Chapter 15 - THE NINTH DAY, AGAIN
When Isabela returned, Helena was at the kitchen table.
No nurses stood over her. No tray waited beside her bed. In front of her sat a cup of coffee and two slices of toast she had made with the cook’s help.
“You frightened everybody,” Isabela said.
“I know.” Helena pushed out the chair beside her. “Sit down.”
Isabela sat.
Helena handed her a small tin. Inside were buttons, a silver thimble, and a letter worn soft at the folds.
“Your mother gave me this before Augusto sent her away,” Helena said. “I kept thinking I should return it. Then I kept waiting for a day when I could explain myself.”
Isabela unfolded the letter.
Marisa had written about a little girl who sang while she learned to tie her shoes. She wrote that Isabela liked mangoes, hated thunder, and always asked to help when someone was sad.
She didn’t know yet that Isabela would grow into a woman brave enough to walk into the Montenegro house. She simply wrote what she wanted Helena to remember.
Please don’t let anyone tell her she was unwanted. Teresa loved her. I love her. That will always be true.
Isabela covered her face. Helena let her cry without touching her.
Later, Dante joined them. He had spoken to the authorities, the attorney, and the company board. Vicente’s control over the accounts was ending. Recovering the money would take longer. Dante said he would make sure Isabela had the records and her own lawyer for every step.
“I don’t know what to call you,” he admitted.
“Isabela is fine.”
“I meant to me.”
She looked at him. “You called me your sister yesterday.”
“I did.”
“We can start there.”
Weeks passed. Carla was found and questioned. The investigation into Vicente’s finances continued. Helena worked with a new doctor, and her strength returned slowly. Some memories remained uncertain, so she wrote down what she wanted to remember and asked people to read it back to her.
Isabela left her job at the mansion. She rented a small studio and began sewing again, using Marisa’s old machine. She visited Helena on Sundays because she chose to, and because Helena finally knew how to say she was sorry without asking for an answer.
One afternoon, Dante found the two of them in the kitchen arguing over a pot of soup.
“It needs salt,” Helena said.
“It needs a new cook,” Isabela replied.
Helena laughed and took a spoonful anyway.
Dante stayed in the doorway, watching. Isabela caught his eye.
“What?” she asked.
He shook his head. “The first night you sat with her, I thought you had some secret way of getting through.”
“I did.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
Isabela pulled out a chair for him.
May you like
“I stayed,” she said.
Dante sat down. Helena handed him a spoon. And this time, when the three of them ate together, no one watched from a screen.
