Heather Buyce-Vasquez
Lucy, August 1940, Mexico City
No one takes any notice of the woman in the hallway. They walk past her their heads bent over papers or turned towards each other talking in rapid Spanish. She stands near a door in the bright hall just near a large window. It is late in the day and the rays of early evening are moving across the walls. She wears a long dark shawl over a knee-length plain brown dress. Her dark hair is covered and her eyes are lowered. She holds in her hands a small thin missile. One might think she is in prayer, so silent is her face and hands.
The room where he lies is near. The operation was not hopeful despite heroic efforts. He has lost too much blood and his body is still in shock. It is only a matter of time. She was too late. Or just in time truly. Her job is to be sure. Her job is to make sure by whatever means necessary.
Her heart beats a frantic pattern across her chest. There is a man outside the door in a dark suit coat and he nods without looking at her. Then she is inside the room. Security. Confirmation. Completion.
The room is empty except the for the man in the bed. And his eyes are closed. His face is slack and peaceful. There is a large thick bandage around his head, covering it. But he is alive. Still alive. She stands for a long time in silence unmoving next to the bed staring down at him. No one comes in. Gently she lets her fingers rest on his chest. The rise and fall is almost imperceptible. Long moments pass. She moves her hands along the thin tubes connecting man to machine. Her eyes follow the green patterns on the screen.
The shadows pass over the window and creep across the walls of the room. Still she does not move. There are voices in the hallway. They are raised. They are not English or Spanish but Russian.
The woman does not raise her head. There is a ticking of a clock somewhere to her left. She glances at it. Seven twenty-five in the evening. There is a long hiss of breath and the man’s chest expands and sinks once again under her hand.
The woman leaves out the same door she came in. The man in the suit is not there. No one is. The hallway is empty. She makes her way down it and turns a corner. A few more turns and she is nearing the exit. The doors loom before her lit up like salvation. She is through the doors and to the street in moments that drag like an eternity.
She takes great gulps of air. Frantically clawing at the shawl over her head and neck. She leans heavily against a nearby bench. An overwhelming feeling of pain and sadness almost brings her to her end. Her hands on the tubes. The empty hiss of life.
She raises her world weary head. She has seen too much. Feels too much. It was never going to be an easy end for her. Happiness is an illusion for such as her. She never really left her home. Its grim shadow followed her to America. Then sent her here, to this place, at this moment. The plan was never for her to escape. The guilt fills her. She is drowning in it.
It is then that she decides her next and final step.