Chapter 4 - THE ROAD TO SANTOS
The road toward Santos descended through green hills under low clouds. Rain streaked the car windows and softened the outlines of trucks carrying freight to the coast. I had traveled that route only once as a child, on a school trip when our teacher made us count waterfalls. I had loved the way the forest seemed to swallow the highway.
Now every bend felt too slow.
I sat beside my mother in a car driven by Ana's assistant. Daniel traveled separately with documents for the investigators. Dante was in a third vehicle, without an escort of armed men. He had argued about that arrangement, then accepted it after Ana reminded him who was supposed to be protected.
"What if she's already gone?" Mom asked.
"Then we find out where the records say she went," I replied.
"Records can lie."
"Yes. But somebody has to sign them. Somebody remembers moving a person. We start there."
I sounded much braver than I felt.
At a service stop, my mother bought a packet of biscuits and tried to make me eat. The specialist had repaired the edge of my lip the previous day and advised a soft diet until the swelling settled. I managed two biscuits soaked in coffee. The stitches tightened when I thanked the cashier, so I smiled without showing my teeth.
Mom watched me. "I taught you to speak up for yourself. I didn't imagine the lesson would cost you part of your face."
"Bruno made the wound. My words didn't."
"I know. It still hurts to look at you."
She looked away, ashamed of saying it. I rested my hand over hers. We sat quietly until she was ready to stand.
Santa Luzia stood behind a high white wall on the edge of a quiet coastal neighborhood. It looked less like a hospital than a renovated family hotel. Bougainvillea climbed the gate. A small fountain burbled beside the parking area. The place was almost beautiful, which disturbed me more than broken windows would have.
Ana met us outside. Two investigators and an independent health-rights representative had already entered. An administrator had agreed to preserve records after being formally notified of the inquiry. The early-morning transfer remained disputed: a log claimed that Rosa, registered as Renata Seixas, had departed for a specialist appointment. No receiving facility had confirmed her arrival.
"Can they stop the vehicle?" Dante asked.
"They are trying to identify it," Ana said. "Please don't enter the building yet. They need to speak to the staff without a Montenegro representative standing over them."
Dante looked at the entrance. I saw the familiar impulse to command, hardening his face.
"You gave your word," I reminded him.
His shoulders lowered. "I know."
We waited under an awning as the rain grew heavier. My mother's hands shook. I held a paper cup of tea for her because she kept spilling it. Inside, shadows moved past frosted windows. A nurse opened the door twice to admit people in uniform, then disappeared without looking at us.
After forty-five minutes, an investigator named Beatriz Nunes came outside. She was calm and spoke with the precision of someone who knew each word might later matter.
"We have reason to believe the patient was here yesterday," she said. "Staff have identified her from the photograph. The transfer paperwork is being examined."
"Where did they take her?" Dante demanded.
"A vehicle recorded as a private ambulance left at 4:18 a.m. We are locating the driver and checking the supposed destination. No one should attempt to intercept it privately."
"If she's frightened—"
"Then the fastest useful thing is to give us accurate information."
Beatriz turned to Helena. "Did Rosa have any medical conditions we should know about?"
My mother described her old migraines, the depression she'd experienced during the first years of hiding, and a more recent message mentioning a fall that had affected her walking. The officer recorded the information without assuming that Rosa lacked the ability to make her own decisions.
A nurse named Joana came to the doorway and asked if she could speak privately with the investigator. Her face was drawn, and her hands gripped the hem of her uniform. Beatriz took her inside. We saw them pass a narrow corridor whose windows were covered by blue curtains.
I wondered if the wooden spoon in the photograph had been real. Maybe Rosa used it as a reminder of the kitchen she'd lost. Maybe it had been given to her as a cruel joke. I had so many questions that I feared speaking them aloud would make me sound childish.
Half an hour later, Beatriz returned.
"The nurse says the patient requested contact with a lawyer on at least three occasions. Those requests weren't recorded in the official correspondence log. She kept personal notes and has offered them voluntarily."
Dante closed his eyes.
"She also says Rosa was told her son was dead," Beatriz continued.
A truck rumbled along the street. Somewhere beyond the wall, birds shrieked in the wet trees.
"Dead?" Dante repeated.
"That is the nurse's account. It requires corroboration."
My mother made a sound like she'd been struck. I reached for her before she could stumble.
"That's how they kept her quiet," Helena whispered. "They didn't just tell him she was dead."
Dante turned away from us and walked to the edge of the awning. I gave him space. His hands were shaking, and when he finally spoke, it was into the rain.
"She might have mourned me. Every day."
I wanted to tell him that he could fix it by finding her. I knew better than to offer a promise I couldn't make.
Joana came outside carrying a small sealed envelope. At Beatriz's request, she explained in front of us that Rosa had asked her to keep a written statement last week, before anybody knew the investigation would reach Santa Luzia. The envelope had been documented and was now in the investigator's custody. Joana could not simply hand us a patient's words, however much we wanted them.
"Did she remember her name?" I asked.
"Very clearly," Joana answered. "She corrected me the first day I called her Renata. She said, 'My name is Rosa Ferreira. Please write it down somewhere they can't erase.'"
Tears rose so suddenly I could not speak.
Joana looked at my dressing. "Are you Marina?"
I nodded.
"She mentioned your mother. She told me a friend named Helena knew how to make pot roast that tastes like Sunday."
My mother covered her face and cried openly. The sound made people look toward us, but for once she did not try to hide it.
Then Daniel received a call. The number came from a transport dispatcher who had been alerted by the inquiry. The private ambulance had not gone to a clinic. It had stopped at a fuel station outside Cubatão, and the driver had reported mechanical trouble. Another vehicle had been dispatched to collect the passenger.
"Can we get there?" Dante asked.
Beatriz lifted a hand. "My team is coordinating. Do not go independently."
It was the third time someone had ordered Dante to wait. This time he sat down without arguing.
While the officers made calls, I went to the building's side window and looked into a small garden. A woman in a wheelchair was watching the rain with a cup in her lap. When she noticed me, she waved. I waved back. Her smile was ordinary and kind. I wondered how many lives in this building contained stories no one outside had bothered to ask about.
An hour passed. Then another.
At last Beatriz returned with news. Officers had located the ambulance at the service station. Rosa was there, conscious, being examined by an independent medical team. She had told them her name, denied requesting the transfer, and asked to speak to a lawyer. The driver and accompanying attendant were being questioned separately.
I felt my knees give way. Mrs. Almeida wasn't with us this time, so my mother held me upright despite her own trembling.
"Is she safe?" Dante asked.
"She is receiving care. We are arranging transport to a hospital she can choose with independent advice. We can't promise every health issue is resolved."
He nodded, swallowing hard.
Beatriz looked at him. "She has been told that you are alive."
His face changed, as if something buried under it had finally cracked.
"What did she say?"
"She asked whether she could see a photograph first. She wants time to understand."
He pressed his palm against the wall. "Give her everything she needs."
"We will ask her."
My mother reached into her bag and took out the recipe card with the orange drawing. She held it against her heart. A woman had survived the theft of her name, her letters, and twenty-two years of ordinary life. She was still making choices, even from a hospital bed.
As we prepared to leave, a message arrived from Daniel's office. Victor Salgado had transferred a large sum out of a company linked to Santa Luzia that morning. A request to preserve relevant accounts was already moving through legal channels. The timing was suspicious; it was not yet proof of why he had acted.
Dante read the message without showing it to my mother.
"Victor helped bury her," he said quietly.
"Maybe," I answered. "The records still need to show what he knew."
He looked at me with a tired, almost grateful expression. "You don't make this easier."
"I don't think easy is what she needs."
We drove toward the hospital through thickening rain. Dante sat in the front car, staring straight ahead. My mother held my hand in the back of ours. Neither of us spoke when the hills disappeared behind us.
May you like
At the emergency entrance, Beatriz met us and told us that Rosa had made a request. She did not want a crowd. She wanted to see Helena first.
And after that, if she felt strong enough, she wanted someone to bring her the young woman who had cooked the recipe she thought she'd never taste again.
