he let me go.

A week later I drove to Saltillo with Gael.

Abuela had called and said only, "Come on Sunday, the girl needs you."

The yellow house was warm and smelled of cinnamon.

Paulina sat at the kitchen table with her hands flat in front of her, looking at a shoebox.

Her face had lost its careful brightness in the weeks she'd lived there.

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