Pau’s unsuccessfully trying to
fit himself in a hospital bench once again in a waiting room, resting his head on one of the armrests and legs on the other. His own lanky limbs disturb him, regularly slipping off the seat. He can feel nothing but a persistently worsening splitting headache, staring blankly at a bit timeworn white tiled floor.
He’s never felt more helpless, watching his only native person in the whole world bedridden in a hospital hundreds of miles away from home, slowly but surely dying. High walls, painted in faceless gray, are pressing on him with monotony. Somebody decided it would be a good idea to decorate these corridors with Van Gogh replicas, but Pau’s too exhausted to deal with depression other than his own, so he turns out to the tiny latticed windows.
Mr. Garza,” the nurse calls out few minutes later, making him suddenly drawn with fear. She invites him in and leaves. Grandma’s unable to even notice him at first, so he sits just near the bed, taking her thin veined hand carefully.
“Pauliño,” she’s hardly whispering then. “Mi querido.”
“Sí, abuela, estoy aquí,” they’re sitting quietly for a while, when her smile finally starts to faint. She loses the grip on his palms and takes her last, throaty and heavy breath, leaving Pau with no reason to fight anymore.
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