The Woman She Was

by Rosa Jordan

  “Why, Celia? What are you afraid of?”

  Myself, she wanted to say. I am afraid of my own inability to say no. Instead, she struggled to articulate another version of the truth. “You want something. If it is not to renew our relationship, then I do not know what it is.”

  His answer was pathetic, but there was no doubt in Celia’s mind that it was sincere. “What I have always wanted. To understand you.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “We haven’t got time for a seminar in that.”

  The response angered him, which had not been her intention. “Not for me !” he shouted. “But José got a seminar, didn’t he? He understands you.”

  Celia’s resentment at being pushed to explain herself flared just as swiftly. “As a matter of fact, he did not,” she snapped, snatching the bike out of his grasp. “Like you, he just makes a lot of pigheaded assumptions!”

  She swung onto the bike and pedalled off, anger fuelling her exit from a situation that, had she had the courage to be honest at the outset, would never have happened.

  SIXTY-NINE

  CELIA woke up tangled in bedclothes. It had been a nightmare of running, hiding from torturers, searching for compañeros who had disappeared but whom she was sure were not dead. She lay there for a moment, considering the difference between the nightmares, of which she had had several lately, and the daytime hallucinations where she imagined herself to be Celia Sánchez. In the “Sánchez moments” she was often in danger but coolly coping; mind and body working in unison so that what she hallucinated doing was either the right thing or all that was possible, with nothing more to be done. Celia Sánchez was not afraid of dying.

  By contrast, she was herself in the nightmares, although often in Sánchez’s world, with bombs falling, armies clashing, torturers trying to lay hands on her. The dreams were terrifying because in them she did not know if she was making the right choice or about to open a door into some ultimate terror leading to a long unquiet death.

  She got out of bed. It was a bright moonlit night so she did not turn on a lamp. She tiptoed into the kitchen to make a hot drink in hopes of calming her nerves. She opened the refrigerator and saw a cup of cocoa made for Liliana at bedtime that the girl had not drunk. Leaving the refrigerator door ajar for light, she poured the brown liquid into a saucepan, heated it, and poured it back into the cup. Then she quietly closed the fridge door and moved back into the living room.

  Three doors stood wide open—the one to her bedroom, the one to Liliana’s room, and the one to the bathroom. From the time they had moved into this apartment, those doors were left open at night, as it made the small apartment seem more spacious. Celia tiptoed toward Liliana’s doorway and looked in to see if she was asleep, or if she was awake, to ask if she would like to share a wee-hours cup of cocoa.

  Moonlight spilled through the jalousied window, casting silver bands of light across the sheets. What the moonlight revealed caused Celia to gasp. Liliana was not there! She was not in the bed, not in the open closet, not in the room. Celia spun around, eyes searching the living room through which she had walked. Rocking chairs, sofa, chairs at the dining table, the floor itself—empty. She could see into the bathroom as well: the white gleam of sink and toilet, beyond them the shower stall. Empty.

  The door leading out into the hallway was closed. Could Liliana have opened it, walked out, and shut it behind her without Celia hearing?

  A cool breeze brushed her cheek. Celia turned. The balcony door, which she normally closed at night in case the wind should rise, was open. And there was Liliana. Her dark curls merged with the darkness around her but the white nightgown was clearly delineated against the black sky. She was not in a chair or standing by the railing. She sat on the railing, facing outward, feet dangling four storeys above hard ground.

  Celia was not aware of setting down the cup of cocoa but she must have because when she reached the balcony door her hands were empty.

  Liliana, holding to the railing on each side of her body, let go with one hand. For a breath the hand hung in the air, pale as a moth. Then Celia’s fingers closed around her wrist with a steel grip. She braced herself for a jerk, the sudden drop of weight that could have dragged her over the railing with the girl. But it did not come. Celia’s other arm encircled Liliana’s waist. She drew her tightly against her own body, and in a voice as smooth as silk, murmured, “Come, Liliana. I have made you some cocoa.”

  Liliana neither spoke nor resisted. Celia again braced herself as Liliana swung one leg and then the other back to the balcony side of the railing. Celia wrapped arms around her and they walked, staggered, really, into the living room. Celia let go with one hand and reached behind herself to flip the lock on the balcony door that she had never locked before.

  Celia sat Liliana on the sofa and retrieved the cocoa. She handed Liliana the cup and knelt in front of her. Liliana’s expression was trancelike, eyes dark and unfocused. She remained so for perhaps two minutes. Then she began to sip, holding the cup in both hands like a toddler.

  “Were you thinking of jumping?” Celia asked softly, not sure Liliana was even aware of what had transpired.

  There was a long silence. Then Liliana replied in a distant voice, “I was thinking of flying. It seemed like if I could just lift my arms, I’d be able to fly. But I couldn’t let go.” Tears slid silently down her cheeks. “I was afraid.”

  When the cocoa had been drunk, Liliana went to bed. She did not protest when Celia got in beside her. They slept spoon-fashion as they had when she was a little girl, in the first years after Carolina’s death.

  When the bedside clock showed 6:00 AM. Celia got up. She went into the living room and dialed Franci’s number.

  “Franci,” she said quietly, “We need help.”

  SEVENTY

  JOE and Luis both looked up when the phone rang, but as usual, waited for Alma to answer it. As soon as she heard the voice on the other end of the line, her face brightened. “Oh, Celia, I’m so happy you called!”

  Joe had been recording notes for meetings with potential joint-venture partners in his daytimer. He began doodling in the margin so as to follow the conversation without appearing to do so.

  “Aye María, Madre de Dios!” Alma gasped. Blood drained from her face as Celia, on the other end of the line, did all the talking.

  “What’s up?” Joe demanded.

  “Que pasa?” Luis echoed.

  Alma dropped the receiver back in its cradle, dark eyes like saucers in her stricken face. “Liliana tried to commit suicide last night. Although maybe she was sleepwalking. Celia is not sure. She caught her on the balcony railing just as she was about to jump.”

  There was a stunned silence. Then Luis flew into a rage. “Nobody can raise a child alone! Celia’s going about it all the wrong way, refusing help—”

  Alma held up a hand. “Silencio, hijo. She is getting help. She is taking Liliana to Santiago. To see Franci.”

  “Franci?” Joe was momentarily confused. “Why Franci?”

  “She is a psychiatrist,” Alma explained.

  “Franci, a shrink?” Joe was surprised, then remembered. “I guess that always was her thing, wasn’t it? Trying to figure out people’s motives.”

  “As if we don’t have hundreds of psychiatrists right here in Habana!” Luis ranted. “Right in her own hospital, for that matter. Doctors who could see Liliana regularly, over a period of time, which is obviously what she needs.” He paced the length of the narrow room, unable to contain his agitation. “I will go see if I can talk some sense into her.”

  Alma picked up her rosary and began drawing beads through her fingers in a distracted rather than a prayerful way. “Celia said she would rather we didn’t come over right away. She said wait till they get back from Santiago.”

  “Why?” Luis demanded.

  “She wants a professional opinion as to the best way to handle it. Otherwise she’s afraid talking about it might do more harm than good.”

  “
Makes sense,” Joe said. By way of dropping an oblique reminder to his brother of his less-than-cordial relationship with both Liliana and Celia, he added, “At least Liliana won’t have a reason to rebel against Franci’s advice.”

  Joe saw Luis deflate and knew the point had been taken. He picked up his daytimer, sighed in a way meant to suggest that he didn’t know what he could do about it, and said, “Well, you two sort it out. I’ve got back-to-back meetings all day.”

  Ignoring Alma’s bead-fingering, which now seemed to signal serious prayers, he kissed the top of her head. “See you at suppertime, Mamá. Try not to worry too much.”

  As he went out, Joe heard Luis ask, “Did Celia say when they plan to leave?” Joe paused in the hallway long enough to hear Alma’s reply.

  “She said she had to tie up a few loose ends at the hospital but planned to take the afternoon train.”

  Joe had two meetings scheduled that day, one before lunch, one after. He stopped at Hotel Habana Libre and phoned to reschedule both of them. Then he called Celia.

  He spoke firmly, without preliminaries. “Mother said you needed to tie up some loose ends at the hospital before leaving for Santiago. I know you won’t want to leave Liliana alone. I’ll come over and stay with her till you get back.”

  “José!” Celia’s voice was shrill with stress. “I specifically told Alma—”

  “That you’d handle it. Sure you can. But here’s one thing you might want to consider.” He paused until he heard a ragged intake of breath on the other end of the line.

  “What?”

  “Liliana took me into her confidence that night we were in Pinar. Things I don’t think she has told anyone else. If I had an hour or two alone with her, she might—look, Celia. I won’t keep anything from you. We all want to see the kid get back on track.”

  Joe looked through the phone booth glass at hotel guests passing in the hallway, waiting for her answer and already knowing what it would be. After a long silence Celia’s voice came over the line, small and uncertain. “How soon can you get here?”

  “Right away. I’m at the Habana Libre. I’m going to pop into the boutique and pick up a CD for her. Or a cassette. Which?”

  “She has a portable CD player,” Celia said tiredly. “A friend gave it to her.”

  Yeah, right, Joe thought. A “friend” she met in Varadero who thought he could buy sex with a Cuban teenybopper for the price of a cheap CD player.

  “I’ll be there in thirty minutes and stay till you get back. And, Celia, don’t worry. I won’t push her to talk about what happened last night. Just, you know, peripheral stuff that you might want to know or pass on to Franci.”

  “Thank you, José. That is very . . . sensitive of you.”

  Joe stepped out of the phone booth smiling. Celia had sounded relieved, and if he wasn’t mistaken, a little surprised at his “sensitivity.” He was definitely making headway.

  • • •

  He knocked and at Celia’s “Pase” walked in. Celia was at the computer, Liliana on the couch. Both had dark circles under their eyes and looked emotionally drained. Celia promptly shut down the computer and stood up. “Hello, José. I’m due at the hospital ten minutes ago. Liliana can entertain you. If you want lunch, I expect you can find something in the kitchen.”

  “Wanna go out to lunch?” Joe asked Liliana.

  “No,” she said, not even glancing his way.

  “Then I’ll raid the fridge,” Joe said cheerfully. He puttered noisily in the kitchen before settling for a reheated cup of coffee and a piece of stale white bread. He still hadn’t readjusted to the paltry selection of edibles in the average Cuban kitchen, or at least in his mother’s and Celia’s kitchens, which he took to be average.

  “Chau,” Celia called, and was gone.

  He meandered back into the living room and sat down in a rocker across from the couch. “Want a bite of bread?” he asked, thrusting the white roll toward Liliana.

  She made a face and turned her head the way Amy, the pickiest eater of his two daughters, had done when she was a toddler.

  He laid the roll down on the coffee table and reached into his jacket pocket. “Want to see the CD I brought you?”

  “What’s the point?”

  He dropped the CD back in his pocket and munched on the roll, more to show disinterest than because he wanted it, which he didn’t. Bread from Cuba’s government-run bakeries made America’s white bread seem downright tasty. He looked Liliana over. What he saw, from unbrushed hair to bits of pink polish clinging to dirty toenails, was not attractive. “How’s the knee?” he asked.

  “Who cares?”

  “Looks like you’re going to have a scar over your eye.”

  “Who cares?”

  “Probably nobody, if you kill yourself.”

  She flashed him a quick look, her expression guarded.

  “Isn’t that what you tried to do last night?” he asked, stuffing the last of the bread into his mouth, as if it didn’t matter to him one way or another.

  “What if I did?” She began gnawing at her fingernails, nails that he had noticed on the weekend were ragged but not bitten down to the quick as they now were. “I might as well be dead if I can’t get what I want.”

  He took a sip of coffee and held out the cup to her. She made a face, so he sipped it himself. “What do you want?”

  The passivity suddenly gave way to agitation. “Come on, Joe! You know what it’s like!” She glowered accusingly. “You just don’t give a damn. None of them do.”

  Joe sat there rocking in a way that might have seemed relaxed, but a lot of things were running through his mind while way too many other things churned around in his gut. He knew now, as he had not known when he left Cuba at age twenty-four, that one reason for his obsession to get off the island had been the sense that his life was going nowhere; at least, nowhere fast enough to hold his interest. His peers were getting on their career horses and galloping off in all directions—Carolina into the military, Celia and Franci into medicine, Luis into the bureaucracy, Joaquín to international-level sports. He was as smart as they were and had a good deal more on the ball than his brother, but there was not one thing on the Cuban horizon that excited him. Except maybe owning a car like the one he had recently purchased. His lips twitched at the thought that had somebody offered him a car or the means of earning the money to buy one he might never have left. The same could probably be said for thousands of other Cubans.

  On the other hand, there were several million, including just about all the kids he grew up with, who tolerated the lack of luxury—if luxury was the right word for an ordinary car. To him, luxury was the BMW parked in the secure underground garage of his super-secure Miami apartment building. But that was now. In those hard times after the USSR pulled the plug on foreign aid, he would have considered a bicycle a luxury. But not even Cuban kids thought that way now. Television, tourism, and Miami relatives had given them a mental catalogue filled with all kinds of goodies.

  To escape Liliana’s glower and to give himself time to run down other threads he was trying to prevent getting tangled up in his head, he went to the bathroom for a piss, then back into the kitchen for a second cup of coffee.

  Convincing Celia to let Liliana go to Miami was clearly the key to getting Celia there. Once there, he would persuade her to let Liliana attend a South Florida boarding school, or better yet, one out of state. Expensive, but at least they wouldn’t have the little sulker underfoot seven days a week. However, it was a given that Liliana’s appetite for “neat stuff” would be, like that of all US-born and immigrant kids, insatiable.

  The smart thing would be to take the advice he had given his brother: just forget about Celia until Liliana was off to college. Then he could coax her to Miami without the baggage of a moody adolescent. The only problem with that approach was that Joe Lago was not the kind of guy who waited around—for anything.

  He set the second cup of coffee down with a thump that made Lilia
na jump. “Okay, kid. What if I get you to Miami? What then?”

  Liliana gazed at him, a little wearily, he thought, then dropped her eyes. “You know how far I was willing to go in Pinar. If that’s not what you want, just tell me. I’ll do whatever. Go to school, scrub toilets, work three jobs—same as you did.”

  Joe was about to make a sarcastic rejoinder to the effect that Cuban kids lived such easy lives, never expected to do a damn thing except go to school and hang out at the beach or play sports and she didn’t have a fucking clue what it was like out in the real world of south Florida sweatshops and stoop labour where no small number of immigrant teenagers were employed right now. But Liliana spoke first.

  “If I have to kill myself to get off this island, then I’ll kill myself.”

  Joe stared at his coffee, growing cold. I don’t need this, he thought. I should have left fucking well enough alone.

  Minutes passed. At last he took a deep breath and said, “I’ll talk to Celia.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “The point is, I’m willing to help you. But not behind her back.”

  Liliana said nothing. He walked into her bedroom, where he found the portable CD player on the night stand. He wound the head set cords around it, carried it back into the living room, and dropped it on her flat little belly. From his pocket he took the CD and tossed it onto the coffee table. She reached for it. Her lips parted with pleasure as she recognized Los Van Van, a band popular on both sides of the Straits. “Gracias, Tío.”

  He was surprised to see that there were tears in her eyes. They were startlingly like Carolina’s eyes as he remembered them the night at Joaquín’s house after they’d watched that TV program on CIA terrorism, that being a time when he still lusted after Carolina and was only toying with her less flamboyant younger sister. Liliana’s eyes had that same dark intensity and naked emotionalism. They forewarned him that he would do well to paddle away from this particular female before he was in over his head.

  Joe went out and sat on the balcony. He wished he had asked Celia how long she would be gone. He did not fancy eyeballing the ocean for the rest of the day.