The operating theater was no longer a place of healing; it felt like a tomb. Dr. Ramirez, usually a man of stoic professionalism, had gone completely white. He looked at the glass partition where Fernanda stood. She had stopped pounding. Her hands were slid down the glass, her face a mask of caught-out rage.
“Liars!” Mario screamed, his voice cracking as he stood by my side. “They were going to sell Grandma! They were going to sell her pieces!”
“Security!” Dr. Ramirez shouted, his voice booming. “Lock down this floor! Call the police. Now!”
The room erupted into chaos. Nurses scrambled—not to prepare for surgery, but to protect the scene. I felt the restraints on my arms—the ones meant to keep me still during the procedure—and suddenly they felt like shackles.
“Get me up,” I whispered. My voice was a ghost of itself. “Get me up!”
“Carmen, stay still, the sedative—”
“GET ME UP!” I roared, the strength of a thousand tamale-selling mornings surging through my veins.
I ripped the IV from my arm, ignoring the sting and the trickle of blood. I rolled off the gurney, my legs wobbling like jelly, but Mario caught me. My brave, beautiful grandson held my waist, acting as my crutch. Together, we moved toward the door.
Through the glass, I saw Fernanda’s father try to run toward the elevators, but two hospital security guards tackled him to the polished floor. Fernanda didn’t run. She stood there, staring at me with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. When the doors to the O.R. hissed open, I didn’t head for the exit. I headed for Room 407.
“Carmen, wait!” Dr. Ramirez called out, but he didn’t stop me. He followed, perhaps to ensure I didn’t collapse, or perhaps because he needed to see the end of this betrayal himself.
I pushed open the door to my son’s room.
Luis was sitting up in bed. He had a glass of water in his hand and was looking at a sports magazine. He didn’t look like a dying man. He looked like a man on vacation. When he saw me—standing there in my hospital gown, hair disheveled, blood spotting my arm, flanked by his son and the lead surgeon—the glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.
“Mom?” he stammered. “What… why aren’t you in surgery? Is everything okay?”
I walked to the edge of his bed. I didn’t cry. The tears had dried up the moment I heard his voice on that recording.
“The kidney was for a buyer in Switzerland, Luis?” I asked.
