I can hear you, I thought, projecting the words with all my might. Please, tell Andrés I’m here.
As if summoned, the heavy door swooshed open. Footsteps approached. Heavy, confident footsteps.
“Mr. Molina,” Dr. Martínez said. “She is stable on life support. But her brain activity is… minimal. She cannot respond.”
“How long?” Andrés asked.
There was no tremor in his voice. No tears choking his words. It was the tone he used when asking a contractor how long a kitchen renovation would take.
“It is impossible to predict,” the doctor replied. “Could be days. Could be years.”
“And the cost?” Andrés asked immediately.
A pause. A heavy, judgmental silence from the doctor.
“ICU care is significant, Mr. Molina. However, usually, after thirty days of non-responsiveness, the family discusses long-term care facilities or… other options.”
Andrés exhaled. A long, releasing breath.
“Thirty days,” he muttered. “Okay. I need to make some calls.”
He didn’t touch my hand. He didn’t kiss my forehead. He turned and walked out, leaving me alone with the terrifying rhythm of the machine breathing for me.
The next visitor brought a scent I knew too well—Chanel No. 5 and judgment.