Mexican Gothic(53)

“But what if Catalina took too much of the tincture?”

“An overdose? Yes, of course an overdose would be quite awful.

She might lose consciousness, she might vomit, but the thing is, Marta wouldn’t be able to procure an opium tincture.”

“What do you mean?”

Dr. Camarillo laced his hands together, his elbows resting on the desk. “It’s not the kind of medical care she provides. An opium tincture is a remedy you could find at a drugstore. Marta makes remedies using local herbs and plants. There are no poppies here with which to make a tincture.”

“Then you’re saying it must have been something else that caused her to be sick?”

“I can’t say with certainty.”

She frowned, unable to make heads or tails of this information.

She’d gone looking for an easy answer, but there was none. Nothing seemed to be easy here.

“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. Maybe I can look at your rash before you leave? Have you changed the bandage?” Dr. Camarillo asked.

“I haven’t. It has completely slipped my mind.”

She hadn’t even opened the little jar with the zinc paste. Julio took off the bandage, and Noemí expected to see the same raw, red skin. Perhaps it would look even worse than the last time. Instead, her wrist was completely healed. There was not a single bump blemishing her skin. It seemed to startle the doctor.

“Well, this is quite the surprise. Why, it’s vanished,” Dr. Camarillo said. “I don’t think I’ve seen such a thing before. Usually it takes seven or ten days, sometimes weeks, for the skin to clear. It’s barely been two days.”

“I must be lucky,” she ventured.

“Extremely,” he said. “What a thing. Do you need anything else?

If not, I can tell Marta you were looking for her.”

She thought about her odd dream and the second sleepwalking episode. Yet she didn’t feel the doctor would be able to assist her with that either. It was as he’d said: he wasn’t very useful at all. She was beginning to think Virgil had been right when he told her Camarillo was too young and inexperienced. Or maybe she was being grumpy.

She was most definitely tired. The anxiety of the previous day hit her suddenly.

“That would be an utter kindness,” she said.

—

Noemí had expected to return to her room without anyone noticing, but of course that was too much to ask. Not even an hour after Francis and Noemí had parked the car, Florence came looking for her. She had Noemí’s lunch tray with her, which she deposited on the table. She didn’t say anything unpleasant, but her face was fiercely sour. It was the face of a warden ready to squelch a riot.

“Virgil would like to speak with you,” she said. “I assume you can eat and be presentable in an hour?”

“Of course,” Noemí replied.

“Good. I’ll come to fetch you.”

She did indeed return in exactly one hour and proceeded to guide Noemí to Virgil’s room. When they stopped in front of his door, Florence knocked once, her knuckles so soft upon the wooden surface that Noemí thought he’d never hear them, but he spoke, loud and clear.

“Enter.”

Florence turned the doorknob and held the door open for Noemí.

Once the young woman stepped inside, Florence carefully closed the door again.

The first thing she noticed upon walking into Virgil’s room was an imposing painting of Howard Doyle, hands clasped together, an amber ring on his finger, staring down at her across the room.

Virgil’s bed was half hidden behind a three-fold painted screen depicting branches of lilacs and roses. The divider created a sitting area, with a faded rug and a pair of shabby leather chairs.

“You’ve gone to town again this morning,” Virgil said. His voice came from behind the divider. “Florence dislikes it when you do that.

Just off, without a word.”

She approached the painted screen. She noticed that among the flowers and the ferns there lay a snake. It was cleverly hidden, the eye peeking from behind a clump of roses. It lay in wait, like the snake in the garden of Eden.

“I thought driving alone into town was the issue,” Noemí replied.

“The roads are bad, and the rains will grow stronger any day now.

Torrential rains. The soil turns into a sea of mud. The rain flooded the mines the year I was born. We lost everything.”

“It does rain, I’ve noticed. And the road is not good. But the roads are not impassable.”

“They will be. There’s been a lull in the rain, but it will fall ferociously very soon. Fetch me the robe on the chair, please.”

She grabbed the heavy crimson robe that had been left on one of the chairs and walked back toward the wooden screen. She was startled to see Virgil hadn’t bothered putting on a shirt and stood there half naked and nonchalant. This was much too casual; it was frankly immodest, and she blushed in shame.

“How, then, will Dr. Cummins make his way here? He’s supposed to visit every week,” she said, averting her gaze quickly as she held out the robe. She tried to maintain a cool tone of voice despite the warmth on her cheeks. If he wanted to mortify her, he must try harder.

“He has a truck. Do you honestly think the cars we have are fit for driving constantly up and down the mountain?”