January 10th, 1970

Dear Natalia,

In my last letter, I told you how Luto and I separated. It was easier than saying it over the phone. Now, I have to tell you that our divorce is final. Seems I'm a bit of a coward.

With everything he had done, it was for the best. He had gone to AA meetings, and met with a psychologist. Then I found out that he had stopped going, and was visiting the bar instead. That was the last straw.

I am a thirty-six-year-old divorcee. My friends won't talk to me. Father Michael asked me not to return to church. It was like being slapped in the face.

What do people care about my divorce? I thought we lived in modern times. Well, Titi Genea would be ashamed. Although, I take comfort in the fact that Mama would have told me to get rid of Luto sooner. She never liked him. I should've thought about that before saying I do. The whole "he's my cousin" thing briefly embarrassed me, especially with all those jokes from you. Rude.

Marrying my cousin (a weird phrase when it's on paper like that) seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, Kings and Queens inter-married all the time, and things always turned out well for them, right?

It was just...the idea of going down the right path was guiding me. Soon enough, I felt like there was no other choice: finish school, get married, have kids. I could place a check mark beside each thing, and I was where I needed to be.

Now, that's all undone.

Camila smiled when I told her the news. It was her first smile in a while, actually. She's often in a slump whenever I visit, even if I bring the girls. She no longer seems interested in painting. I can guess as to why.

Really, Camila is why I'm writing to you. I'm worried about her. The hospital where she's staying is not really safe. The last time I came to visit her, I came early, and by myself, thank God. What I saw, no one should ever see, but I am glad the girls didn't see it.

Camila's room looked empty. I stepped inside, and heard something in the bathroom. There, our sister was bent over the sink, with an orderly behind her. They were both naked. You can fill in the blanks.

I screamed at him, and then screamed for help. A nurse rushed in as I was wrapping Camila in a bed sheet. She didn't seem all there, but not in the blank-stare way.

I think he drugged her.

Her eyes were slipping closed, and she had trouble standing. I told the nurse to call the police, but she wouldn't. When I threatened to, she called Dr. Pilsner to the room.

I've always trusted him. He such a nice man. He spoke with the orderly pretty sternly. If anything, I expected the man to be fired. He stomped from the room, glaring at me on his way out.

Pilsner convinced me that the nurse would take care of Camila, and would I meet him in his office to discuss matters? I was so shaken, that I did not really know what was going on. I should have just called the police like I had planned, but I followed the doctor into his office. There, he told me that Camila was not getting better. They had tried multiple treatments, only to be met with her "sullen behavior." Last week, she had attempted suicide.

It amazes me that he glossed over the rape, and instead was informing me of something just as serious. I told him as much, and he assured me that he had already called about the matter, speaking with my husband.

I rolled my eyes, and told him that we were now divorced, and all calls regarding my sister should be made directly to me. He seemed taken aback, but didn't say anything.

I asked him what we could do about Camila, and his answer was psychosurgery. Though I had a feeling of what the term meant, I wanted details. He wouldn't tell me, insisting only that it was the measure of last resort, and that a man would understand. I left his office, promising to call the police.

They did not do anything to help Camila.

What's worse, or slightly worse, is that on my way to the car, I went to check on her. She had been sedated, and dressed in a fresh gown by the nurse. I kissed her, and told her I'd get her released.

Out in the hall, I saw the orderly chatting up a nurse. He winked at me, the bastard. He wasn't fired at all.

Now I don't know what to do. Dr. Pilsner doesn't seem to care, and I damn sure can't let my ex-husband make this decision. But I don't know if I can make it on my own. Do you have any ideas? I feel as if we need to act quickly. We have to get Camila out.

I have spoken to a lawyer, and it seems that it is hard to do anything without the doctor's consent. Pilsner seems set on this psychosurgery. I don't want our sister to become a zombie.

I am sorry to put so much on you, but I really don't know what else can be done.

Your loving sister,

-Alondra Sanoguet