Lucky Broken Girl

by Ruth Behar

  “That’s right, mi niña. That’s what you are. You’re broken but you will heal. We just have to wait.”

  “But I won’t have seven years of bad luck, will I, Mami? I’m sorry I broke the mirror.”

  “Don’t worry, mi niña, that’s an old wives’ tale. Mirrors must have been expensive in the old days, so they made up that story to scare us.”

  “I really don’t look ugly with short hair?”

  “You look adorable. And I have an idea of how to make you look even more adorable!”

  Mami rushes out of the room and comes back with a turquoise ribbon. She fashions it into a bow and pins it to the side of my hair. Then she brings me her small compact mirror.

  “What do you think? Doesn’t that look nice?”

  “I like it, Mami, gracias. Do you think that by the time my hair grows back, I’ll be walking again?”

  “Let’s pray for that, mi niña.”

  “Mami, can I tell you a secret?”

  “Of course, mi niña.”

  “I hate the boy who caused the accident. He killed himself. He killed his friends. That poor lady is paralyzed for life! And look at me!”

  Mami gazes at me with her sad eyes. “Try not to hate so much, mi niña. Maybe you’ll get better faster.”

  Dear God,

  Everyone tells me to stop hating the boy who caused the accident.

  But I can’t.

  Do you think you can help? Maybe, while I sleep, you can come and snatch away all the hate that is like a stone in my heart? And then I’ll dream I float up to the stars and hear them whispering to each other.

  Ruthie

  sky everywhere

  Now every time Mami enters my room she sprays agua de violetas, violet cologne, all over me and mutters, “¡Qué peste!”

  What a bad smell—my disgusting smell.

  Not only is the cast getting moldy from my sweat, but it’s beginning to cut into my flesh and leave ugly welts on my skin. Mami asks Aunt Sylvia to call Dr. Friendlich so she can speak to him in English and find out what to do.

  Dr. Friendlich tells Aunt Sylvia I must be on a stricter diet. He says I’m getting welts because I’ve gained weight and my tummy is squished against the cast.

  Tonight Mami only gives me one small bowl of spaghetti.

  “Please, just a little more,” I beg.

  Mami shakes her head no.

  After his dinner, Izzie comes running in from the dining room holding a fistful of chocolate chip cookies and making my mouth water. I think he’s being as mean as Karen in the Hans Christian Andersen story. She just kept right on dancing in her red shoes while the kind old lady suffered and died.

  While Izzie keeps eating before my eyes, I feel like I’m suffering and dying.

  And it’s all the fault of the boy who caused the car accident!

  The stone grows and grows, bigger than my heart.

  Finally I can tear the month of July off my calendar and it is time for the ambulance to come for me. Bobbie and Clay again!

  “Hi, child,” Clay says. “You’re looking nice! Love that bow in your hair!”

  They don’t seem to notice I am smelly. Or maybe they pretend not to notice.

  “You must be itching to go outside!” Bobbie says.

  “Yeah, can’t wait.”

  He and Clay strap me to the stretcher, and we go downstairs in the elevator.

  Mami follows along in her high heels. Clickety-clack, clack, clack.

  Outside, my eyes hurt from the light and the sunshine.

  “I can’t see!” I groan. “I’m going blind!”

  Bobbie smiles. “Don’t worry, kid. You haven’t been outside for months. Your eyes have become sensitive.”

  He holds his hand in front of my face. “How many fingers?”

  “Three.”

  He laughs in his mischievous way. “You can see fine. Squint. Now open your eyes slowly. You’ll get used to it.”

  But the sky looks like it’s everywhere, sky falling on top of me, sky surrounding me, sky resting at my feet. There’s too much sky.

  Clay sees I’m scared and he winks at me and says, “We’ll turn on the siren, so everyone will get out of our way. That will be lots of fun, won’t it, Ruthie?”

  I nod. I don’t want to tell him how much the sound of the siren frightens me and brings back memories of the accident.

  Relief comes once Mami gets in beside me in the back of the ambulance and the doors are shut. We don’t see anything then; we just feel how fast we’re going, speeding down the highway from Queens to Brooklyn, the siren blaring. As the ambulance swings around a curve, Mami grabs my hand and squeezes hard.

  “Don’t worry, Mami,” I say, feeling like I’m the grown-up.

  Mami kisses my forehead. “You’re a good girl. I’m sorry you have to suffer.”

  I wish Mami were always this nice to me.

  I’m wheeled into a hospital room. Dr. Friendlich stands waiting for me. Using a big pair of scissors, he cuts the cast. I feel the cold sting of the steel blade as the pieces of plaster fall away like the husk of a coconut.

  I see my legs again . . . what were once my legs . . .

  They hang limp, reminding me again of my Cuban rag doll that Mami threw away. Even my left leg, which isn’t broken, looks so useless I don’t try to move it.

  They take an X-ray and Dr. Friendlich holds it up to the light.

  “Still broken,” he says, shaking his head.

  The nurse comes over with a needle and pokes my arm and I fall asleep.

  When I wake up, I’m in a new white plaster cast. It covers my two legs and reaches to my chest, the same as before. I have a pole again, down by my ankles, so I can be turned on my stomach. The only thing that’s different is the iron nail sticking out of either side of my right shin.

  “It’s a pin,” Dr. Friendlich says. “To align the bone.”

  When Mami comes into the room, Dr. Friendlich announces, “Might be another four months before the bone heals.”

  Mami doesn’t understand what the doctor said, so she asks me to translate.

  “¡Ay no!” Mami exclaims after I tell her. “Tanto tiempo, tanto tiempo.”

  “My mother says that’s a long time,” I explain to Dr. Friendlich.

  “Yes, Ruthie, it is,” he says. “But you can’t hurry a broken bone. If I were to let you stand up now, you’d crumple to the ground.”

  When we arrive at our building, Bobbie and Clay carry me out on the stretcher.

  “Take a good look, kid,” Bobbie says, stopping. “You’re going to be indoors for another long stretch.”

  It is cloudy and the light no longer hurts my eyes. I turn my head this way and that, looking up and down our street.

  I see cars parked bumper to bumper.

  I see brick buildings, one next to the other, lined up in long sad rows.

  On the pavement I see a hopscotch board drawn in red chalk.

  I remember how nice my board was with the flowers I added and how fun it felt to throw a stone inside the squares and jump without losing my balance.

  That was such a long time ago.

  This world is a dream. This world isn’t my world anymore. I shut my eyes as I get taken inside.

  I am happy to return to my room, my bed, my island. And my ceiling that loves me and is always there above my head when I look up.

  At least my cast is fresh and clean. Things aren’t so bad, I tell myself, as I settle back into the stillness of my world.

  And then there’s a shy knock at the door.

  “Hello, Mrs. Mizrahi, may I see Ruthie?”

  It’s Ramu! I hear his accent, the touch of India in his English.

  “Come in, come in!” I yell from the bedroom. I am eager to see a friend.

  Mami lead
s Ramu inside. He smiles and says, “Hello, Ruthie, how are you?”

  “Not so good. I have to be in a body cast for another four months.”

  “I am sorry. That must be difficult to endure.”

  “Sit over here, Ramu. Can you stay for a little while?”

  “I can only stay a few minutes. I’m not supposed to be here, but my mother went out with Avik to the store and I was by myself and saw you being wheeled out of the ambulance and I felt bad I hadn’t come to see you, so I decided to sneak over.”

  “So your mother still won’t let you play in the neighborhood?”

  “No. She’s afraid we’ll lose our customs and forget how to be polite and proper Bengali children. I don’t know why we came here to America if we can’t live like everyone else.”

  “Parents are funny. I can’t figure mine out either. But I understand a little of how your mother feels. Wouldn’t you be sad if she stopped making her delicious samosas?”

  “Of course, I would be terribly sad. Just like you would be sad if your mother stopped making her delicious guava pastries.”

  I smile at Ramu. “But that doesn’t really have anything to do with playing with the other kids. Why can’t you play, then go home and be Bengali?”

  “I know, Ruthie, it doesn’t make any sense. Sometimes I feel I’m invisible, slipping through the streets, never getting a chance to be part of this place.”

  “Ramu, do you want some of Izzie’s favorite chocolate chip cookies?” I ask him.

  “Oh no, thank you, Ruthie. My mother would be very upset if I ate those American cookies.” Ramu gets embarrassed and quickly adds, “I hope I haven’t insulted you. I am sure they are excellent cookies.”

  “That’s okay, Ramu, I can’t have any right now either, or I’ll get too big for my cast.”

  He bows his head, looks back at me bashfully. “I wish I could see you more. I just had to come and tell you I miss you and hope you get better fast. School is starting up again soon and it’s no fun being in the smart class if you’re not there!”

  “Remember the story about the princess who couldn’t cry?”

  Ramu nods. “How could I forget? What a good story that was.”

  “I don’t need an onion to cry,” I tell him. “I cry all the time! And I hate crybabies!”

  “Have faith, Ruthie. You’ll be well soon.”

  Ramu removes a silver chain from his neck. The chain holds a silver pendant that’s got a figure of a man with long hair who is standing on one leg and lifting the other in the air. He has many arms and they all look like they’re moving.

  “Take this. Maybe it will help,” Ramu says. “It’s our god Shiva, the dancing Shiva. He’s very strong. He dances to bring goodness to the world. That’s why I like him. One day you’ll dance too, Ruthie. Shiva will help you.”

  He bends and slips it around my neck.

  “Thanks, Ramu. Are you sure you don’t need it?”

  “No, I’m okay. You hold on to it for me.”

  I want Ramu to stay longer, but suddenly Mami comes rushing in.

  “Ramu, I see your mother coming back with your brother. They’re getting close to the building.”

  Ramu jumps to his feet. “Time to go. Hope I can come back another day.”

  “Bye, Ramu. Thanks for cheering me up.”

  “Bye, Ruthie. You cheered me up too!”

  Dear Shiva,

  I didn’t know about you until today, when my friend Ramu gave me a chain with your image.

  Ramu says you’re a strong god, a dancing god. Please help me to get better, so I can walk again. I don’t need to be able to dance, though that would be nice. Right now just walking would be enough.

  Can you also help me get rid of all the hate in my heart? I am full of hate for the boy who caused the accident that has me trapped in my bed and I know that is not a good thing.

  I come from a different religion. I hope you can still help me. Ramu says I should have faith and somehow I am going to try to find some.

  Ruthie

  a sadder story

  Mami brings her ironing board into my room to keep me company while she works. She is in her flip-flops and looking comfortable in a bata de casa, as she calls the loose dress she wears when it is very hot and she’s not expecting any guests to come and visit.

  “There’s no sea breeze here, like there is in Cuba,” Mami complains. “Even with the windows wide-open, you can’t get a breeze.”

  I agree a breeze would be nice. Being in the cast in summertime feels like I’m bundled in a hundred blankets.

  “It isn’t fair that I ended up like this,” I groan.

  “Nothing is fair, mi niña,” she replies, her sad eyes filling quickly with tears. “Nothing. We all have our troubles. At least I am here to take care of you.”

  “Gracias, Mami. And you promise never to stop taking care of me?”

  “I promise, mi niña. I know I lose my patience sometimes,” she tells me. “But I’m only human, you know.”

  And suddenly we hear horrible screams from down the hall. A woman’s screams.

  “Oh no, oh no, oh no! Help! Help!”

  “I better go see what’s wrong. I’ll just be a minute,” Mami says, rushing off.

  The woman is screaming, louder than before, “Help! Help! My little boy! My little boy!”

  I recognize the voice: It is Mrs. Sharma’s.

  Sometimes you think your story is so sad that no one could have a sadder story. But now I cry, not for myself, but for Ramu and his family.

  While their mother cooked dinner in the kitchen, Ramu and Avik played by an open window. A toy fell out of Avik’s hand, and he reached out the window to catch it. But he leaned too far and fell.

  Izzie is shaking and crying as he tells of his part in the story.

  “We were playing outside, when all of a sudden we saw Avik flying in the air. Like a bird! He was holding a toy in his hand. When he landed, we saw what it was. The toy was a wind-up elephant from India. His mother came running. She was wearing one of her long gowns and she tripped and fell right next to Avik and spread her arms around him. He was all bloody. She lay there in the street holding him until the police came. Then they shooed all of us kids away.”

  Mami takes Izzie in her arms and hugs him, then she comes over to the bed and hugs and kisses me too. “Ay, pobrecita, the poor woman, how she must be suffering! Losing a child is the worst thing in the world that can happen to a mother. Mi niña, mi niño, I love you both so much!”

  When Papi comes home, he and Mami go down the hall and knock on the door. They want to tell Mr. and Mrs. Sharma how sorry we are. They knock softly several times, but no one answers. Finally Mr. Sharma opens the door slowly. In a whisper, he says, “No visitors, please. Thank you.” And he shuts the door.

  Three days later, Mr. and Mrs. Sharma and Ramu pack their suitcases. They are going back to India.

  Mr. and Mrs. Sharma allow Ramu to come over and say good-bye to me. He stands by my bed wearing Indian clothes, a loose tunic and wide pants. He looks even skinnier than usual, almost a scarecrow.

  Ramu stretches out his hand. It feels brittle, like a dry leaf in autumn. I squeeze it lightly, out of fear that he is fragile now, that he could break from the sadness.

  “My little brother is a pile of ashes. He’s traveling back to India in a velvet box. We’ll scatter his ashes in the Ganges River, so he will be at peace. His spirit will live on. The spirit never dies. But we are never coming back to America.”

  “I am sorry, Ramu. I am so, so sorry.”

  “I accept your sympathy, Ruthie. Please don’t worry about me.”

  “I’ve been feeling sorry for myself all these months. But what you are going through is so much worse.”

  “Being unable to walk is terrible. And losing my brother is terrible. But we wi
ll both have to go on somehow.”

  “I hope things will be better for you in India.”

  “I hope you get back on your feet soon.”

  “I will never forget you, Ramu.”

  “And I will never forget you, Ruthie.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want your chain back?”

  “No, you hold on to god Shiva and keep asking him to help you. He is strong. I know he will listen to your prayers.”

  “Will you write to me from India?”

  “I will try. It may be a while.”

  We know it is the last time we’ll ever see each other. We clasp each other’s hands one more time.

  Ramu turns to leave and I wish I could walk him to the door.

  “Bye, Ramu,” I whisper.

  For days and days after Ramu leaves, I think about Avik. I wonder how he felt flying in the air. Maybe he felt happy for a second before crashing to the ground—happy to be free, happy not to be locked up in the house. I hope so.

  Dear Shiva,

  Little Avik is on his way back to India. He was a good boy, always held his brother Ramu’s hand when they crossed the street, always listened to his mother.

  Please welcome him home when he arrives.

  Ruthie

  Chicho comes from Mexico

  A new neighbor moves into the apartment down the hall where Ramu and Avik used to live. His name is Francisco, but he says to call him Chicho. He speaks a slower, more polite Spanish than our Cuban Spanish—which Papi says is always in a rush to catch a train. Chicho uses the word “ándale,” and his voice rises and falls in a singsong way that cheers you up.

  Mami and Papi make friends right away. They are glad to have a neighbor they can talk to in Spanish and they tell him he’s always welcome to come over for a Cuban coffee. The last two evenings, after dinner, he has stopped by. He is so boisterous I can hear everything he says from the bedroom.

  “All my family is in Mexico. I’ll never go back there to live, only to visit. I think New York is the best city in the world! Don’t you? Here you can be what you want and no one bothers you. I can step out into the street wearing a pineapple on my head and no one will bat an eye! Isn’t that wonderful?”