Hot Milk

Medication

My mother started to shout in Spanish for water. ‘Agua agua agua agua.’

It sounded like agony agony agony.

It was like being in the same room with Janis Joplin, but without the talent. I brought her a glass of water and then I dipped my finger in the water and spread it over her lips.

‘How was your father?’

‘He is happy.’

‘Was he pleased to see you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’m sorry he was not more welcoming.’

‘It’s not for you to be his sorry.’

‘That’s a funny way of putting it.’

‘He is his own sorry.’

‘I feel for you.’

‘You can’t do that either. You can’t feel for me.’

‘You’re in an odd mood, Sofia.’

She told me that while I was away she had suffered from water on the knee. Matthew had kindly offered to drive her to the General Hospital in Almería. She had strained a ligament, but it was all straightforward. The doctor had given her a whole new menu of medication. She was feeling nauseous on the antidepressants, although she said it might be the new prescription for high cholesterol and blood pressure, against dizziness and for acid reflux. He had also sorted her out with prescriptions for an anti-diabetic agent, anti-gout, anti-inflammatories, a sleep aid, a muscle relaxant and laxatives, due to the side effects.

I asked her what Gómez thought of her new regime from the hospital.

‘He has forbidden me to drive the car.’

‘You enjoyed driving the car.’

‘I’m enjoying this massage more. You have good hands. If only you could cut your hands off and leave them with me while you go to the beach all day.’

I waited for Pablo’s dog to howl, but then I remembered I had freed him.