Carmela changed her and made her comfortable.
"Thank you, Sister," Caterina said.
"You're welcome, dear."
Carmela, a whipcord woman, could have carried the Master's cross. She had a dusky mustache above Mayan lips. Her hair was sheep-thick and done in twin buns that had long pins sticking in them. Tufts of hair grew in each of her ears. She walked with a rustler's tread—years of convent living and nursing had not tamed her tread. Yet she had the essence of sanctity in her face, and people said that she never lost patience.
When she left the room, Raul sat on the bed at Caterina's feet.
"She's nice," Caterina said.
"Big," he laughed.
"Papa ... when will my stomach stop hurting?" She began to cry and covered her face with one arm. "Oh, Papa ... Papa ... ask God..."
"What is it?" asked Carmela, returning.
"Pain."