CHAPTER 32

MI tell them both politely outside the room that I want to go in alone.

They protest and stall, but I stand firmly rooted.

I won't let these thieves take away from my reunion.

I want to see Brisa without them.

I want to spare her the tension.

I want to spare her all of the ugliness that surrounds our relationship.

They finally agree when I swear I won't budge.

Mr.

Miramontes, Alberto, call me Beto , tells me sharply, not to speak of our separation or the manner in which she left us.

I already know they are the same damn couple.

I have Brisa's blood running through my veins, blood from our mother as well as from our father.

Rage is on a simmer just under my skin.

The only thing that saves him from an over-boil is my knowledge of how Brisa would have fared had she not been taken away.

I hate to admit that she was better off without us.

She did better with them.

The hospital room is private.

It's got more flower arrangements than a flower shop and enough balloons and cards to fill every surface.

I pull down the surgical mask and move slowly toward her.

Her eyes are open, and she smiles shyly at me.

She's pale and too thin, and I feel ferociously protective of her.

"Moisés," she mouths.

But what comes out is barely a whisper.

I take the chair at her side and pull her frail hand into mine.

I lean forward and into her until my forehead touches the back of her hand.

"Brisa," I say.

But it comes out as a choked sob.

Her brows shoot up in surprise but then her face is overcome with a grin.

Of course.

She doesn't know that name.

"Ana María," I say.

"We called you Brisa."

I want to cry and let it all out.

But I won't let myself break down in front of her.

She deserves my control.

This is about her survival not my grief from losing her the first time.

"Call me what you like.

Thank you for coming," she says, her face again brightening.

She blossoms through her sickness with another infectious smile.

She takes my hand and holds it in hers.

I can remember the smell of her skin.

Holding her tiny body in my arms when it was shaking with hunger, holding her for hours until she was red and blotchy from crying.

I remember kissing the crown of her head, whispering that mom was coming, that we'd both soon be fed.

The great wash of relief when she'd exhaust herself and give in to sleep, her tiny head nuzzling into the crook of my arm.

I remember being protective of her to the point of viciousness, even protecting her from our own mother when necessary.

More than anything else I remember how much it hurt when they took her, how my arms that used to ache from holding her could ache so much without her.

How the weight of a sinking heart is impossible for a six-yearold to bear.

How I had to drink her milk while she was being forced into the arms of another mother.

Probably crying for the same milk while I consumed it.

My mother's milk, a poisonous and guilt-ridden, but necessary elixir.

"I've missed you everyday," I say with tears pouring down my face.

I haven't cried this hard since the day she was taken away.

She wipes at my tears with the tips of her fingers.

Her pointer finger dips and catches the bridge of my nose.

She runs her fingertip up and down it, smiling through her own tears.

"Look, Moisés, we have the same nose."

"And the same kidneys," I say, trying to make a joke.

But she looks at me gravely and takes a deep breath.

"You don't have to do it."

"Of course I do.

You're my sister."

This prompts a hug.

She sits up and moves toward me fast even though I can tell she's weak.

She throws her arms around my neck and squeezes me tight.

"I love you, Moisés.

Thank you for saving me."

I'm overwhelmed by the moment.

This is Brisa, alive and breathing and all grown up into a real person.

The child I held onto with everything I had, trying to protect her.

If I can save her now, I can love her again.

I've been missing a piece for the last fifteen years.

Maybe by taking a part of myself and giving it to her, I'll be able to finally feel like a complete person.

I watch her fall asleep like I did when we were young.

Once sleep takes hold, she releases my hand.

I stare at her hands in silence remembering how fierce her grip was when she was tiny.

A nurse comes in and tells me they're waiting.

It's already hard to leave her again.

The doctors put me through a battery of tests to see if I'm fit for surgery.

When I'm finally cleared and the procedure is scheduled for morning, I make my way to the waiting room to find Lana.

She's curled in a ball, her knees pulled to her chest.

A book lies beside her, and she appears to be sleeping.

Love surges in me and makes my feet feel heavy.

My love for Lana is a churning ocean, the undertow that drives me in deeper the more I try to resist it.

I put my hand on her shoulder, and her head pops up, her eyes blinking open searching my face.

She's got two red blotches on her cheeks from where they met with her knees.

She's still wearing my ring.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Everything okay?" she asks me.

"Yeah.

Everything is perfect."