The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,28
hours.”
No, no! Anything but that!
“Auntie . . .”
“The cardiologist says he won’t hold out much longer. I am so very sorry, Amaia.”
She remembered staring up at her father from the hospital bed all those years ago and making that terrible pledge to him.
She didn’t know what to say. She looked down at the little shelf below the telephone, which clearly served as a writing surface. It was marked with dozens, maybe hundreds of scribbles from different pens. In the middle of the chaos, someone had sketched a heart, going over the lines so many times that it stood out from the tangle of random marks and designs that surrounded it. She traced the heart with one finger.
“Amaia. When you were twelve, I swore I’d always tell you the truth. I wish I could lie to you now, but I’m keeping my promise.” Engrasi’s firm voice broke a little. “Amaia, your father is dying. If you want to say goodbye, you have to come back now.”
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Elizondo
Amaia thought it was strange that Aunt Engrasi had sent her to bed so early. She was allowed to watch television after dinner—not too much TV, because Engrasi liked to read in the evening, and when Amaia’s bedtime came, she usually went to bed as well. So Amaia pretended to be sleeping when she heard the creak of the floorboard outside her room. The door opened just enough to throw a narrow band of white light across the dark wooden floor of her bedroom. That’s when someone rang the doorbell and Aunt Engrasi went to see who it was.
Amaia tiptoed across her room, carefully stepped over the squeaky spot in the hall, and went to the top of the stairs. Engrasi’s friends often came in the afternoon to visit and play cards, but no one had ever come to their home at this late hour. Engrasi opened the front door.
Amaia’s heart leaped with joy when she recognized her father’s voice. She was about to fling herself down the stairs and hug him, but his words stopped her cold.
“Your phone call really scared me. I came as soon as I could.”
“There are problems, Juan.” Her aunt’s voice was earnest. “It’s Amaia.”
The child held her breath, though those words stung her. Problems with her? She didn’t understand. She did her best to be a good girl, despite the constant harassment from other children. She waited until her father and aunt had gone into the living room and then she crept down the stairs. She sat in a dark corner and listened, her index finger tracing the fanciful design of the grain in the banister railing. It resembled a heart.
Her father’s voice was emphatic. “If you want to talk about sending her to school in Pamplona, I’ll refuse again. It’s hard enough for me that the girl can’t live at home. You know how much we have to do at the bakery, and if she transfers to Pamplona, I’ll never get to see her. As long as she’s here, at least I see her on her way to and from school.”
Amaia was about to turn twelve, and she was a superb student. They’d already had her skip two grades, and she would finish middle school that coming June. She didn’t want to go to the local high school. Her classmates already thought it bizarre for her to be finishing eighth grade when other kids her age were only in sixth. One of her teachers had told her about a boarding school in Pamplona, a place where kids even younger than her were doing advanced work. She wouldn’t stand out there. Amaia had come back home, pleased and hopeful, carrying a brochure for the school. The idea had disconcerted her aunt a bit at first, but, as always, Engrasi took her side, knowing how cruel the other pupils could be to her. Juan knew it too. He was extremely proud of his daughter, but he wouldn’t hear of Amaia going to school away from their town.
“School has nothing to do with it.” Engrasi’s voice was tense. She was worried. “I’m concerned about something a good deal more delicate.”
Juan waited, stubbornly wrapped in deep silence.
“A couple of weeks ago, I was helping Amaia comb out the tangles in her hair. I didn’t mean to, but I hurt her when I touched her scar.”
Her father held his breath. Crouching on the stairs, Amaia put up her right hand and probed the rough edges of the healed gash under her hair.