Excerpt from Hades, Argentina by Daniel Loedel, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"I guess he is," Cecilia said, appraising me. "We thought Pichu was hallucinating about you like she was everybody else. This business about calling you—I thought it was one of her stories. She fell into a coma last night," she added, with a hint of relief.

"I'm sorry," I told her, though I was more than that. All those lingering questions of mine would remain unanswered now. The only solved mystery was how she'd survived the heartache of losing two daughters when my mother couldn't handle the disappearance of a single son: this granddaughter of hers. While I weakly shook hands with everyone in the room, giving terse replies about the last ten years—no, I didn't tell anyone when I left in '76, or afterward; yes, it was strange, and yes, it was strange to be back now, for another death—the little girl never stopped staring at me.

When it was her turn for my poor condolences, she ignored the hand I offered and said, "Abuela said you'd get a do-over."

"What?"

"Like in a game," she said, before Cecilia shushed her aggressively.

"Don't trouble him with that nonsense, Vivi. I'm sorry, Tomás," she went on. "Pichuca raised her, spoiled her really, so you can imagine it's hard for her. Seeing her like this, hearing all the nonsense she was saying. It's not easy."

"She's Nerea's daughter?" I asked. I'd known Nerea was pregnant when they kidnapped her, but I'd always assumed the baby disappeared along with her.

Cecilia nodded. "Born in a detention center. All these terrible things they say about the military, stealing babies to raise as their own and what not, but just think: some young soldier brought her straight to Pichuca's door. It was such a blessing for her."

 It didn't seem to be much of a blessing to Cecilia. Nor possibly for the girl, who'd started pouting, her head low.

"Come on," Cecilia told her, forcing the girl's fingers into her own. "Why don't we go outside and give Tomás and Pichu some time alone together. What do you think?"

She didn't get a chance to say what she thought, and neither did I, since Cecilia was already dragging her away. The others filed after them, and soon I was alone with the woman in a coma. I pulled up a chair and sat at her side, close enough to catch the stink of decay.

*

It shouldn't have, but it felt so unanticipated. All those exchanges I'd played out in my head on the flight, and here I was, unable to utter a single phrase. I'd seen Pichuca go mute grieving for others, but, stupidly, I'd pictured her own death as a more animated affair. "Are you married, Tomás?" I'd imagined her asking me. "What about children?" After telling her we were trying—it wasn't technically untrue; we'd been trying to have children and now were trying to stay married—I'd envisioned her sighing wistfully, a sparkling, movie-like tear in her eye as she said, "It should have been you, Tomás. I wish it was you ended up with my Isabel."

But Pichuca didn't say a word.

Neither did I; ultimately I concluded it'd be a lie to try, that I should have told her whatever I had to while she was still conscious to hear it. So instead, in homage, I mentally recounted what fond memories I could—dinners in Pinamar and her house in Palermo, the many times in '76 I called for Isabel and she picked up—until they spiraled to graver recollections, and I found myself alternately watching her slow, aided breathing and the equally slow clock on the wall hoping the others would come back in.

I left as soon as Cecilia returned, giving her my number at the hotel and saying I'd be back the next day. In the hall I saw the girl lying across a row of chairs, asleep, someone who was a stranger to me petting her hair. I wanted to ask her what else Pichuca had said about me, but I knew it would be wrong to wake her.

*

Without the excuse of being there for Pichuca, it was like some protective façade had dropped. I felt exposed, naked before the peering eyes of this city and all those pesky demons of mine I'd come to satisfy. For that was how it felt: like I owed them something, a psychic tax of some kind I'd have to pay now that I'd returned. I stepped through the sliding doors into the twilit air and late November heat.

Excerpted from Hades, Argentina by Daniel Loedel. Copyright © 2021 by Daniel Loedel. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.