It had been a couple of years since Mireya last visited her father’s homeland. Ever since her mother died, she had immersed herself in work. But this time it was work that took her back to the Dominican Republic.
And as soon as she arrived, she felt the sweet, stinging pain of nostalgia, and she had spent the first day driving about Santiago; walking through the Estadio Cibao where her father Domingo often took her to cheer the local baseball team, the Aguilas Cibaeñas, during the Winter Baseball League; tasting the juicy and tender meat of suckling pig at the "lechonera" of her cousin Yomar (which he inherited from his father, cousin to Mireya's own), and offering a prayer to the Virgen de la Altagracia at the chapel dedicated to her within the city. But the summer sun of the Caribbean was like a balm to her, as she could put away her heavy clothes and jackets and wear lighter clothing – such as, for example, the combination gray blouse and denim jeans she wore for the trip, which accented her voluptuous figure. She had chosen it for comfort, but it was undeniable that, with the low-cut V-neck that showed her cleavage, the tightness of her jeans hugging her legs and calves, and the way she tied her hair into a ponytail (to bask in the summer breeze) caught many a man’s attention. As a teenager, she was used to the creative catcalling of the Dominican macho, though it was often bothersome. A wink and a smile were enough, in her opinion, to reward the ones she found endearing; the ones she didn’t received cold indifference or a loud retort, and if the caller went too far, anything from a slap to a swift knee to the family jewels made the message loud and clear.
One thing was for certain, however. She wasn’t looking for a man, and politely declined even the nicer approaches. How to explain her line of work, after all? She had witnessed how her mother’s work affected her parents’ relationship, and how only the devotion of a good man kept it alive, right until the moment of her death.
Today, she was making a trip to her father’s hometown, San Jose de las Matas. But though she had relatives there as well – her great-aunt Jacinta, her oldest aunt Domitila and some of her youngest cousins – her main purpose was to pay a specific visit to a specific place.
The Instituto Bioético Dra. Maribella Aristizábal.
It crowned a hill overlooking the town, at the end of a long, winding private road; a white stone and marble residence turned private clinic, resting amid emerald-green lawns and crowded about by palmettos and paradise trees. Mireya's mother - a Cuban exile looking to repay the kindness of the Dominican people who had taken her in - had with help from the Stellae purchased a modernized Colonial-style mansion from an impoverished hacendado and turned it into a free clinic for the people of San Jose de las Matas and nearby towns. Over several years she had expanded the original edifice to accommodate an impromptu hospital and research institute, and staffed it with skilled researchers, including several Cuban doctors who had defected from the Castro regime. It was her mother’s vision that the Institute provide anyone, from the needy to the wealthy, with the best medical attention in the world, no matter the condition.
Including those with a supernatural cause.
True, its attention not only to modern medicine but to holistic, folk, and other non-traditional practices had given the Institute a reputation for eccentricity, but few debated the results, and hospitals from around the world regularly referred their worst and most recalcitrant cases to the Institute.
"Ah, el Instituto," her taxi driver said when she gave him the address. "Si no fuera por la doctora Aristizábal, mi hermano se hubiese muerto."
"¿En serio? Y si se puede saber el por qué."
The driver squinted at her in the rearview mirror, and told her how his younger brother, then aged eight, had suffered from a condition almost like cholera, but which the doctors couldn’t cure. On their advice, his parents took the boy to the Institute, and in a matter of days, he was back to full health. Though they were willing to pay anything, Dr. Aristizabal waived all payment, claiming it was merely a misdiagnosed ailment.
Mireya listened to the story in silence. It was very similar to a story her mother had told her, about a boy cursed with an apparently incurable illness by a vengeful water-spirit. It had taken her a few days of work, including paying a visit to the source of the spirit and a ritual to appease it, but she had saved the kid. Could it have been this man’s brother that her? Possibly. But such stories, unfortunately, had not been a rarity for Dr. Aristizábal.
The driver continued to give her an amused smile in the rearview mirror when he had finished his story. "Óigame," the said, "usted se parece mucho a la difunta Dra. Aristizábal."
"Si," replied Mireya, blushing. "Ella era mi madre."
The driver made the sign of the cross. "Santa Virgen de la Altagracia, ¡que casualidades de la vida! Su madre era una santa; que Dios la tenga en la gloria."
Though she had difficulties with his rapid Spanish, Mireya understood the words: "Your mother was a saint." The look in the driver's eyes and the tone of his voice suggested some reverence – and he waived all payment as soon as they arrived.
"No," replied Mireya, bothered by the gesture. "Dígame cuanto tengo que pagar, y yo--"
"Jamás," the driver stressed. "Jamás recibiré pago de alguien a cuya madre le debo la vida de mi hermano. Jamás me lo perdonaría."
But Mireya firmly pressed United States dollars on him. "Por favor, no me haga insistir," she said. "Si no lo hago, mi madre jamás me lo perdonaría."
The driver accepted the bills with obvious reluctance. "Señorita, le acepto el pago, ¡pero que Dios y la Virgen le paguen el triple y más! ¡Usted es una santa como su madre!"
The compliment struck Mireya as a sledgehammer. If receiving condolences from strangers was already hard, comparisons to her mother were even worse. She was barely like her mother: though they shared a "bedside manner" when speaking, she had her father’s penchant for action, and his steely look. She had doubled down on her father’s attitude after her mother died; to hear a complete stranger speak about her shook her otherwise cool demeanor, to the point that she made a curt reply and hastily moved away.
Entering the reception area of the Institute through the old and weathered mahogany doors did little to help her nerves. A large portrait of her mother, showing her beautiful and radiant in her better years, hung on the wall behind the receptionist. But now not even the warm smile in her portrait could calm Mireya. It rattled her more when a passing nurse – an old woman with graying hair on a bun and wrinkles in her otherwise white skin – immediately recognized her. "Ay, Gran Poder, Mireyita, ¡que sorpresa!"
"¡M-Miss Velázquez!" Mireya exclaimed, and caught her breath as the old woman swept her up in an embrace topped with a kiss.
"¿Y qué viniste a hacer aquí, corazón?"
The receptionist interrupted. "Miss Velázquez, ¿y de donde la conoce?"
The nurse – evidently not a "miss" anymore, but such it was the term colloquially used for nurses – guffawed. "Samaris, eres muy novata para reconocerla, pero la señorita es la hija mayor de la difunta Dra. Aristizábal."
The receptionist, Samaris, stood and put her hand out to greet Mireya. "¡Que gusto de conocerla! Llevo trabajando aquí casi un año, pero he oído tanto de su madre..."
Though she returned the greeting, Mireya was overwhelmed. She could only shake the receptionist's hand, but it was obvious she still had a long way to go before she could overcome the loss of her mother. She gave a courteous but businesslike response. "Gracias. Tal vez podemos hablar más tarde. Necesito hablar con el Dr. Gustavo, si es posible."
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