María and Mrs. Ana’s Case

Dead people can be quite troublesome.

The living imagine they are frightening, but most of them merely want help. Mrs. Ana wanted to find her head. For three months she had sat beneath my bed, weeping day and night, and, to tell the truth, I was beginning to grow rather tired of it.

That was why I found myself sitting in Miss Nora Urrutia’s consulting room.

“Who is Mrs. Ana?” she asked, making a note in her notebook.

“The woman who lives under my bed.”

“And what does she do there?”

“She cries a great deal because she still hasn’t found her head.”

Miss Nora stopped writing. After a brief silence, she led me to the playroom so that she might speak privately with my parents.

A girl was drawing at one of the tables, while Mrs. Ana stood by the window, gazing outside. I sat down and began to draw as well. Barely a few minutes had passed before the girl spoke.

“You always draw that lady.”

“Yes. Her name is Ana. Can you see her too?”

“Of course I can. Why is Mrs. Ana sad?”

I considered the question for a moment.

“Because she can’t find her head.”

“My mother says that’s only imagination. By the way, my name is Vera.”

“I’m María. Grown-ups say all sorts of foolish things.”

“Who’s sad? I’m Dani,” said a boy who had wandered over to join us.

“Mrs. Ana.”

“I don’t see anybody.”

“That’s because you’re a little grown-up.”

Dani snorted, though he did not argue.

Another child abandoned his toy cars and wandered toward the window. Halfway there, however, he turned his attention to a wardrobe standing at the back of the room, and the expression on his face changed at once.

“There’s someone else over there,” Vera said suddenly.

A tall man stood beside the wardrobe, perfectly still and watching us.

I disliked him immediately, and Mrs. Ana seemed to dislike him as well. She would not even look in his direction, as though the mere sight of him frightened her.

Then something unexpected happened.

Mrs. Ana rose to her feet. In all the months I had known her, I had never seen her move with such purpose. She crossed the room and stopped beside the door. When I looked at her closely, I realised that she had stopped crying. For the first time, she appeared angry rather than sorrowful. She touched her neck and then pointed toward the corridor.

“She wants us to follow her,” I said.

Dani laughed, though he was the first to stand.

Mrs. Ana moved swiftly through the hallways. We rounded a corner just as a nurse emerged carrying a tray.

“Down,” Vera whispered.

At once, we flattened ourselves against the wall. The nurse passed by without noticing us.

Dani had begun breathing rather heavily.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, though there was little confidence left in his voice.

“Hush,” said the other boy without taking his eyes from the corridor ahead.

The man from the wardrobe was following us, and that, more than anything else, frightened me.

At last, we reached a glass door. Mrs. Ana pointed toward the emergency staircase beyond it.

“That way.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s telling us.”

Together, the four of us pushed the door open. Somewhere in the building, an alarm began to sound, and we ran. Dani was the last to pass through. Before following us, he glanced behind him.

“He’s gone! The man is gone!”

Curiously, that did not reassure me in the slightest. Sometimes, when they stop being visible, it is because they no longer need you to see them.

The staircase led us outside to a neglected patch of ground behind the building, a place filled with tall grass, rusted tins, and insects.

“Why are we doing this?” Dani asked.

“Because if I don’t help her, she won’t stop crying. And if she doesn’t stop crying, I can’t sleep.”

That seemed to satisfy him.

Mrs. Ana walked several yards ahead of us. She no longer appeared sad; if anything, she looked tired. At length, she came to a halt beside something concealed beneath the weeds. At first, I took it for a heap of rubbish, but then I noticed the wheels.

The other boy was the first to approach. He peered through the rear window and immediately fell silent.

“It’s here.”

An old motorcar sat half swallowed by the grass. Among the dead leaves inside rested Mrs. Ana’s head, her eyes closed as though she were merely asleep.

Mrs. Ana stopped crying and, for the first time since I had known her, smiled.

What followed was an absolute disaster.

The police arrived, followed by our parents, several nurses, and an extraordinary amount of confusion at the newly opened children’s psychology centre. Nobody believed us when we explained that Mrs. Ana had led us there. They insisted that we had imagined the whole thing. Grown-ups always seem to require an explanation that does not frighten them.

My mother embraced me so tightly that I could scarcely breathe and made me promise that I would never run away again. I told her I would not, mostly to put her mind at ease. Some promises, however, are difficult to make.

In any case, it no longer mattered. Mrs. Ana no longer cries beneath my bed, and tonight, for the first time in three months, I expect to sleep soundly.

There is, however, one small difficulty.

From the corner of my room, a tall man stands watching me without moving. I still do not know what it is he seeks, though I suspect I shall discover the answer soon enough.