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You watch her often. She has noticed, obviously, but never comments on it. Simply carries on with whatever task it is she's doing at that moment; right now, she carries on with the disorganized kitchen ritual she calls cooking. One hand reaches for the frying pan to shuffle the potatoes while the other reaches for her phone. She wipes remainders of olive oil from her pointer finger with a kitchen towel before that same finger finds the home button of her iPhone. You watch her face light up, glowing in blue light, as it unlocks. Her blonde hair is tied up in a bun, because the length of it has been annoying her lately. You like it better when she wears it down.
You never tell her.
You continue watching her from the familiar spot on the chair next to the tiny kitchen table. A tiny kitchen table in a tiny living space in a tiny van. This has become your home now. The tiny van has replaced the cold metal building called prison, where you spent a significant part of your life, continuously trying to figure out how to escape. Every time an inmate got to leave, every time another yellow suit got replaced by normal clothes and every time another person you spent living alongside for years walked out those doors, was fuel. Fuel to the little fire that had been burning inside of you from day one, a fire that could only be put out once you’d be able to look at the sky without bars obstructing your view, once you could wake up at 10am to the sound of birds singing instead of at 7am to the sound of a loud alarm ringing. However, that burning fire inside of you died the same day your daughter did, suddenly and unexpected and right in front of you on the concrete floor of that fucking prison.
Macarena was the first and only person to light the fire inside of you again. She got out before you did; you vividly remember the day she walked out of the prison, leaving you to yourself and without any reason to get up in the mornings. The long lost fire started burning again because you suddenly need to get out, needed to see her.
Most of all, you needed to make sure that she wouldn't forget you.
When she left, you spent day and night trying to figure out how to escape. The tactic you used before wasn't quite successful in the long run, so you changed it a little. A lot. Whatever. The important part is that it worked. You don't like to admit that you collaborated with the police multiple times, but at least you got out. And now, here you are.
You're watching your rubia - yours, because who else would she belong to? - as she cooks dinner for the both of you.
You watch her. Then, you notice.
She rolls her shoulders, uncomfortably, before one hand slowly goes up towards her head. The other hand joins quickly and her slim fingers find the skin of her temples, rubbing gently while she closes her eyes.
You think nothing of it. At first.
Then, one hand comes down and wraps around the edge of the counter. Knuckles turn white as you watch your blonde counterpart hold onto the piece of furniture and wobble a little, seemingly unsteady on her feet.
"What are you doing?" you ask. The tone of your voice is too harsh for your liking. It almost sounds like you're mocking her. You wanted it to sound more.... what? Gentle? No. Zulema Zahir doesn't do gentle.
"I'm a little dizzy," she answers. Her other hand comes down as well, steadying her body some more. "It'll pass. I probably just need some food."
You shrug. Okay. A dizzy spell, that happens to everyone. So you think nothing of it.
You notice the same thing three days later, when you’re sitting outside in the sun after having done this week’s groceries. Macarena is hanging the freshly washed laundry up to dry. She reaches for a t-shirt and gently drapes it over the line the two of you spun in between wooden poles. She bends down and reaches for another one, but then suddenly stops. Shirt in her hands, you catch her looking at the line with laundry like it’s a foreign object, like it’s something she’s never seen before in her life. You watch her hesitate, look down at her hands, and up at the line again. Suddenly, recognition flickers in her eyes and she continues hanging the laundry, exactly like she did before, without a second thought.
You still think nothing of it, although there's a little voice in the back of your head telling you that something is off. That voice has never been wrong, but you push it away for your own sake. Macarena is fine.
Until she comes home one day, teary-eyed and distraught. You don't bother asking her what happened or where she’s been for the past five hours. If Macarena wants to talk, she will do so. There's no stopping her, you have learned from years of first-hand experience.
She tries to hide her emotions at first. Maybe you rubbed off on her during the time you've been together by never talking about your own. She tries to hide her smudged mascara by disappearing into the bathroom that looks more like a hallway closet and fixes her makeup it in the mirror. You notice anyway. You're not stupid.
She tells you the next morning over breakfast. Or you’re having breakfast, rather, she’s just staring at her toast with scrambled eggs and not saying much. Your fork is already halfway to your mouth when five words interrupt your eating and your hand freezes mid-air when she confesses.
"I have a brain tumor."
It's the way she says it. Emotionless. Lifeless, like she has somehow already made peace with the fact that she's dying. Her behavior is completely different from that of the Macarena who entered the van yesterday.
You don’t expect it to affect you as much as it does, but you have to actively tighten the muscles in your hand to make sure you don’t drop your fork. When she lowers her eyes, you raise yours, and suddenly find yourself trying to memorize every inch of her before it's too late. As if you don’t have her memorized for the rest of your life already.
“They don’t think it can be treated. It’s too complex, too rare. There’s no medication for it.”
You know you should offer comfort right now. You know what that looks like, you understand the concept. It's just that, this is not simply anyone. This is Macarena.
“I’m dying, Zulema.”
It’s how she says your name. Delicate, spilling over her lips as if she’s been doing it her entire life. Maybe she has, in a way, because the last few years you’ve spent at each other’s side surely felt like a lifetime.
You want to tell her she’s not dying. She’s Macarena. She can’t die.
There’s too many things you haven’t told her yet.
Because the tone of her voice doesn’t allow you to decipher how she’s feeling, you focus on her eyes. Those light green orbs are much more expressive than those of anyone else you know. They’ve always been. They told you, probably before she even realized it herself, that she was in love with you. Completely shit at hiding it she was, that’s obvious. She still is.
Macarena.
When she entered the prison you’d already been in for years, she was an innocent girl who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Or at least, that’s what she said. You didn’t believe a single word of it. Macarena was never innocent. Okay, maybe they made a mistake and maybe she shouldn’t have had to pay for what her boss did to her, but she held more strength and fight inside of her small body than she wanted others to believe. Maybe she didn't believe it herself either.
Too bad it took a stay in prison to get her to realize all of that, because you already knew. You could see it in her eyes, the light green ones that were staring directly at you when she told you, right in your face, that the governanta knew that it was you who killed Yolanda because she told her. You could see it in her eyes, when she injected air into your veins and didn’t seem to care at all, like una autentica hija de puta. Until you told her to run, puta, because once you found her, you promised you’d kill her. The realization that she might have gone too far hit her right then and there. Because deep down, Macarena isn’t a bad person, not at all. You could read that in her eyes, too.
Her eyes now don’t tell you much, surprisingly. You only notice how much this is affecting her when your own deep green ones fall onto her hands, clasped together, sitting in her lap. They're trembling.
"The doctor told me what's going to happen. What’s going to happen to my body, to my mind. And I don't–," her voice finally starts to shake as her façade crumbles, "I don't want that. I don't want to wait that long."
“What do you mean?” you ask. You have a feeling you already know the answer, but as long as she doesn’t say the words out loud, you can pretend.
She doesn’t directly say what she means, but the outcome is the same.
“I would rather die of a bullet than of this disease.”
Grief tugs at your heartstrings. Your rubia is still here, right in front of you, but you already feel lost to her.
“So you’re going to kill yourself?” You sound harsh again. As if you’re judging her for that decision.
“No,” she manages to chuckle in between her tears. “Not like that. I don’t think I’m capable of that. But remember that heist we wanted to do months ago but couldn’t, because it was too dangerous?”
You don’t like where this is going. You nod either way.
“That’s what I’m going to do. Dangerous things. And if I get shot … then so be it.”
A very specific image flashes before your eyes and you quickly push it away again.
“Getting shot hurts like a bitch,” you counter.
“Losing yourself hurts more,” she argues.
You can’t find an answer to that.
She gets up from the table, leaving her toast, morning tea and most importantly, you, behind as she heads outside.
You decide then and there that you’re not letting her go this easily. You always said you needed her alive so you could kill her yourself one day, but now you’re realizing something else.
You just need her alive.
That’s all.
You call people you haven't spoken to in years. Decades, maybe. Doctors, surgeons, all kinds of medical specialists who collaborated with you whenever you had another dangerous escape planned and needed medical assistance in case something went wrong.
You never needed them.
You're desperate for them now.
Everyone tells you no. They tell you it's impossible, this simply can't be treated. Tell you to make peace with it. You don't and you never will. Not when it's Macarena's life you're talking about here.
After countless calls - you lost track somewhere around number 25 - an old friend of yours finally says something promising.
"I've been working on this new medicine. It's not supposed to completely eliminate the tumor, but it should make it small enough so it's operable."
"I'll take it." The words leave your mouth faster than you can think about them. "How much?"
"Zulema...," he hesitates. "This is an unofficial medicine. We've only just started to develop it, it hasn't even been approved by the medical board. It could be dangerous."
"Dangerous how?" Now you're hesitating too. Something you loved to do, putting your rubia in danger, seems appalling to you now.
"The side effects," he answers. "Treating tumors is dangerous in itself, but when it's a tumor in the brain, there are a thousand things that can go wrong."
“Define wrong.”
“We don’t know. Physical side-effects might occur, but cognitive and behavioral changes can’t be excluded either. Someone’s character could change, they could become an entirely different person. We simply don’t know.”
You’ll take it. Macarena is already the most annoying person you’ve ever met, it can’t become much worse than that. And if she gets sick, well… you’ll make her a cup of tea. Or something.
Anything, really.
For her.
It’s only when you pick up the plastic bag with strips of pills that you realize you have a difficult decision to make. Not that anything has ever been easy with Macarena. You either need to tell her about the pills, or you will have to sneak them into her dinner every night. You already know the last thing is impossible and it’s her life, after all, so you should at least give her the chance to decide.
Although you know a piece of you will die with her, if she does.
“Catch.”
Macarena turns around just in time to prepare herself for a package flying at her head. You threw it. She catches.
“What is this?”
You were prepared for the question, but hadn’t yet thought of an answer.
“Medicine,” you simply reply. “For your thing.”
You don’t name it, because it hurts too much.
She frowns, confused. Inspects the package first and looks at you second.
“But they said it couldn’t be treated.”
“I made some calls.”
She doesn’t trust you. It’s visible on her face and really, you can’t blame her, because you’ve never given her a reason to trust you.
“Is it safe? What is this?” she asks.
You decide to sit down on the edge of the bed you share. She remains standing up. Would it be possible that your grief is heavier than hers?
“Vale, Maca, escúchame bien,” you start. She listens, because she rarely sees you this serious. “It’s not an official medicine yet. They’re still developing and testing. The side-effects are unknown, but the first results show that this can shrink your tumor to an operable size.”
Although she visibly appreciates the explanation, she still doesn’t completely trust it.
“You’re sure this isn’t some kind of twisted attempt to kill me?”
“You're already dying. I’m trying to save you.”
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them and it paralyzes you both because you know. Coming from you, this is as close to a love confession as you’ll ever get.
You eventually lower your eyes and she turns away.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t take too long,” you answer.
Time is a luxury in her situation. Every second she takes to think, is another second, another chance for the tumor to grow. To destroy the unique parts of her, to make her lose herself. She doesn’t have time to think.
When she swallows the very first pill, it feels like a victory on your part. As if she’s showing you that yes, she trusts you. You watch her chase it with water and then, she simply continues her dinner as if nothing happened.
Day two passes without any major concerns. Day three, four and five are fine too. On day six, Macarena makes one odd comment, but you think nothing of it.
Eventually, it turns out that your friend was right. Macarena changes.
She goes from an active, social butterfly to a quiet shell of a person, who often sits on the roof of the van to look at the sky. You join her but don’t say anything, because she won’t answer anyway. She doesn’t sing in the shower anymore, doesn’t mumble to herself when she’s cooking, doesn’t dance to a song on the radio. You wonder if you’re losing her quicker to the pills she’s taking than you are to the disease growing in her head.
However, her body still looks for you in her sleep, and it gives you an odd sense of comfort to know that she hasn’t forgotten about you yet.
The pills seem to do their work, though. During another checkup at the hospital, the doctors inform her that the tumor seems to be decreasing in size, and that they might be able to eventually perform surgery on her if it continues like this. She comes home and uncharacteristically throws her arms around you, almost knocking you off her feet with the force of her hug.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you so much, Zulema.”
You’re too distracted by the smell of her perfume and her chin resting on your shoulder that you don’t even answer.
It’s not until she pulls back to look into your eyes that you notice the long-lost sparkle is back. Her gaze used to be dull, unexpressive, tired. Now, there’s a glimmer of hope shining in them. There’s also something else, but you don’t name it. You spend so much time looking into her eyes that you don’t notice her arms sliding down to rest on your waist. You are not used to this closeness, except for in bed and in the darkness, where you feel a lot safer than exposed out here in the kitchen in broad daylight. So, you step back.
“You’re welcome.”
No mocking, no harsh tones. Just a genuine response, for once.
She smiles. Your heart flutters.
You know you’re in trouble.
The night before her surgery, you don’t sleep at all. You fixate your eyes on the dark blue and purple painted ceiling of your van and try not to think about the fact that Macarena will be lying on a surgery table tomorrow while doctors try to remove the thing in her brain that made her this way. The thing that’s slowly killing her.
Your rubia mumbles something incoherent and rolls over, before sliding an arm over your stomach. You weren’t prepared for the sudden movement and you tense up; she doesn’t realize, simply keeps sleeping with her body now pressed against you, and warmth spreads through your body like wildfire at the contact.
You wonder what will happen next. Will you lose her? Will she live and return to her normal self again? Will you be able to keep her, hold her close and fall asleep next to her like you’re doing right now?
She mumbles again. You roll your head to the side a little, until your cheek rests on her messy hair and you finally close your eyes.
But you don’t sleep.
The wait takes forever. Not that you’ve ever been a very patient person, but this is just excruciating. The doctors told you to wait at home, they would give you a call once Macarena got out of surgery so you could come back to the hospital. The surgery itself could take multiple hours, they said. You didn’t care.
You would wait.
After three trips to the cafetaria for a strong cup of coffee, your hands are shaking and you don’t feel like yourself anymore. With every minute that passes, you’re more and more convinced that something must’ve gone wrong.
Five hours and seven minutes after the doctors left you to yourself in the waiting room, one of them returns.
“Family of Macarena Ferreiro?”
You stand up.
“Yes.”
You’re not biological family, of course. However, she’s your rubia.
“The operation has been a success. The tumor has been removed, although we need to wait for her to wake up to see how she’s doing. There’s no need to worry anymore though, the most difficult part is over now.”
You feel like you could cry.
“Can I see her?”
You sound so uncharacteristically soft and concerned. You couldn’t care less.
“Yes. Follow me, please.”
Macarena still has her eyes closed when you enter the recovery room. A tube in her arm feeds her extra fluids and a machine next to her head beeps steadily, keeping track of her heartbeat. Her face is as white as the sheets that cover her body, and it tugs at your heartstrings to see her like this.
You grab a chair and go to sit next to her bed. Although you’re itching to reach out for her, you keep your hands to yourself. After a few minutes, her eyelids flutter. She shifts uncomfortably and finally, you’re greeted with familiar green eyes. You watch as she focuses on you, but doesn’t seem to recognize your face. Her eyes dart away, scanning the environment, before they settle on you again. Recognition flickers now.
“Hey,” you say, lacking creativity to think of something else right now. “You’re back.”
“Where am I?”
Her voice sounds hoarse.
“The hospital,” you offer. Doesn't she remember? “They just finished your surgery.”
She looks at you with a frown.
You wonder if this is normal.
It’s then that a doctor comes in and notices she’s awake. He starts checking her blood pressure and heart rate and asks her some questions, while he tells an assistant to start arranging a bed on a normal ward.
“Name?”
“Macarena. Ferreiro,” she adds. That she remembers.
“Date of birth?”
She looks at you for help.
You tell the doctor her date of birth - you only know it because you forgot her birthday once and you’ll never do that again - and then ask him if this is normal.
“Yes, it’s completely normal,” he answers. “Give her a few hours and she'll be better. It's a combination of stress, the surgery and the sedation drugs we’ve given her. She will be fine.”
You nod in response. If he says so. His assistant walks in and tells him they have a place for her on ward 3, bed 7. He gives permission to move her by signing a form and looks at Macarena first before his eyes settle on you.
“We unfortunately don’t have beds for family available. You can come back tomorrow, if you want. Visiting hours start at 10am.”
You shake your head.
“I’m staying.”
His eyes tell you that he wasn't expecting that response.
“You won’t be able to sleep anywhere.”
“If you could just get me a chair, I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
So, that’s where you end up. On ward 3, next to bed number 7, in a plastic chair that’s uncomfortable as hell. Macarena has fallen asleep already and you don’t blame her, because today has been exhausting.
You slouch in the chair and cross your arms over each other, before you close your eyes. You’re so tired from having been up all night last night, that you’re pretty sure it doesn’t matter where you sleep right now, as long as you just sleep. Somewhere.
You keep dozing off for ten minutes at a time, but then someone’s machine beeps or a light flickers on or a doctor comes by because someone has pressed their alarm button.
You have just closed your eyes again for what must be the tenth time, when Macarena starts to talk in her sleep.
“Zulema,” she mumbles. It’s soft, but noticeable.
You’re immediately wide awake and turn your head towards her, looking for any signs that she’s woken up. However, your blonde turns out to be fast asleep, still. You’re just about to close your eyes once more when she does it again.
“Zulema.”
A little louder than the first whisper, and also a little more desperate. Like a child who can't find his mother in the supermarket, like a frightened bird who has lost the flock.
You turn towards her and debate whether taking her hand in yours will calm her down or wake her up. Maybe both, but you really don’t want her to open her eyes to the image of you holding her hand. It would mean too much. Not that she doesn’t already know you’re in love with her. Like her eyes told you she loved you, your eyes have undoubtedly told her, too.
So, when she says your name for the third time and shifts uncomfortably in her sleep, you do what you’ve been wanting to. You slip your cold hand into her warm one and your other one comes up to rest on her clammy forehead, wiping some strands of hair out of her face.
“Shh. Estoy aquí,” you whisper.
She stops moving immediately. Her body remains completely still, like she’s unconsciously waiting for more.
“I’m here,” you repeat. “I'm right here.”
You know the next couple of weeks are going to be difficult. Google told you that during the first weeks after a brain surgery, a patient can still suffer from memory loss and concentration problems.
It doesn’t matter. The two of you will get through this, like you’ve gotten through everything in life so far. You've gotten through massive fights, lots of yelling, attempts to kill one another in prison, to this. There have been bumps in the road, a lot of them, but you're here now. All that matters is that she's still here, alive and breathing, with you.
You wouldn’t have it any other way.