The next morning arrived with the sound of bells calling to seven o'clock mass. Mercedes helped sweep the patio and wash the breakfast dishes. She felt useful. She felt like a person. But her eyes never left the parish office landline, an old beige phone sitting on Sister Clara's desk.
The hours dragged on, thick as honey. 9:00 AM. Nothing. 10:30 AM. Only a woman called, asking about baptism times. Mercedes felt anxiety gnawing at her stomach. “It was a dream ,” she told herself. “I’m crazy. No one’s going to call me. Don Esteban died months ago, why would he remember me? ”
11:45 AM. Mercedes sat in a plastic chair, her hands clasped, praying silently. Doubt was beginning to win. The devil of despair whispered to her that she'd be better off going to find cardboard to sleep on in the street.
And then, at 11:52 AM, the phone rang. The shrill ring made Mercedes jump in her seat. Sister Clara answered in her sing-song voice. "Our Lady of Mount Carmel Parish, good morning..." She paused for a long time and frowned. "Who's calling?... Yes, there's a lady here who arrived yesterday... Let me see you."
The nun covered the speaker with her hand and stared at Mercedes, her eyes wide. "Mrs. Mercedes... this is for you. It's a law firm in Polanco."
