The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,204

of the hospital.

75

INATTENTION

Elizondo

Friday, September 2, 2005

Engrasi left the funeral home. She shouldn’t have come, but no one was going to keep her from saying farewell to her brother—not Rosario or anyone else. She was forced to put up with the disgusting spectacle of Rosario playing the bereaved widow. By the time Flora and Rosaura came to speak to her, she’d already decided to leave.

“Ama is having a terrible time, she’s suffering so much,” Rosaura exclaimed. “You have no idea, Aunt Engrasi.” She burst into tears. “Oh, Auntie, maybe it’s better for you to hear it from us before somebody else tells you!”

Flora spoke up. “Ama left your name off the list of family members in the obituary.”

Engrasi saw Rosario slyly swivel around in the front pew to watch as Engrasi crossed the room to check the board where the obituaries were posted. And it was true; though she was Juan’s only sister, her name wasn’t listed with the rest of the family, which included even cousins and distant relatives.

Flora tried to explain it away. “Please, please, don’t be upset, Auntie! You know how she is, and with Aita dying, she’s acting even more bizarre. She’s taking it a lot harder than we expected.”

Ros hugged her. “Auntie, you have every right to be upset, and on any other day, I’d let the two of you have it out, but today we’re begging you not to get into an argument. We loved our aita, and we don’t want a big fight to spoil his funeral. That shouldn’t be how everybody remembers him.”

“Don’t bother your heads about it,” she said. She departed without another word, leaving her nieces both dismayed and relieved. Engrasi had no stomach for this. She’d come back later, once this circus was finished.

She was plunged in thought on her way home, feeling unhappier with every step she took.

How foolish she’d been! Amaia had refused to come back, and Engrasi had almost convinced herself the girl had made the wrong choice. Engrasi hadn’t said anything, of course, for she’d taken Amaia’s side years before and would always support her niece, whatever happened. Secretly, she’d feared the day would come when Amaia would regret not having been here to say farewell to her father, on this day when reconciliation was no longer impossible. Engrasi realized now that by attending the funeral, she herself had made the wrong choice. Her name wasn’t the only one missing. Amaia’s name wasn’t listed either, as if she’d never existed, a ghost from the past who’d been wiped from memory.

Engrasi crossed the river and stopped where Amaia used to linger, next to the sign with the name of the bridge: Muniartea. The cool, sweet, early-September breeze off the river stirred her hair and disengaged a strand from her loosely gathered bun.

No one should have to die in late summer, not on a day this beautiful. A proper script would call for a protagonist to pass away in the depths of winter. She turned toward the former Calle del Sol, which merited its name that day. At home she closed her front door behind her, then sank down on the stairs and wept. She was unable to find the energy to do more.

She’d loved her brother. They’d often had their differences, and sometimes they’d gotten furious at one another, but that was what happened with people bound by deep affection. Everyone who knew Juan agreed he’d been a fine person, a good man. Of course, those who spoke of him that way hadn’t a clue about his other attributes, those which she knew all too well. Sometimes it wasn’t enough to be good; one had to be righteous, and her brother Juan hadn’t had the courage to mete out justice. He’d allowed his own good nature to contaminate him and turn him into a tame, indulgent plaster saint. He resolutely avoided confrontation at all costs in order to preserve a fictitious stability.

Juan hadn’t had it easy. Amaia’s prolonged silence had hurt him terribly. His favorite daughter was the sweet child who’d spent so many hours at the bakery watching him work. The child had often danced the “Emperor Waltz” with him, her little feet planted firmly on his shoes. She’d drawn bright-red rounded hearts for him, as all daughters who adore their aita should do.

Amaia hadn’t always been completely estranged. She’d written to him often in the early years of her exile, her childish letters full of scribbled hearts and declarations of love. Engrasi showed them to