Mama, battered from the assault, turns even more silent and forgetful. She leaves trails of cigarettes she’s started and put down. She burns a pot of beans and overcooks the rice. Her hands shake and her eyes dart around but I can’t tell what she’s looking at. Daddy repaints the skiff and puts a new coat of varnish on his workshop, his face grim and lined. It’s almost like he’s trying to seal up and cover over everything that’s blistered and bad.
I vow I’ll never mention boys to my father, ever, in fear that I too will be branded a prostitute, a slut. I try my best to be invisible. It seems as if the bottom of my life has dropped out and there is no safe place to stand. Everything looks different, flat and colorless even as the sky shines bright blue and the ocean begins its restless green surge from summer storms. Daddy once drew me a picture of a hurricane’s eye, the still center looking like the hole of a doughnut, empty but surrounded by churn. “The calm is deceptive,” he’d said. “And it doesn’t last. It can’t—the hurricane’s always moving, and the eye travels with it. And then you’re hit with the full impact again.”
I have recurring dreams where Casalata is the eye of the hurricane. I’m in my bed and the sheets are strangling me so I can’t move. I scream out Berta’s name but no sound comes out, and she’s the only one running, running away. I try to tell her she has to stay, but she vanishes into the black of the surrounding storm.
We have a near-miss during hurricane season, but the storm veers upward into the Atlantic, bringing only some wild surf and two days of heavy rains. I want the storm to hit; I want the full fury. I want something to fight, or really something to be protected from, and someone to protect me.
Chapter Fifteen
The Disappearance
Berta gives birth to a baby boy and names him Mitch. We learn this by letter weeks later. No pictures come, no joyful reports. On a spring morning a barefoot boy delivers a telegram, hovering around until Mama fetches a tip and sends him on his way. Telegrams are infrequent and always bear bad news. The last one we received was several years ago when one of my uncles in New York died. This one is from Berta’s in-laws, requesting that we phone them as soon as possible. Nothing else. Mama walks the kilometer to the town’s makeshift telephone office. At lunchtime she’s still gone. Daddy says I should go see what the hell’s going on; I think he just wants to eat. I’m hungry too as I wheel my bicycle down the bumpy street.
There’s some kind of commotion in front of the telegraph office. Mama is kneeling in the dirt and two women are trying to pull her up. I drop the bicycle and run to her. The ladies say she was on the teléfono and then she started screaming and ran outside and fell. Mama just cries “no, no, no,” over and over. I don’t know what to do. One of the women brings a glass of water and a red parasol. I try to shade Mama. Finally she sits up and pulls me to her and whispers that we have to go home now. She dusts herself off and I can see she’s still unsteady. Her shin is scraped and bleeding and she doesn’t seem to notice the flies buzzing around her leg. The ladies bring a cloth but Mama waves them away, saying she’s fine.
“What’s wrong?” I squeak through a tight throat.
She shakes her head. “Not here.” We walk in thick silence. I’ll get the bicycle later. I hold Mama’s hand—something we never do. It’s clammy and cold. When we get home, she falls against Daddy and starts talking, so low I can hardly hear her. Daddy for once is quiet. He lights a cigarette and hands it to her.
BERTA HAS DISAPPEARED and has been missing for over two weeks. Scott’s parents didn’t contact us sooner because they thought it might just be a marital spat and that Berta would come back, but it’s been too long, and do we know anything? This is what we learn: Berta’s husband came home for lunch one day in between school and his afternoon job and found the baby asleep in the crib. The infant had recently been changed and fed, but Berta was gone. No note, nothing. Just gone. The parents took the baby boy home with them and are now caring for him, still thinking Berta might return at any time. They’ve filed a missing persons report and the local police have been called in. That’s all anyone can do. There is no evidence of foul play. Just wait and see if she comes back. She probably will, they say. Lover’s spat, most likely. They promise to telegraph us as soon as they hear anything. No, there doesn’t seem to be any reason for us to fly to Florida, they are happy to take care of the baby for the time being—he’s a sweet one, she says; he’s used to his grandma. He’ll be fine.
The shock is so great I retreat into dense numbness. Mama becomes a pale shell, almost a ghost of herself. Daddy decides we’ll tell no one anything. Berta will come back to her baby, all will be fine. We just have to be patient and wait. Daddy drinks even more heavily, but instead of exploding at us he falls into a stupor, and Mama is able to get him to bed most nights; his snores keep me awake for hours. When I finally fall asleep, it’s to nightmares. Berta’s calling for me, but I can’t see her, can’t find her.
Mama keeps saying we’ll get good news soon enough. Nothing we can worry about. But she fidgets and trembles, and her hair starts falling out. I find gray strands choking the shower drain. She and Daddy smoke cigarettes one after the other, leaving burning stubs forgotten. They send up smoke signals, distress calls. I snuff them out.
A month goes by and then a letter arrives from Berta’s in-laws with a newspaper clipping inside. A young woman’s body has been found floating in the Gulf somewhere on the west coast of Florida. The body is so decomposed that it is impossible to identify except they know she was blonde, and that her approximate age was seventeen or eighteen. Scott’s parents don’t know if it is Berta, but since the description does fit, they’ve decided we should at least be aware of the news story. They reassure us that, in any case, they’ve decided to adopt the baby.
Everything goes blank, except for the one thing I am ordered to do. Daddy decides to keep up the pretense in the village. So within our family, now shriveled to three—we know what we’ve been told, but to the rest of the world we are to say Berta is happy in Florida.
Yes, Señora de La Cruz, the baby’s growing up fine. No, Don Elpidio, I don’t know why she forgets to send pictures. Yes, Juanita, maybe this year they’ll come home for Christmas, but it’s hard for her husband to get away from his job, you understand?
Chapter Sixteen
Just a Case of Nerves
A few mornings later I wake up to a strange silence. In my pajamas, I open the curtain and look out in the kitchen. No Mama. I don’t remember a day she hasn’t been up at dawn to start the coffee. Mornings hum with certain sounds and smells, comforting ones even in this despair. The toasted bite of fresh coffee, a hint of tobacco smoke, and the faint metallic creak as Mama opens the kitchen door to the morning breeze. But not today. The kitchen is empty. Daddy is pacing in the living room, looking pale under his weathered tan.
“Your mother is sick,” he says. I peer into their bedroom and Mama is just lying there, staring at the wall, not even looking out the window at the singing birds in the orange tree. Daddy brings the thermometer but she turns her head away and clamps her mouth shut.
I squeak out “Mama?” as chills run up and down my spine. She blinks, and then starts to cry, little whimpers that sound faint and far away. I twist my hands and arms until I’m like a pretzel. I take a jagged breath. I must be strong, must do something, so I brew the coffee when all I want to do is scream and scream until I crumple. Daddy talks to Mama in a low tone. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but he comes into the kitchen and tells me to bicycle down to the clínica and have someone come to look at her.
“She’ll be all right,” he says, but I can tell by his eyes he’s worried.
It’s still early morning and the clinic won’t be open yet, but the doctor lives next door to it, so I pedal as fast as I can. No one is on the street except the milk vendor and his donkey. Two metal vessels rock in their makeshift saddle as they make their way to Juan Kair’s store. I pass the bakery and the smell of yeast floats by. At the othe
r end of town, by the church, I knock on the door of the doctor’s house. I can see his wife—burning carbón, the local firewood—in the outside kitchen. She comes over to where I’m standing, shaking in my sandals. The doctor has been out in the campo since last night attending to a farmer who lost three fingers in a machete accident.
“I’ll get the nurse to come to your house,” she says. I don’t move. “Don’t worry,” she assures me again. “I’ll go now and find her.”
A nurse comes within the hour. Her name is Livia and she sits with Mama until the doctor gets back into town. I scramble some eggs and Daddy and I sit at the table, eating in silence. We can hear Livia murmuring to Mama. I think it must just be a touch of gripe. But the nurse has managed to take her temperature, and it’s normal. Nervios, she says. It’s nerves. But Mama still won’t move, won’t get out of bed. The doctor arrives with stethoscope and a worn leather case full of shiny metal instruments, boxes of pills, and mysterious potions. Mama has had a nervous breakdown; that’s what the doctor calls it. Is there any reason Doña Emily might have had an attack of the nerves? No, not really, Daddy says. She never gets sick. I bite my tongue until it bleeds. No reason? No reason?
The doctor shakes his head and says she needs to get to the clínica in El Seybo. “There’s something wrong, but I can’t really help her. But they have doctors with more training there—even doctors for the head.” He means the mind, I know. I’ve read about psychiatrists, but they’re for people who go crazy. “I’ve given her a calmante for her nerves,” he says. “But she should go as soon as possible. Today. I’ll see if Padre Daniel can take her in his jeep.”
Livia gets Mama to sit up. She looks at Daddy finally. Her eyes are glazed, but at least she’s talking now. “They want to take me to El Seybo? No, no. I’m fine, really. Just tired.” She closes her eyes as if she’s going to lie back down in bed, but the nurse props her up like a doll and begins to remove her nightgown. I watch from the doorway. I’m not used to seeing Mama naked. Her breasts droop against her chest as she steps into her underwear. She sits listlessly as Livia lifts her arms and slips the brassiere straps over them. I move past her to Mama’s small closet and select her travel dress, the light blue one that doesn’t wrinkle in long car rides. I stare at the sight of my mother unable to help herself. Fingers of fear push into my throat and I feel like I’m going to throw up. But I shake it off. Mama sees me then. I can tell she recognizes me, but her eyes are all soft and unfocused from the calmante.
“The doctor,” she shrugs, “thinks I must to go to the clínica in El Seybo. Oh, well, have to obey doctor’s orders, I guess,” as if she’s just humoring him. I nod, straightening up, so she doesn’t see how scared I am.
Padre Daniel and his Jeep carry Mama over the mountain to the clinic in El Seybo. The nurse’s sister Amelia comes twice a day and brings food we can heat up for lunch and dinner. It tastes much better than Mama’s cooking, which is bland. I know I shouldn’t think that. I do my lessons every day, and Daisy and Zuleica come to play most afternoons. At sunset Daddy pulls out the Scrabble game and we sit on the porch and play a game. He fixes himself a drink but only has one before dinner. I’m not used to being with Daddy alone, and I think it’s strange for him too. We don’t talk much, but we play our word games in some kind of truce. I beat him sometimes and he says “good going.” I show him one of my paintings that I’ve been working on, and he tells me the perspective is slightly off. He pulls out a piece of paper and shows me where to position the vanishing point in a picture so that it reads true. I heat up Amelia’s stewed chicken and set the table.
Daddy settles into reading after his meal. After washing up, I usually read in bed, but tonight I bring my drawing tablet out and sit near him in the living room. He looks at me in surprise and then goes back to his National Geographic. I’ll get to read it when he’s done.
Daddy goes up to Cocoloco for two days to tend to the copra. Amelia stays with me while he’s gone, sleeping in Berta’s bed. I wake in the middle of the night and for a moment think it’s Berta softly snoring. Then I grip my stomach, nauseous. Can’t think about Berta being dead. She can’t be. I reach out and find Bobby sleeping by my feet, and pull his warm body up next to me. He squirms, then sighs and settles in. He seems to know I’m upset, and I place my hand against his little chest as he breathes. In and out, in and out. As if there’s nothing wrong; as if it’s that easy to fall back to sleep. The worst part is when I wake up and the dread flows in. Like a liquid seeping through all my veins, a poison spreads until my whole body is a mass of fear, a dark swamp like the bottom of the laguna, where everything is dangerous.
On a rainy morning Padre Daniel takes Daddy to pick up Mama from the clinic. Amelia cleans the house and I fidget and pace, waiting for them to come home. The rain worsens and the bay is lit with lightning and thunder. I worry about the mountain road, which can wash out in storms. The rain pounds onto the aluminum roof, and it fills the house with noise, so I don’t hear the bell when the back gate opens. Suddenly Mama and Daddy are home. She looks pale and weak, but her eyes are clear as she leans to give me a squeeze. Daddy lights a cigarette and reaches out with a hand to my shoulder to join in the hug. I hesitate between wanting to shrug him away, as if I didn’t see his gesture, and wanting to pull him close.
Daddy stays sober as Mama recovers. She goes back to her old routines as if nothing out of the ordinary has taken place. Sometimes I catch her just gazing off to the horizon, but she doesn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular. At the end of the day, they nurse their five o’clock drinks and resume their sunset-watching hour on the pier. I begin to breathe more easily. Our nights now are like a pot that’s been turned down to simmer after it boiled over and made a mess of the entire stove—the kind that you scrub and scrub but there’s always a patch of burnt residue that won’t go away. I slide into the background again. I figure it’s just a matter of time before the pot starts to heat up again. But for a long time Daddy stays relatively sober, working harder and longer days.
Berta’s absence keeps me silent company, filling my dreams with sadness. We never talk, any of us, about her during this time. I walk the empty beach with Bobby and think of all the times Berta and I hiked the shore, looking for shells, and how she’d jump into the bay and swim parallel to the surf as fast as she could until she got out of breath. Bobby would follow her into the waves but couldn’t keep up with her. He’d turn around and paddle ashore, barking at her until he got distracted by a scuttling crab. I splashed in the shallows; I was afraid of the deep water because I couldn’t see below the surface without my glasses. After her swim, Berta would throw herself on the sand, panting from the effort. Bobby would run back and jump on her and we’d all roll around in the waves, sandy and salty, and Berta would snort with laughter.
I find Mama, one morning in June, emptying Berta’s dresser. Wordlessly, she gives me some shirts and a skirt I’ve suddenly grown into. What doesn’t fit me she folds and puts in a cardboard box. Will they show up on one of the village orphans, or will she just throw it all away? The questions lurk in the corners like ghosts, faintly visible but never acknowledged. Will we ever speak the truth—and if we do, will Berta’s memory disappear like a passing storm? It never seems odd to me that we don’t have any kind of private funeral or memorial service, or do anything at all that relates to the yellowing newspaper clipping tucked away in Mama’s jewelry box, underneath Berta’s last letter.
Chapter Seventeen
Bobby
Mama and Daddy are trying extra hard to save money since I’ll be going to boarding school next year for tenth grade. With the instability in the government, the price for copra has plunged again. Daddy has to sell more copra to make up for the loss of income, and he’s working almost twice as many hours as usual. At least that means he doesn’t drink quite as much, so our nights are sometimes peaceful.
I begin to paint self-portraits, which I keep hidden under the bed. In them, I’m peering from behind
a wall, and only part of me shows—one eye, part of a nose and mouth. I can’t seem to imagine what being whole looks like, much less feels like. I get quiet inside when I’m working on a picture, and I’m not aware that hours have passed. It’s like when I read a good book and all of a sudden it’s suppertime and I haven’t noticed it’s getting dark outside. Painting is when my mind goes blank except for what’s right in front of me. I forget about Daddy’s last episode, or stop thinking about Berta. When I’m tired of self-portraits, I decide I’ll draw Bobby. He mostly just lies around these days, which makes it easy to work on my picture. He’s ten now, which I guess is pretty old in dog years, but I’m getting worried about him. He’s too listless. I pick him up and he whines like he is in pain. I get hot all over and begin to shiver. I swallow hard.
“Mama, something’s wrong with Bobby.”
She frowns. “He hasn’t been himself lately, has he? Maybe he got into some stickers.” She crouches down and pats him on the head. He licks her hand and wags his tail, but it’s a slow wag, and then he tucks his tail between his legs again.
“Let’s look at you,” Mama says. She runs her fingers over his legs and paws. “Nothing wrong here.” Bobby rolls over and Mama pats at his belly, which looks a little swollen. He whimpers and I catch my breath.
Daddy examines him next and clicks his tongue. “He’s got some kind of lump.” He pokes around some more and Bobby gives a sharp yelp.
“Can we get a doctor to fix it?” My voice quavers. “Please?”
Mama bicycles to the clínica later that day and talks with an enfermera, a nurse. The doctor is away for a few days, but she’ll tell him to come see us when he’s back. He shows up the next week and shakes his head as he inspects Bobby. “Lo siento,” he says. “I’m sorry.” It’s a tumor and there’s nothing he can do. It will only get worse. He can come back and give him some kind of shot, if we want to put him out of his pain that way.
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