Dominicana, page 25
On Lenny’s first day of school I urge Mamá to come with us.
It’d be good for you to get some fresh air, I say. You haven’t left the apartment in days.
If you were only better at keeping a house I would have the luxury to go outside, she says. Every time I ask her to go anywhere she has something better to do.
Well, have it your way.
I make Lenny put on his coat. Juan is already waiting at the elevator. He’ll walk us to P.S. 128 on his way to work. I’ve walked past the school plenty of times, so there is no way I will get lost, but Juan insists. He and Lenny get on well. Juan wishes for a son.
As we walk on Broadway he takes one of Lenny’s hands, I take the other.
When we arrive to the school, a two-story brick building with a play area in front, a crowd of parents with their children is already waiting for the heavy metal school doors to open at 8:25 a.m., not a minute earlier or later.
Don’t leave me here, Lenny says. He tries to be brave, fighting back tears. Just weeks before, he was running under the sun, in Los Guayacanes. Everything is happening too fast.
Juan crouches down to look Lenny in the face.
He smiles in a way I have never seen before, and I imagine him with César at Lenny’s age, helping him navigate everything. Juan looks around at the crowd; everyone is speaking English. He grabs Lenny’s coat collar to pull him close.
You see me? I’m old. All my life I’ll have to work like a dog. It’s too late for me. But you, you have a chance to get an education. If you study hard, you can become a doctor or lawyer or work on Wall Street like those white people. You hear me, big man?
Lenny nods, fighting tears.
People stare at us, move away from us as if we have a bad odor.
You know what I do when I don’t understand what people are saying? Juan says.
Lenny shakes his head.
I nod and smile. For everything I say, Jes ser, jes mam.
Jes se, Lenny says in the softest of voices.
You’re young, I add, like a sponge. One day, you’re gonna wake up and know three times as much as everyone here.
Lenny hugs him so tight Juan struggles out of his embrace.
It’s impossible not to admire Juan at that moment. He knows how to take care of things. He knows how to take care of us.
I remind Lenny that in his backpack there are two sharpened pencils, a notebook, and a sandwich with ham and cheese in a plastic bag. I point to our building so that he sees we are only a few blocks away.
When Juan leaves and the school doors open, I say, I’ll be waiting right here when you get out.
Remind me how I say my name again?
Mi neym es Lenny. Okay? Now go. Go.
The baby has dropped. My belly, low and heavy, makes it difficult for me to stand for more than a few minutes.
You okay? Juan asks.
For once, Juan speaks tentatively, moves about with care, doesn’t ask me to get up, as if any movement will make me pop. We both hold our breath waiting for the contractions.
Mamá says, Be strong, your body is made for this. Remember how your sister did it and the next day she went out dancing?
The doctor warns that the pressure between my legs will feel like a bad menstrual cramp, like I need to empty my bowels. She instructs me to stay home until I am three minutes apart. To just keep moving. To distract myself with chores. Scrub the floors, wash the dishes, sweep. The doctor says moving is good. Staying still is bad. But Mamá leaves nothing for me to do around the house. I have witnessed many women back home have babies before. I fetched them water, tore the sheets, called for the midwife, fed them ice chips. I have wiped the sweat from their foreheads and upper lips, held their hands. I was there to catch the baby for Teresa. I was there. But now that it’s me, I’m scared. And having Mamá and Juan pace back and forth from one room to another asking me over and over again, Is it time, isn’t helping.
The phone rings. I hope for César even if it’s never going to be him.
Mamá picks it up and yells into it, Alo.
Give it to me, I say. Any distraction from the labor is good. I breathe into the breath. The reliable breath.
Maybe it’s Teresa? Mamá says. With a bad connection?
I rock the back of my head against the wall left and right, hold the phone against my chest.
But who is it? she asks again and I smile. To think Mamá is more naïve than me.
It’s the woman of Juan, I say, as if throwing a bomb into the living room can stop the pain.
Shush your mouth, Mamá says.
I press my back against the wall and slide into a squatting position. An all-over body ache, a dizziness. The pain blinds me. Juan, I say in the smallest of voices. I’m not sure if the words are coming out of my mouth or floating inside my head. My shirt is drenched in perspiration despite the cooler weather.
When Juan comes home for lunch he finds me stretched on the floor like a foal. Mamá stands over me, yelling at him, Do something. Do something.
Juan rushes me to the hospital, Mamá close behind him with my packed bag.
The doctor says I have dilated, but it will still be a while. Go home, she advises. You’ll be more comfortable there.
But I have to go back to work, Juan says.
No you don’t. You have to take the rest of the day off, Mamá demands, and grips his arm.
Juan pushes her away. This startles Mamá. She blinks once, looks from Juan to me and back at him.
We go out to the waiting room and sit to figure out what to do next.
I’m okay here, I say to Juan. You should go to work.
Juan hesitates. Mamá is still giving him the evil eye. He fears her a little. Maybe because she’s slightly older than him. Maybe because she sees right through him.
Mamá, I say, with the baby coming we can’t afford for Juan not to work. Let him go.
She sits with her arms across her chest. The doctors, the nurses, the person at the register all speaking in English make her feel powerless.
I’ll rush here after work, Juan says, and kisses me good-bye. Juan takes my packed bag and places it under my feet as a footrest.
To get through the pain I focus on Coney Island. How I was warm and drunk after taking a long nap on the beach. How the waves crashed softly near my feet and the taste of the salty fries lingered on my lips.
* * *
For hours, I watch people push open the swing doors of the hospital—a broken leg, a gunshot wound, an asthma attack, sickly children with their parents. I cover my nose and mouth with my scarf. The overhead lights make everyone look jaundiced. Mamá sits beside me without saying a word, watching. But she pats my hands firmly, as if saying, You can do this.
I breathe in and out of my nose, fall in and out of sleep. Water touches my toes at the beach; a sharp line divides the water and sky. The waves of pain increase and wash over me from head to toe.
I’m on a boat. A wheelchair. I call, César? I scream, Juan? The waves pound against me. I reach out, my hands open. A nurse catches them. Feet inside of stirrups, temperature taken. One nurse after another spreads open my legs to check if I’m ready. Water. Water. Under water. I push. Push. Push. Emptying my bowels. Emptying my womb.
Altagracia Ruiz-Canción is born 24 October 1965. Named after Juan’s mother. Nine pounds, six ounces, all five fingers and five toes; eyes wide open, a head full of newborn curly black hair. What a miracle! So tiny—hands and feet and toenails.
Welcome.
I hold her close to my body, relieved to finally have her in the world. As if recognizing my voice, she cries, exercises her lungs, asks to be fed, to be held—skin against skin, choosing attachment over solitude. She gropes the air, eyes sealed, discovering it’s cold and too bright outside of the womb. Her toothless mouth parts, as if smiling. Her fist punches the air with determination. And a wave of love fills every empty corner in my heart. So full, so full. I know now why I survived. For once everything makes sense. Traveling from Los Guayacanes, marrying Juan, without all of it, she would’ve never been born.
When Juan arrives, Altagracia is swaddled in the nursery. I pretend to sleep. I don’t want to see anything that will distract me from her beautiful face. Juan leans over me, kisses my cheeks, forehead, and hands.
You did good, he says. Soon we will try for a boy.
My sweet sweet Caridad,
You warned me about family. That family is chosen, not blood. But all my life, my brothers is all I know. When one is hurt, I hurt. When one is in trouble, I’m in trouble. Ramón has betrayed us all in ways I may never forgive. But he’s like a father to me. And César, can you believe it, he won’t return my phone calls.
I write to you from this place full of disappointments. I’m living in an alien country without rules. Where will I go if we can’t return home? I think often about a walk you and I took by the Hudson River. Remember? When on the grass the shadows of our bodies became one and you said, where you go, I’m with you. Wherever I go, you’re with me. Together we will always be home. This is what it really means to be married. We don’t need a contract. We don’t need a witness. Because we know what we are. I want to believe this with all my heart. I really do. But the reality is that you have a husband who any day now will claim you when he returns from war, and I have Ana and a baby, who need me.
My only refuge is to think about your smell. It’s fading from memory, I admit this. The way your eyes light up every time you look at me. You have forgiven me many times but maybe this time you’ll understand why I can’t, shouldn’t see you again. To love you has blinded me from paying attention to my goals. Somehow love has made me soft and stupid. I can’t make you happy and make Ana happy. I just can’t. You deserve more. So much more. When Ana’s brother died I was reminded how we can’t live with closed eyes. I love you more than you’ll ever know.
Yours,
Juancho
After forty-eight hours of rest at the hospital I am sent home. I find the apartment full of people waiting to meet the baby. I count in disbelief: Hector, Yrene, and Antonio. Drinking. Puffing on cigars Juan has brought back from Dominican Republic. A cloud of smoke hovers over all our heads. I cough. A shooting pain travels up through my back.
Lenny hides in the bedroom and his head pokes out. Since he started school he’s lost his tongue. Lots of nodding and smiling. Lots of writing in his notebook. Lots of, My name is Lenny.
Mamá is in the kitchen, banging pots.
You look great! Hector yells from across the living room.
I hold Altagracia, my smile tense, my legs heavy pipes. The anesthetics wear away. My stitches pinch. I may not have understood the doctor’s assessment, but I feel every bit of the damage. I was ripped open from one side to the other. The doctor called it a third-degree laceration. I feel feverish and weak, but I smile. Mamá and Juan want me to be strong.
Juan wraps his arm around my shoulders. We stand side by side under the arch between the foyer and living room. Smile. Smile. Smile.
A new beginning for the perfect couple.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
I am with César at the World’s Fair. He carries me off in a taxi to a quiet place with a comfortable bed. He gives me a foot massage and some of his lentil soup. The baby is our baby.
Smile. Smile. Smile.
Yrene comes toward me and asks if she can hold the baby. Antonio surprises me with a small pink bag dangling from his wrist. Chocolates? Of course, chocolates.
This is reason to celebrate, Hector says, raises the volume of the music, and they all clap.
I should put the baby to bed, I say. Juan pats my back in agreement, pushing me toward the bedroom.
I carefully back myself onto the bed and slide myself into a sitting position, afraid of the shooting pain every time I cough, sit, walk, or stand. The doctors warned me not to squat, not to stretch, not to carry heavy objects. Take it easy, they said.
The baby wakes up hungry. I’m hungry too. I unravel her from the blanket, placing her on my breast. I hear Juan laugh over the blaring music in the other room. Take it easy? Here? A cool glass of water, please. A salt bath to soak in for the pain, please. Some quiet, please. The baby fusses; her gums tug at my nipple. Lenny shows himself, from under the bed, places his chin on the edge and looks to me.
Does it hurt?
No. It’s natural, I say, trying to be strong for him.
He caresses her wrinkly hands and sings, What’s going on, Alti, Tati?
I need to relax. I put my nipple toward the roof of her mouth the same way the nurse has shown me. She falls off, her lips rooting, hungry.
Coño, I say.
She cries and her entire body turns a bright pink, stretching all tightly wound limbs, undoing her blanket, her pitch high and incessant. Her cries make my breasts engorge. I start to cry along with her, grateful that the music in the other room is loud enough so no one can hear me—but I forget Lenny is here.
You hold wrong, a voice says from the doorway. I look up quickly and wipe my tears. Yrene walks over and takes two pillows and tells me to lean back. She places another pillow under my arm. She takes my nipple like I used to when milking goats and stuffs it whole into the baby’s mouth.
Let weight do work, she says, pointing to the floor. I think I understand.
The baby latches. We both feel an immediate relief, a lightheadedness. I could’ve easily fallen asleep while nursing had everyone not been waiting for me out there. Couldn’t they come next week? What were they thinking?
Diablo, Lenny says, staring at me wide-eyed. You’re like a cow.
You go, Yrene tells him.
This was much easier at the hospital, I tell Yrene. She was like my little piglet.
Yrene pulls out a tissue from her purse and wipes my nose as she would her own kid. My eyes and cheeks are wet, my nose still full of snot. She hands me another tissue and says, Take time. Not rush baby, okay? She tell you, stop.
Then Yrene stands up, pats Lenny to join her, and leaves me by myself. I think back to our time at Hector’s house in Tarrytown, how ragged she’d looked, how short she’d been with me, and now I want to kick myself. There she was, serving us food and drinks, without Mamá to help her keep house. And all I could think about then was Yrene’s half-tongue.
I admire Altagracia’s beaklike mouth, her tiny hands and fists. I finger her earlobes, still not pierced but ready for her first gold earrings. I catch my pinkie under the thin gold bracelet Juan bought her upon my insistence. The amulet dangles from her wrist: a black coral fist with red trim made for protection.
I won’t let anyone hurt you, ever.
After she falls asleep on my breast, I swaddle her and lay her on her belly inside the bassinet. I powder my cheeks and nose, still blotchy from all the crying.
When I reappear in the living room, Juan waves me in and tells me I should eat. I am starving. I shove a piece of bread in my mouth.
Do you need to rest? Antonio asks. I’ll come by another day. I only stopped by because I heard Ramón is in town.
No, no, no, says Juan. Ana doesn’t mind. My wife’s a cannon. Stronger than a bull. We’ll have at least five kids, right?
Why not a baseball team? I say, biting my cheek, glancing at Yrene.
That’s my girl, Mamá says, carrying in plates filled with root vegetables, rice, and stewed meat.
I fear the stitches will rip open, so I sit down. But as soon as I sit Mamá calls me to the kitchen. Where did you put this pot? Where is the extra bag of coffee? Can you please set the table?
Ana, get Hector some more napkins? Juan calls.
Ana, refill the water pitcher?
Ana. Ana. Ana.
I just had a nine-pound baby, a tenth of my own weight.
Let Hector get his own napkins, I hear Yrene say.
I bend over the sink in pain.
Ana, the baby is crying, says Lenny.
Is the baby crying? says Mamá.
How can I hear her with the music blasting? I yell at her above the noise. I want to sleep. I need to drink water.
The doorbell from the lobby rings. Hector runs to answer the buzzer.
Who is?
No answer.
Who is?
Everyone waits to hear who it is.
It’s César. A long sword on his hip, here to claim me in a horse with a carriage where I can curl up to sleep in silence and drink and drink goblets of ice water.
Just let them up, Juan says. We’re having a party.
More people? All we need are Marisela and Mauricio. And Gino and Gisele from El Basement.
An empty promise, says Hector when no one else shows up.
Mamá tells everyone to eat already. The food is better warm. And soon everyone is sucking on the bones, eating yucca and plátanos. The men comment on how good the food is, and Mamá laughs it off and says, It’s nothing. She’s happy to feed them, to be needed, to finally be in control of something after all those hours in the hospital like a fish out of water.
Moments later the phone rings. Hector lowers the music.
Juan picks it up. Since my outburst during labor, every time the phone rings Mamá has been suspicious.
He whispers, This is not a good time. He smiles at us and stretches the cord to the far corner of the room to create distance.
What do you mean you’re downstairs? he yells into the phone. Hector raises back the volume on the radio. But we all watch as Juan slams the phone shut and sticks his head out the window. Everyone moves to find windows to look out of. Five stories down a woman at the phone booth looks up and waves for attention.
Minutes later, the phone rings again.
Hector lowers the music and I leap for the phone while the woman’s voice screams at Juan from below.
Don’t you think I have feelings? I hear her voice in double time. You can’t pretend I don’t exist. After all these years, do you think I’m going to disappear? I need to talk to you, Juan Ruiz.
