by Ruth Behar
Well, Ruthie, you probably know every Nancy Drew book by heart,” Joy says to me, laughing. When she laughs, it makes her dangling earrings jingle and she looks so beautiful it makes me happy.
It is our last day of classes before the holiday break and we linger over our English muffins.
“I’ve brought some new books for you,” Joy says. “Here’s a book of poems by a woman who never left her house. Her name was Emily Dickinson. She kept her poems hidden under her bed, afraid they weren’t good enough. Don’t worry if you can’t understand all of them. Enjoy the music of her words.”
“Okay, I’ll try.”
Joy goes on excitedly, “And since you know Spanish, I’d like you to read these poems by José Martí. He was the great independence leader of Cuba.”
“Joy, I know about José Martí. In school in Cuba, we had to memorize his poem about the white rose. I still remember how it starts—Cultivo una rosa blanca ‘en julio como en enero’ para el amigo sincero . . .”
“Very good, Ruthie,” Joy says. “How would you say that in English?”
“I have a white rose to tend . . . in July or January . . . I give it to my true friend,” I tell Joy. “I forgot the rest of the words in Spanish, but I remember he talks about a cruel friend who breaks his heart and how he will give that friend a white rose too.”
“Wow, that is just so, so, so, so amazing!” Joy replies. And her earrings jingle again.
“I wish I could be as good and forgiving as José Martí wants us to be.”
“We just need to keep trying, Ruthie. That’s all we can do. And you know something? You are an amazing translator!”
“I used to translate for my mother when we did the grocery shopping. Now I can’t anymore.”
“How about if you read the English translations of these poems by José Martí and then you can tell me if you think they capture the spirit of the original Spanish? It’s a bilingual edition, Spanish on one side and English on the other. Isn’t that nice? And here’s a Spanish-English dictionary, in case you need it.”
“Thanks, Joy. That will be fun homework. They put me in the dumb class because I couldn’t speak English. But now I can speak both English and Spanish!”
“You are very fortunate to know two languages. Not everybody has that gift.” She smiles and enthusiastically pulls out another book from her bag. “And I think you will love Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and see a lot of yourself in Alice and a lot of Alice in you. In a way, you too are on a journey into a mysterious wonderland, even though you haven’t left your bed.”
“I’ll read them all! Thank you so much, Joy!”
“It’s my pleasure,” Joy says. “You’re doing so well with all your reading! I bet you’re at least at a tenth-grade level. I’m impressed by all the progress you’ve made. You haven’t wasted any time while you’ve been bedridden.”
Then she places all the books next to me, very carefully, like they are precious rubies she is entrusting to me. Now books keep me company the way my Cuban rag doll once did.
I love that Joy is helping me to become so smart!
“Joy, I’m going to miss you during the break.”
“And I’ll miss you too, Ruthie. Before we end class today, what do you say we see what news there is in the New York Times?”
“Okay, but isn’t that newspaper too hard for kids to understand?”
“I think you can handle it. I’ve brought today’s paper and one I saved for us to look at. But first let me show you how to hold the newspaper. It can be a little hard to manage.”
“It’s hard to manage when you’re sitting, I’m sure it will be a breeze if you’re flat on your back,” I say.
“Oh, Ruthie, you have such a wry sense of humor.” She stretches out the newspaper lengthwise and folds it in thirds. “See what I did? If you fold it like this you can follow a story that starts on the front page and finishes on an inside page. Would you like to try?”
“Sure.”
I’m a little clumsy at first, but after a while I get the swing of it, though I end up with newsprint all over my fingers as we read some stories.
Then she passes me the saved newspaper from August 6, 1966, and tells me, “There’s an article about Dr. Martin Luther King I think you should read. Do you know what he’s fighting for?”
“Yes I do. He thinks white people and black people should be equal and able to live in the same neighborhoods and go to the same schools.”
“And I agree with him, Ruthie.”
Joy lowers her voice, as if she’s scared to talk out loud, even though the only people in the house besides her are Mami and me.
“Why are you whispering, Joy?”
“Because a lot of white people don’t feel the way I do. And I’m not supposed to share my personal opinions with my students. I could get into trouble.”
I read about Dr. King going to Chicago to protest segregated neighborhoods and being attacked by a mob of angry white people who threw rocks at him. Some of the people were wearing Nazi-style helmets. I know this is a free country, but is that okay? So many ideas are whirling through my head that I feel a little dizzy.
I think about how terrible it is to hate so much. I know, because I used to hate the boys who caused the car accident. When I stopped hating them it was like I stepped out from under a dark cloud and saw the sunshine again.
“My grandmother had to leave Poland because people there hated her since she was Jewish,” I tell Joy. “And a lot of people here treat Mami like she’s stupid because she doesn’t speak English. How can people be so mean?”
“I don’t know the answer,” Joy says. “I wish I did. But I’m grateful for the many good people there are too, like Dr. King, who is trying to teach us to be tolerant and accepting of each other, so we can all live together in harmony.”
“Or like José Martí, who’d give a white rose to his friend and his enemy.”
“Right on, Ruthie, right on,” Joy replies. Then she who has such a happy name speaks to me in a despairing voice: “But, Ruthie, I have to admit, the world can be a frightening place sometimes.”
And suddenly the teacher I thought was invincible looks as if she wants somebody to say “there, there” to her, just like I often need someone to say it to me.
Part IV
RESTING ON THE POINT OF A STAR
one gold lamé sandal
When I wake up on Wednesday, December 21, I am happy that this year is practically over and that it’s almost time to tear off the last month of the calendar.
It is also the day I am seeing Dr. Friendlich and I am hoping he will finally remove my cast, but I am scared too.
I have gotten used to my cast holding me together and I am afraid I might fall apart when it comes off. It’s been so long that it feels like I may never walk again.
I am resting on the point of a star, far from everything I knew how to do before I broke my leg. Sometimes I wish I could shout to the world, “Tell me, please, won’t you tell me? Do you know how to become whole after you’ve been broken?”
Mami is going with me to the hospital, all dressed up as usual, with no one to admire her and tell her how pretty she is, except me.
I’m expecting Bobbie and Clay to come for me, but two other men arrive.
They don’t tell me their names and I don’t ask.
I’m only outside for a few minutes. It’s freezing and that makes me want to be back in my cozy bed. I feel sorry for the bare trees that have lost their leaves and are waiting for spring to bring them back.
Then I notice their branches are as fine as lace. I remember what Chicho taught me about perspective and all of a sudden the winter seems beautiful to me, a time of hibernation and waiting, just like I’ve been hibernating and waiting.
Dr. Friendlich is amused when he sees my painted cast.
“Sure
you want me to take this off?” he asks.
“My neighbor Chicho took a picture with his Polaroid camera,” I tell him.
“Oh, good.”
He cuts and I watch, happy and sad, as flowers, butterflies, and birds fall to the floor.
After they take the X-ray, Dr. Friendlich stares at it for a long time. Trying not to sound worried, but looking worried, he says, “It’s healing . . . but not as quickly as we’d like . . . Hmm . . . Let’s not take any chances. I’m going to put a cast just on your right leg. Your left leg will be free, but I can’t give you a walking cast yet. You’ll still have to stay in bed. Maybe two months. If we’re lucky . . .”
I watch as he creates a new cast for my right leg that goes from my toes to the top of my thigh.
“Here, Ruthie, sit up,” Dr. Friendlich says. “Very slowly. Your muscles have gone to sleep, so you need to go easy on them.”
My belly is free and my back is free for the first time in so long. I thought I would be so happy when my body cast was off, but instead I feel like a turtle that’s lost half of her shell. I inch forward at my belly, pulling my back up, trying to sit. It takes all my strength. Dr. Friendlich holds me so I won’t fall over.
I look down toward my legs, one out of the cast and one still in the cast. I don’t recognize my left leg, my good leg. It’s all furry.
“Why am I so hairy?” I ask Dr. Friendlich.
He smiles. “It’s a result of all your body heat trapped inside the cast. And you’re growing up—as fast as I feared! Good thing I put you in that body cast.”
I’m not sure what the hair sprouting on my leg and me growing up have to do with each other, but I nod as if I know.
“You can move the left leg all you want. Remember, it’s not broken. Just been sealed up for a while. The muscles will take a little time to reawaken, but they will. And you’ll be tempted to get out of bed. Don’t even think of trying to stand up. You’re not ready yet. Is that clear, young lady?”
He looks me straight in the eye to be sure I’ve understood.
“Okay, Doctor.”
I don’t know what Dr. Friendlich is talking about. I’ve forgotten how to stand up.
Aunt Sylvia is peering out her window when the ambulance pulls up to our building. As the men carry my stretcher out of the ambulance, Izzie comes running to meet me, along with Dennis and Lily, and Aunt Sylvia follows.
They crowd around.
“I don’t have a body cast anymore!” I tell everyone. “But I have to learn how to sit up again, like a big baby. Isn’t that ridiculous?”
“Yippee!” Izzie shouts, “You’re almost back to normal!” He and Dennis and Lily jump up and down.
“So can she walk now?” Aunt Sylvia asks quietly, turning to Mami.
Mami’s voice is sad as she says to Aunt Sylvia, “Todavía.”
That means “not yet.”
Aunt Sylvia replies, “¿Hasta cuando?”
That means “until when?”
Mami shrugs. I see tears in her eyes. I’m sure they’re not for me. They’re for her. She has to keep being my mother, keep taking care of me—the daughter who’s got a hairy leg and another leg that might never heal.
After we get back upstairs, the glum ambulance men drop me in my bed like a sack of potatoes.
Mami leaves the room and I hear her weeping in the kitchen. I call to her, “Come back, Mami, don’t cry by yourself.”
But she won’t listen to me.
Will our lives go on like this forever—me always in bed and Mami trapped in the house with me?
No, no, no! I can’t let that happen! I have to get better. I’m going to start right now by moving my left toes. As Dr. Friendlich said, my left leg isn’t broken. It’s just fallen asleep after being in the cast for so long.
The toes are stiff, but after a while I can move them. Very slowly I start to move my foot. Twirl my ankle. It feels like I’m lifting a brick. But the leg is coming back to life.
“Mami, look! Mami!”
Finally Mami returns, her tears all dry, and she brings me an apple, cut up into neat wedges.
“Here, mi niña, you need something to eat. I’m sorry you had to wait.”
“Mami, I’m going to get better. Please don’t give up on me. Look, I can move my left foot again.”
“Ay, mi vida, be careful.”
“It’s okay, Mami. Really. The doctor said I could move it all I want.”
“But be careful, it’s been in a cast for a long time.”
“I will, Mami, don’t worry.”
The sadness in Mami’s eyes makes me sad. But then I think of a great idea.
“Mami, please let me wear one of your shoes on my left foot, just to see how it feels.”
At last, Mami smiles a true smile. “Of course, mi niña, of course.”
She rushes to the hallway closet and comes back with a bunch of her high heels and lets me choose any I want. I select her gold lamé sandals, which have a thick platform sole and an ankle strap.
“Mami, put it on my left foot. Please.”
My belly and back are stiff and achy, so I can’t reach down yet to my foot.
“Now you put the other sandal on,” I tell Mami.
“Why?” she asks.
“For fun,” I say.
She slips the sandal on to her right foot and stands on one foot. She hops around before losing her balance and catching hold of the edge of the bed not to fall down.
“It’s not easy to walk on one foot,” Mami says.
“Mami, stay with me,” I tell her.
“Sí, mi niña,” she replies.
She comes and stretches out beside me on the bed.
With one gold lamé sandal on my left foot and one gold lamé sandal on Mami’s right foot, we’re a complete person.
Dear Frida,
I don’t dare tell Mami or Joy that I’m not sure if I ever want to get out of bed. I can’t say that out loud. They’ll think I am crazy. I hope I’m not.
Did you ever feel this way, Frida? That a part of you wants to be healed and returned to normal and another part wants to stay just as you are, quietly in bed, painting your pictures, safe from all the mean people in the world?
Please give me a sign, Frida, if you understand me.
I really hope I’m not crazy.
Ruthie
my Royal typewriter
After a few days I can sit up easily in bed.
My left leg feels fine, like it used to before the accident. I don’t like its hairiness, but Mami says I am too young to shave. She still has to bring my meals to me on a tray, but now I can eat normal portions. I can even hold a plate up on my left knee. I kind of look like the god Shiva on my pendant, my right leg unmoving in the cast and my left leg on the loose. But I’m not dancing yet, that’s for sure. And Mami still has to bring me the bedpan. We both can’t wait for that to end!
To celebrate my graduation to a smaller cast, Papi says he’s going to get me a typewriter.
“You’re so smart, mi hija. When you grow up, I want you to become a secretary. They’re always looking for girls who type fast and don’t make mistakes.”
He comes home with a used Royal typewriter for me to get started.
“But, Papi, I want to be an artist, like Frida Kahlo from Mexico,” I tell him.
“An artist? That’s not a good profession for a nice girl,” he says, frowning.
“Don’t you like my pictures?”
“I know Chicho has been encouraging you. But artists are always poor. You don’t want to be poor, do you?”
“Papi, that’s what Chicho’s father told him! Because of that, he gave up his dream of becoming an artist.”
“How about if you learn to type so you’ll be able to support yourself? I bet you can learn to type a hundred wor
ds a minute like the best secretaries.”
I figure it can’t hurt to learn. Papi builds me a wooden stand with little legs, so I can set the typewriter on it and type in bed. He gets me an orange typing manual. I am to do one lesson a day. By the end of the book I’ll be able to type with my eyes closed.
I quickly memorize the A-S-D-F on my left hand and the ;-L-K-J on my right hand and that makes Papi very happy. I know how hard he’s working to pay back Dr. Friendlich. I feel bad he lost his blue Oldsmobile in the accident. He loved that car so much.
I want to learn to type a hundred words a minute. Maybe Papi is right. I should give up my dream of being an artist. I will become a secretary and make a ton of money and give it to Papi so he can buy a new car.
But if I do that, will I be sad my whole life?
Dear Frida,
Are you listening?
Say yes!
Your faithful,
Ruthie
I do the lessons in the orange typing manual and at first I’m really clumsy, but after a while I start to know the keys by heart.
Soon I can close my eyes and type the letters without looking at the keys.
But the lessons get harder and harder, and when I have to type out a whole page, I get lazy and want to give up.
Then I take a deep breath and keep typing.
I start thinking this typing thing could really come in handy someday since I like to tell stories. Maybe I can become a writer too. But I won’t tell Papi. Being an artist and a writer will seem crazy to him!
One afternoon, when Mami needs to go out grocery shopping, Baba comes over to keep me company.
“¿Té quiere?” she asks.
I laugh and say, “Sí, te quiero.”
It’s Baba’s favorite joke in Spanish, a pun. The word for “tea” in Spanish is té, and when you say “I want tea,” it’s quiero té and when you say “I love you” in Spanish, it’s te quiero, so my answer means both “Yes, I want tea” and “Yes, I love you.”
