Marco took out his phone. His hands were steady in the way hands become steady when the only remaining option is action. He dialed. Elena listened to the ring tone fill the room like a third person arriving.
Carmen answered on the fourth ring. Elena recognized the voice immediately—lower than it used to be, roughened by years of smoke and apology, but still Carmen's. Marco said only, "She knows. She wants to speak with you," and held the phone out.
Elena took it.
"Carmen," she said.
A silence. Then, barely audible: "Lena."
The nickname undid something. Elena stood and walked into the kitchen so that the family room would not have to witness whatever came next. The linoleum was cool under her socks. She looked at the magnet calendar on the refrigerator, at Sofia's pediatric appointment circled in blue ink, at the ordinary future they had been planning as if futures were reliable.
"You left your perfume in my husband's car," Elena said. "Our daughter wore it. She asked if she smelled pretty. She told me about the lady Daddy drove here when I was working late. That is how I learned you were alive in our life again."