I always had trouble packing or just picking things up and putting them somewhere else. I found it frustrating and tiring. Most likely the cause of this is my impatience. Now I move five times slower than normal, trying to delay time or make this whole trip go the least efficient way, as if I can escape the sermons that await me when it all comes out.
I'm emptying the bottom drawer of the dresser when a knock on the door reaches my ears.
May: Come in!
I hear a short roar and footsteps approaching. I pray it's not him. I am relieved to recognize my mother's voice.
Cathy: Are you ready?
May: Almost (I answer by throwing two clothes on the bed).
I look behind her, where the open door reflects a small portion of the empty hallway.
May: Where is Dad?
I ask with notable unease in my voice.
Cathy: He's down now.
I fold the last muscle and put it in my backpack. I don't know why I brought those kinds of shirts if it's unbearably cold in this place.
May: He sent you for me?
It's impossible for me not to think about it, which makes my nerves even more on edge.
Cathy: No, why would I do that?
May: Nothing, my nonsense (I close the zipper).
Cathy: Shall we?
May: Come on, now I'm going.
Cathy: Okay, but don't be late.
She says heading down the hall again and I follow her. As soon as I see her disappear, I close the door, lean my back on it and take my face with both hands, thinking what trouble I got myself just for wanting to help someone I cared about ... and I care. If this were up to me, I wouldn't even worry about my father's reaction or the scenes he will put together in a few minutes. But the problem is precisely that: this time it is not about me, but about Samuel, someone who means nothing to my father and can be eliminated from his field with just a snap of the fingers. It is not another of the typical fights that I usually have, now there is much more at stake and that is what terrifies me: having to take the blame for everything if he fires him. After all, nothing depends on me at this point. Whatever has to happen will happen.
I look at the jacket that lies on my bed and let out a sigh. I detach myself from the door, reaching over and taking the black leather garment, hanging it from my arm, while the backpack falls down my back. I go back to the door, opening it and I turn for the last time to look at that room illuminated by the circular lamp that hangs from the ceiling. I take a deep breath and bring my fingers to the light switch, leaving everything dark.
I'm not surprised that I don't pass anyone in the hallways, but when the same thing happens downstairs it already starts to look strange. I open the front door, allowing the cold winter breeze to slap me across the face and small snowflakes to descend on my shoulders. This is nice and you have to admit it.
As I take a few steps, I visualize the other family, chatting with each other, although it doesn't take long for me to see my parents as well, participating in the same conversation. They are all in front of the garage doors, wearing heavy and warm clothes. For my part, I am wearing the opposite: a soft white sweater, jeans and boots that are more decorative than functional. If it weren't for the leather jacket, I'd freeze alive.
I approach with slow, silent steps until I hide behind the edge of the nearest wall.
-... ten minutes ago I went up to his room and he said he was coming down. Wait a bit, don't be over the top.
- I'm not talking about May, I'm talking about Samuel. I left the car keys next to the bed and can't find them.
- And what does Samuel have to do with it?
- There he had to take May somewhere, but he did not tell where he left them.
- Call it.
- I already did, he doesn't answer.
- Do you want me to tell the maid to check the house or ...
I take a step forward, leaving my hiding place behind and my father's gaze collides with mine. It doesn't take long for Mom to pick up on that.
Cathy: There you are.
Tomás: Do you know anything about that boy? (Question with cell phone in hand, "attacking me").
May: Who? (I ask, pretending to be oblivious).
Tomás: Your bodyguard.
May (I shake my head): How am I going to know if I didn't even leave the house?
Oliver: How weird you don't know. You have a nice relationship with him from what I saw.
My father's face tightens and he looks at him confused. He doesn't say anything else, just walks over to the wall that surrounds the garage doors and opens the little window, pressing the button. The doors creak open, revealing the absence of the black vehicle.