The Legacy of the Bones. Dolores Redondo
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though making a supreme effort to be reasonable and patient.
‘Yes, I know all about this modern parenting stuff – breastfeeding children until they grow teeth, having them sleep in your bed, dispensing with a nanny – but, son, you have to work too, your career is at a critical stage, and during the baby’s first year, you’ll scarcely have time to draw breath.’
‘I’ve just finished a forty-eight-piece collection for the exhibition at the Guggenheim next year, and I have enough works in reserve to enable me to devote myself to my daughter. Besides, Amaia isn’t always busy. Yes, she has periods of intense activity in her job, but she often comes home early.’
Amaia could feel her belly tense beneath her blouse, more painfully now. She breathed slowly, dissimulating as she glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes.
‘You look pale, Amaia, are you feeling OK?’
‘I’m tired. I think I’ll go home and lie down for a while.’
‘Good, Thomas and I are going shopping,’ announced Clarice, ‘otherwise you’ll be using vine leaves instead of baby blankets. Shall we meet back here for dinner?’
‘No,’ Amaia protested. ‘I’ll make something light at home, and try to rest. I was thinking of going shopping tomorrow; I found a store where they sell cute dresses.’
Clarice took the bait: the prospect of a shopping spree with her daughter-in-law instantly made her relax, and she beamed contentedly.
‘Oh, of course, my dear, we’ll have a wonderful time, you’ll see. I’ve seen so many gorgeous things since I came. You have a rest, dear,’ she said, making her way towards the exit.
Thomas stooped to give Amaia a peck before he left.
‘Well played,’ he whispered, winking at her.
Their house in Calle Mercaderes revealed none of its splendours from the outside: the tall ceilings, large windows, wood panelling, the wonderful mouldings that ornamented most of the rooms and the ground floor, which had once been an umbrella factory and where James now had his studio.
Amaia took a shower then stretched out on the sofa, pamphlet in one hand and watch in the other.
‘You look more tired today than usual. I noticed that during lunch you weren’t paying as much attention to my mother’s foolishness.’
Amaia grinned.
‘Is it because of something that happened at the courthouse? You mentioned that the trial had been adjourned, but you didn’t say why?’
‘Jasón Medina killed himself this morning in the courthouse toilets. It’ll be in all the papers tomorrow.’
‘Well,’ James shrugged. ‘I can’t say I’m sorry.’
‘Me neither. He’s no great loss, but I imagine the girl’s family must be a bit disappointed that he won’t be standing trial. On the other hand, they’ll be spared the ordeal of having to listen to all the gory details.’
James nodded thoughtfully.
Amaia considered telling him about the note Medina had left for her, but decided it would only upset him. She didn’t want to ruin this special moment by bringing that up.
‘But, yes, I am more tired today, and my mind is on other things.’
‘Such as?’ he asked.
‘At twelve thirty I started having contractions every twenty-five minutes. At first, they only lasted a few seconds, now they’re getting stronger and I’m having them every twelve minutes.’
‘Oh, Amaia, why didn’t you tell me before? Were you suffering all through lunch? Are they really painful?’
‘Not really,’ she said, smiling. ‘It’s more like an intense pressure, besides I didn’t want your mother going hysterical on me. I need a bit of calm now. I’ll rest and keep checking the frequency of the contractions. When I’m ready, we can go to the hospital.’
The skies above Pamplona were still overcast, and the distant twinkle of winter stars was barely visible.
James was asleep face down, sprawled over a larger area of the bed than he was entitled to, in that peaceful, relaxed way of his that Amaia had always envied. At first he had hesitated about going to bed at all, but she had persuaded him to rest while he could because she’d need him awake later on.
‘Are you sure you’ll be OK?’ he had insisted.
‘I’m sure, James. I only need to check the frequency of the contractions. When it’s time to go I’ll let you know.’
He had fallen asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow, and the house was silent save for his steady breathing and the soft rustle as she turned the pages of her book.
She broke off reading as she felt another contraction. Gasping, she clutched the arms of the rocking chair she’d been sitting in for the past hour, and waited for it to subside.
Frustrated, she put down the book without bothering to mark her page, realising that, although she’d read quite a lot, she hadn’t taken any of it in. In the past half-hour the contractions had grown more painful, almost making her cry out. Even so, she decided to wait a little longer. She leaned out of the window gazing down into the street, which was quite busy that Friday night, despite the cold, the occasional drizzle, and the fact that it was well past midnight.
She heard a noise in the hallway and went over to listen at the bedroom door.
It was her in-laws, returning after dinner and a stroll. She glanced at the soft glow coming from the reading lamp she had switched on and thought about turning it off, but there was no need; although Clarice meddled in virtually every area of their lives, she wouldn’t dare barge into their bedroom.
Continuing to check the increasing frequency of the contractions, she listened to the sounds in the house, to James’s parents going to bed, and how everything stopped, giving way to a silence troubled only by the creaks and whispers that inhabited the enormous building, as familiar to her as her own breath. She had nothing to worry about now; Thomas was a heavy sleeper, while Clarice took tablets every night, so she wouldn’t be awake before dawn.
The next contraction was truly terrible, and despite concentrating on breathing in and out the way she’d been taught in her prenatal classes, she felt as if she was wearing a steel corset that was squeezing her kidneys and lungs so tight it made her panic. What frightened her wasn’t so much giving birth, although she admitted feeling some trepidation about it, whilst being aware that this was perfectly normal. No, she knew that what frightened her was something far more profound and deep-seated, because this wasn’t the first time she had confronted fear. She had carried it around with her for years like an unwanted, invisible traveller that only appeared when she was at her lowest ebb.
Fear was an old vampire looming above her bed while she slept, hidden in the darkness, filling her dreams with terrifying shadows. Suddenly she remembered her grandmother Juanita’s word for it: gaueko: ‘the night visitor’. A visitor who retreated into the darkness whenever she succeeded in opening a breach in her own defences, a breach that let in the light of understanding, only to reveal the cruelty of the terrible events that had marked her life for ever, and which through sheer willpower she kept buried deep in her soul. The first step had been to comprehend, to identify the truth and to confront it. And yet, even in that instant of euphoria when she believed she had triumphed over her fear for the first time, she realised she hadn’t won the war, only a battle – a glorious one, but a battle all the same. From then on she had worked hard to keep that breach open, allowing the light that flooded in to strengthen her relationship with James, as well as the image of herself she had built up over the years. And as a postscript, this pregnancy, the little being growing inside her, brought her a feeling of serenity she could never before have imagined. Throughout her pregnancy she had felt amazing: no morning sickness, no discomfort, her sleep was restful and serene, free from nightmares or sudden jolts; she had so much energy during