Eva's Obsession

My daughter had been a normal girl until that first stain appeared. I recall, as if it were today, that I had gone to wake her up, to make sure she wouldn't be late for work, and found her wrapped in the sheets, her face buried in the pillow, as if to avoid the light and fend off my habitual chitchat.

"Get up, Eva, it's getting late."

She pretended not to hear me, as was her wont, but was betrayed by an involuntary movement. She clutched the pillow, searching for a comfortable refuge in those last few minutes of sleep, while I opened the bedroom window, letting in a glaring summer sun that blinded me for a moment despite the early hour.

Then I went to the bed, sat on the edge, and called to Eva again; she finally lifted her face, blinked, looked at me through half-closed eyes, a look of displeasure on her face. Through the years I have learned to handle my daughter, that is, I always get my way in the end, although in return I must indulge many of her whims and tolerate on occasion the impertinence typical of her young age. So I ignored that gesture of impudence and confined myself to reminding her that she would be late getting to the bank.

I went back to the window to give her a chance to stretch herself out and shed the sluggishness of eight hours of sleep. The sun was burning bright. I closed my eyes and wondered what would happen if I weren't home to attend to these matters.

Eva finally got up. I turned around, opened my eyes, and watched her stumble into the bathroom. I went on with my routine, straightening out the room, taking out the underwear, shoes, and dress that Eva would wear to work. She liked me to help her choose her clothes, that way she didn't have to rack her brain to avoid repetitions that led to gossip at the office, or outfits in bad taste to feed the malicious prattle of officemates who lived in envious agony because she was pretty and had had incredible success in a short time. Eva pretended not to notice the comments; she said they only proved people's mediocrity--"I'm above tittle-tattle," she would say, "the only thing that concerns me is doing a good job and completing my university degree." I knew deep down these things mortified her; I could read it in the way she shook her head, shrugged her shoulders, and moved on to another topic--recipes, the latest fashion, or some trivial incident at school.

When Eva came out of the bathroom, I had her clothes spread out on the bed and had found the shoes that best matched the white dress that went so well with her tanned skin. She hardly ever rejected the clothes I picked out for her; that's why it shocked me to see her stare at the dress with an expression of annoyance at facing something unexpected.

"You didn't notice the stain, Mami."

There was a trace of distress and contrariness in her words. For a brief second I was upset with myself for not having noticed, remembering that Eva spent most of her salary on clothes and now one of her best dresses was ruined by a mere stain. Then I picked up the dress, inspected it front, back, all over, and found nothing unusual anywhere.

"Ay, Mami, you're going blind, look right here, by the neckline."

I thought perhaps I was losing my eyesight, because despite my best efforts I could not see the stain my daughter had discovered so effortlessly. There was, according to her, a small, irregular stain on the fabric, like red rust, dried blood, or those indelible blemishes left by cajuil nuts or green plantains.

One of two things: either I was tottering on the verge of senility, or Eva wanted...