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The little girl is on the beach, at the water’s edge. She has built a wall of wet sand and given it the shape of the prow of a boat. She sits inside, gazing at the white waves. Her legs are stretched out in front of her. Her feet are wrinkled, as are her hands. The water advances. A wave attacks the prow from the left but the girl repairs it immediately and remains on her knees, one strap of her bathing suit falling from her shoulder, ready to respond quickly to the next attack. She knows that the sea will win the battle in the end and that the waves will wash away her ship of sand like a tongue licks away ice cream, but even so, she defends her small realm with tooth and claw. With her jaw firmly set.
When Nerea sees herself in the photograph from the beach, it brings back the smell of the summers she spent at the seaside as a child. She smells the cream her mother used to put on her, feels the slide of her mother’s hand putting it on her back. She remembers her father lying under the beach umbrella or walking along the water’s edge, while her mother lay in the hammock. Like today. Her mother is lying down today as well, right in front of her, but in a hospital bed, not a hammock. The old photo she brought to show her mother is in her purse, and she sits without moving in the white hospital chair, looking at her mother’s hands.
Her mother’s hands rest on top of the sheet. Without moving. As if made of stone. As if the blood in her veins had turned to stagnant water. Her hands cover the name of the hospital, as if she wanted to hide where she is. As if even in her sleep, she were trying not to worry anyone. Just as through the years she hid so many sighs and tears, drying them on her kitchen apron, Nerea’s mother is now trying to hide with her hands the wordhospitalprinted on the cloth. But through her fingers she has left part of the word visible.Tal. And Nerea smiles to read it, becausetalemeans ‘story’ in the language of her husband, and because it occurs to her that ever since her mother was admitted, she has been living in a sort of story. The smile freezes on Nerea’s lips then, as she gazes at her mother’s hands.
Her mother seems to have been living in a story ever since she was admitted. In her eyes one can see little girls playing on the school playground, and hear their shrieks and laughter. When she opens her eyes, she smiles at Xabier and Nerea, but she does not recognise her children. Nevertheless, she smiles at them, and this lightens the load of their sadness a little. Just a little.
Her mother has spent more than a week now between these blue and white sheets, and Nerea thinks if things don’t change much, they may well still be here at Christmas. She and her mother are now alone in the room. Her mother is asleep. She sleeps almost the whole day, like little children do. The bed by the window is empty and only coughs from nearby rooms break the silence. Nerea hears her own breath and her mother’s, in and out, and the sound of their breathing makes it impossible for her to concentrate on reading the magazines she brought, or look calmly at the pictures either. So she sits still, gazing at her mother’s hands. The veins in her hands look like highways full of curves.
These are hands that have sheltered, the way the nest in the branches shelters the bird. Her mother’s hand cupping her chin. This is how Nerea pictures her mother’s protection. Her mother’s hand on her chin in
