“I am going to suggest that you do not mention the word divorce for an entire week. Can you do that?” the therapist asked.
“Yes,” we answered simultaneously.
“And could you do it for two weeks?”
“Three, if you want,” I said.
That was our agreement. For three weeks we focused on solving everyday emergencies, and never spoke the forbidden word. We were living in a state of crisis, but the allotted time went by, then a month, then two, and the truth is that we never again spoke of divorce. We went back to the nightly dance that from the beginning had been so natural: sleeping so tightly embraced that if one turns the other adjusts, and if one rolls away, the other wakes. Between countless cups of green tea, the shaved-head psychologist led us by the hand over the rough terrain of those years. He counseled me to “stay in my trench” and not interfere in the problems with Willie’s children, who in truth were the principal cause of our fights. So Willie gives a new car to his son, who has recently been expelled from school and is floating around in a cloud of LSD and marijuana? Not my problem. And he crashes it against a tree two weeks later? I stay in my trench. Willie buys him a second car, which he also destroys? I bite my tongue. Then his father rewards him with a van and explains to me that it is a safer, stronger vehicle. “Of course. That way when he runs over someone, at least he won’t leave him wounded, he’ll kill him outright,” I reply with glacial calm. I lock myself in the bathroom, take an icy shower, and recite all the curse words in my Spanish repertoire, then spend a few hours making necklaces in Tabra’s workshop.
The therapy was very helpful. Thanks to it and my writing, I survived an assortment of trials, though I did not always come out the winner, and my love for Willie was saved. Fortunately, though, the family melodrama continued, because if not, what the devil would I write about?
A Girl with Three Mothers
JENNIFER WAS ALLOWED TO SEE SABRINA in supervised visits every two weeks, and with every one I could see how Willie’s daughter’s health was deteriorating. She looked worse every time I saw her, as I wrote my mother and my friend Pía. In Chile they both had made donations to Padre Hurtado’s foundation; he is the only Chilean saint that even Communists venerate because he can work miracles, and they were praying for Jennifer to be cured of her addictions. In truth, only divine intervention could help her.
And here I want to pause briefly to introduce Pía, my forever friend, the woman who is like my Chilean sister, whose loyalty has never wavered, not even when we were separated by my exile. Pía comes from a very conservative Catholic family that celebrated the military coup of 1973 with champagne, but I know that on at least two occasions she hid victims of the dictatorship in her house. It is rare that we speak about politics, for we don’t want anything to come between us. After I took my small family to Venezuela, we kept in touch by letter, and now we visit each other in Chile and in California, where she likes to come for vacations, and so we have kept alive a friendship that by now has a diamantine clarity. We love each other unconditionally and when we’re together we create four-handed paintings and giggle like schoolgirls. Do you remember that Pía and I used to joke about how one day we would be two merry widows and would live together in a garret, gossiping and making our crafts? Well, Paula, we don’t talk about that anymore because Gerardo, her husband, the kindest and most guileless man in this world, died one morning like any other when he was supervising work in one of his fields. He sighed, bowed his head, and went to the other world without a good-bye. Pía can’t be consoled even though she is surrounded by her clan: four children, five grandchildren, and scores of relatives and friends with whom she is constantly in touch, as is the custom in Chile. She devotes herself to charities of every sort, takes care of her family, and works with her oils and brushes in her free time. In moments of sadness, when she can’t stop crying over Gerardo, she closes her door and creates small works of art with scraps of cloth, including icons embroidered with beads and precious stones that look as if they’d come from the treasure troves of ancient Constantinople. This Pía who loved you so much had a tiny chapel built in her garden and planted a rose in your memory. There beside that luxuriant rosebush she talks with Gerardo and you, and often prays for Willie’s children and for his granddaughter.
Rebecca, the social worker, organized the routine for Sabrina’s visits with her mother. It wasn’t easy, since the judge had ordered that Jennifer and her companion should not meet the foster mothers or learn where they lived. Fu and Grace would meet me in the parking lot of some mall and give me the child, with diapers, toys, bottles, and the rest of the paraphernalia babies need. I would drive her, in one of the seats I kept in my car for my grandchildren, to City Hall, where I would meet Rebecca and a policewoman—always a different one, though they all had an air of professional boredom. While the uniformed woman watched the door, Rebecca and I waited in a nearby room, enchanted with Sabrina, who had become very beautiful and very alert; she did not miss a single detail. She had caramel-colored skin, the fuzz of a newborn lamb on her head, and the amazing eyes of a houri. Sometimes Jennifer would show up for the meeting, sometimes not. When she did appear, with a bad case of jitters—a fox being chased by hounds—she never stayed more than five or ten minutes. She would pick up her daughter, but then feeling her light in her arms, or hearing her cry, she seemed confounded. “I need a cigarette . . . ,” she’d say, and she would hurry out and often not come back. Rebecca and the police officer would take Sabrina and me back to my car, and I would drive to the parking lot where the two mothers were anxiously waiting. I think that for Jennifer those harried visits must have been a torment; she had lost her daughter, and not even her relief at knowing she was in good hands could console her.
These strategic appointments had been under way for about five months when Jennifer was again taken to the hospital, this time with an infection in her heart and another in her legs. She showed no signs of alarm, but simply told us that it had happened before. Nothing serious, she insisted, but the doctors were not so sanguine. Fu and Grace decided that they were tired of hiding and that Jenny had the right to know the women who were looking after her daughter. I went with them to the hospital, ignoring legal protocol. “If the social worker finds out, you all will be in a jam,” warned Willie, who thinks like a lawyer and still did not know Rebecca well.
Jennifer was a pitiable sight; you could count her teeth through the translucent skin of her cheeks, her hair was a tangled doll’s wig, and her hands were blue and the nails black. Her mother was also there, horrified to see her daughter in that state. I think she had accepted the fact that Jennifer would not live much longer, but was hoping at least to reconnect with her before the end. She thought that they would talk and make peace in the hospital—after so many years of hurting each other—but once more her daughter would run away before the medications could take effect. Our difficulties made Willie’s first wife and me very close; she had suffered with her children—both of them were addicted to drugs—and I had lost you, Paula. She had been divorced from Willie for more than twenty years, and both of them had remarried. I don’t think there was any lingering bad feeling, but if there was, the arrival of Sabrina in their lives had redeemed it. The attraction that had brought Willie and her together in their youth had turned to mutual disillusion shortly after their marriage, and had ended ten years later in divorce. Except for their children they had nothing in common.
During the years they were married, Willie was entirely dedicated to his career, determined to be successful and make money, and his wife felt abandoned and often fell into deep depressions. It was, furthermore, their fate to have lived in the turbulence of the ’60s, when customs were greatly relaxed in this part of the world. Free love was in vogue, couples swapped partners as a form of entertainment, at parties people bathed naked in Jacuzzis, and everyone drank martinis and smoked marijuana, while the children ran wild through the middle of it all. Those experiments left in their wake a multi
tude of easily predictable destroyed marriages. But Willie says that that wasn’t the cause of the break. “We were like oil and water; we didn’t blend together, that marriage couldn’t last.” At the beginning of my relationship with Willie, I asked him whether our arrangement was going to be “open”—a euphemism for mutual infidelity—or monogamous. I needed to have that clarified because I have neither time nor inclination to spy on a fickle lover. “Monogamous,” he replied without hesitation. “I’ve tried the other formula and it’s a disaster.” “That’s good, but if I catch you in a little peccadillo I’ll kill you, your children, and the dog. Do you hear what I’m saying?” “Perfectly.” I myself have respected our deal with more decency than might be expected of a person of my character, and I suppose he has done the same, but I wouldn’t stake my life on it.
Jennifer took her baby and held her to her squalid breast, as she thanked Fu and Grace over and over. Both of those women have the gift of investing everything they touch with humor, calm, and beauty. They breached Jennifer’s defenses—something no one had ever accomplished before—and prepared to accept her with all their compassion, which is considerable. Thus a sordid drama was transformed into a spiritual experience. Grace stroked Jennifer, smoothed her hair, kissed her forehead, and assured her that she could see Sabrina every day if she wished; she herself would bring her, and when Jennifer was released from the hospital she could visit the baby at the center. She told how intelligent and lively Sabrina was, how she was beginning to drink milk without difficulty, but did not mention any of her serious health problems.
“Don’t you think Jennifer should know the truth, Grace?” I asked as we left.
“What truth?”
“That if Sabrina keeps growing weaker at this rate . . . her white cells—”
“She’s not going to die. I can swear to that,” she interrupted with calm conviction.
That was the last time we would ever see Jennifer.
On May 25, 1994, we celebrated Sabrina’s first birthday at the Zen Center, in a circle of some fifty barefoot people, some wearing the loose robes of medieval pilgrims, some with shaved heads, and some with that expression of suspicious placidity that earmarks vegetarians. Celia, Nico, their little ones, Jason, with his girlfriend, Sally, and the rest of the family were there. The only woman wearing makeup was me, and the only man with a camera was Willie. In the center of the room, amid a riot of balloons, several children were playing around a monumental organic carrot cake. Sabrina—crowned queen of Ethiopia by Alejandro—dressed as a gnome, with metallic star stickers on her forehead and with a yellow balloon tied to her belt so she could be seen and not stepped on, was passed from arm to arm and from kiss to kiss. Compared to my granddaughter Nicole, who was as solid as a koala bear, Sabrina looked like a soft little doll, but in that one year she had defied nearly all the fatalistic prognoses of the doctors; she was now able to sit up and she was trying to crawl, and she could identify all the residents of the Zen Center. The invited guests, one by one, introduced themselves. “I am Kate. I take care of Sabrina on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” “My name is Mark and I am her physical therapist.” “I am Michael, a Zen monk for thirty years, and Sabrina is my teacher. . . .”
Little Everyday Miracles
DECEMBER 6, 1993, was the first anniversary of your death. I wanted to remember you as beautiful, unassuming, content, dressed as a bride or holding a black umbrella and leaping over puddles in the rain in Toledo, Spain. But at night, in my bad dreams, I was assaulted by the most tragic images: your hospital bed, the hoarse sound of the respirator, your wheelchair, the handkerchief we used to cover the hole of the tracheotomy, your clenched hands. I had prayed so many times to die in your place, and later, when that exchange was impossible, prayed to die after you did, that in all fairness I should have been seriously ill. But dying is very difficult, as you know and as my grandfather told me shortly before he completed a century of living. A year had gone by since your death and I was still alive, thanks to my family’s affection and the magical needles and Chinese herbs of my wise Japanese friend Miki Shima, who had been with you and me during those long months when you were saying good-bye. I don’t know what effect his remedies had on you, but his tranquil presence and spiritual messages kept me going week after week. “Don’t say you want to die, that makes me so sad that I want to die,” my mother reproached me once when I hinted at that in a letter. She was not my only reason for living; I had Willie and Nico and Celia, and those three grandchildren who often woke me with their grubby little hands and slobbery kisses, smelling of sweat and pacifiers. At night, all in the same bed snuggled close together, we would watch frightening videos of dinosaurs devouring the actors. Alejandro, four years old, would take my hand and tell me not to be afraid, it was all a big fib; afterward the monsters vomited up the people whole because they didn’t chew them.
On the morning of that anniversary I took Alejandro to the forest we now call “Paula’s forest.” That’s rather presumptuous of us, daughter, it is a state park. It was raining, and very cold; our feet sank into the mud, the air smelled of pines, and a sad winter light was filtering through the treetops. My grandson ran ahead of me, toes out and arms flapping like a duck. As soon as we neared the stream—tumultuous in winter—where we had scattered your ashes, he immediately recognized it.
“Paula was sick yesterday,” he said. For him anything in the past was yesterday.
“Yes. She died.”
“Who killed her?”
“It wasn’t like television, Alejandro. Sometimes people get sick and just die.”
“Where do dead people go?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“She went down there,” he said, pointing to the stream.
“Her ashes went with the water, but her spirit lives in this forest. Isn’t this a great place?”
“No,” he decided. “It would be better if she was living with us.”
We stayed a long time remembering you in that green cathedral, where we could feel you, tangible and present, like the cold breeze and the rain.
That evening the family, including Ernesto, who’d come from New Jersey, and a few friends got together at our home. We sat in the living room and celebrated the gifts you had given us during your lifetime and the gifts you continued to give us, such as the births of the grandchildren Sabrina and Nicole, and the incorporation into our tribe of the mothers Fu and Grace, along with Sally. A humble white candle with a hole in the center presided over the altar we had improvised to hold your photographs and mementos.
The year before, three days after your death, I had met with the Sisters of Disorder at one of their homes, as we always did on Tuesday; we made a circle around six new candles. I was numb with grief over your departure. “I have this burning in the center of my body, like a fire in my womb,” I told them. We joined hands, closed our eyes, and my friends directed toward me their affection and their prayers, to help me endure the pain of those days. I asked for a sign, an indication that you had not disappeared into nothingness forever, that your spirit existed somewhere. Suddenly I heard Jean’s voice. “Look at your candle, Isabel!” My candle was burning in the center. “There’s your fire in the womb,” Jean added. We waited. The flame melted the wax and formed a hollow in the middle of the candle, but it did not bend or split apart. Just as it had spontaneously caught fire, instants later the flame went out. The candle was hollowed out, but erect, and I took that as the sign I was waiting for, a wink you’d sent me from another dimension: the raw burn of your death would not break me. Nico later examined the candle and couldn’t find the cause of that strange flame in the center; maybe the candle was defective, or had a double wick that lighted from a spark. “Why do you want an explanation, Mamá?” he asked. “What matters is that you received the sign you asked for, that’s enough.” I suppose he wanted me to be content, because given his healthy skepticism, I don’t think he believed it was a miracle.
Fu explained to all of us that we
lighted incense because the smoke rises like our thoughts, and the light of the candles represents wisdom, clarity, and life. Flowers symbolize beauty and continuity; they die but they leave seeds for other flowers, just as our seeds survive in our grandchildren. Each person shared some sentiment or memory. Celia, the last to speak, said, “Paula, remember that you have two nieces and a nephew, and you must take very good care of them, for they may have porphyria too. Remember to watch and see that Sabrina has a long and happy life. And remember, too, that Ernesto needs another wife; so go ahead and find him a girlfriend.”
To end our evening we mixed earth with a pinch of the ashes I had saved from your cremation, and planted a little tree in a pot, with the idea that as soon as it set its roots we could put it out in our garden or in your forest.
Cheri Forrester, our compassionate doctor, was also there, along with Miki Shima, who days before had cast the I Ching sticks for me. What they had said was: “The woman has patiently tolerated the desolate earth; she is crossing the river, barefoot and with determination; she counts on people who are at a distance, but does not have companions; she must walk alone through the middle crossing.” I thought it was very clear. Dr. Shima said that he had received a message from you. “Paula is fine, she is moving along her spiritual path but she looks after us and is present among us. She says she does not want us to keep weeping over her, she wants to see us happy.” Nico and Willie exchanged meaningful glances; they do not fully believe in this fine man. They argue that he can’t prove anything he says, but that night I had no doubt that it was your voice because it was so similar to the message you left in your will. “Please, don’t be sad. I am still with all of you, just closer than before. Later on we will be reunited in spirit, but in the meantime we will be close as long as you remember me. Don’t forget that we, we spirits, most effectively help, accompany, and protect those who are content.” That is what you wrote, daughter. Cheri Forrester cried and cried because her mother died at your age, and from what she said, you two were very much alike physically.
The Sum of Our Days Page 7
