By early April, the weary Madrid winter of 1969 had surrendered to spring. Like everyone else, I was happy that the morning arrived earlier every day. The prostitutes next door were wearing their flame-red or platinum-teased mops, and as a salute to spring, painted their lips bright coral and their eyelids a brilliant robin-egg blue. Without their coats, they all seemed slimmer in the shortest skits I’d ever seen.
Next to Doña Catalina’s room, Mother stayed behind her locked bedroom door, refusing to come out. When she was certain that no one was awake, she’d leave long frantic letters, her handwriting becoming less legible by the day, on the hall table for me to mail the next morning. Thinking she was fooling us, she’d scurry to the bathroom to empty her chamber pot and raid the refrigerator and kitchen for something to eat. Little did she know that we were on to her. This routine became a nightly ritual.
From behind our closed doors, which opened to the dining room, we heard her talking to Valentín as if he were there. On and on she’d go, fighting and pleading with a man thousands of miles away. Then, as fast as it began, it was over and she’d tiptoe back to her room and lock herself in. The situation was getting worse, and we were at a loss as to what we could or should do with her.
One night, Anita surprised her, cornering her in the kitchen, attempting to convince her to face facts and get on with her life: “Mira para eso. ¿Oye, no te das cuentas que tienes un niño? ¿Como es eso posible? Vamos, entra al baño ahora mismo para que entonces mañana empieces a buscar algún trabajo.” Reminding her she was a parent with a child to support, Anita implored her to clean herself up and go out to look for a job the next day.
But Mother said, “Ay no, no puedo. ¡Déjame! ¡Déjame!” She screamed that she could not, and begged to be left alone. Dropping to the floor, she crawled like a baby back to her room and slammed the door so hard that the picture hanging on the foyer wall went cockeyed. Standing on the other side, we watched her shadow against the frosted glass door sitting on the floor. Her arms wrapped around herself, she rocked back and forth.
For the remainder of the night, Mother sobbed, cursed, and complained about her life: Father’s adultery, his accusations about my conception, never having a doll of her own, being sent away at fourteen years old, her mother never being affectionate with her. The more she bellowed and bawled, the less sympathy I felt. The more she babbled, the more disgusted I became. I detested her selfish rants and her unapologetic lack of concern for me.
I hated everything about her. She was unable or unwilling to cope. She sang the same tired songs I’d heard since I was born, and I was exhausted by the burdens she handed to me like a pair of worn-out shoes.
I hated her controlling my life from the other side of a locked door. I hated her for subjecting me to senseless cruelty. She wasn’t one to suffer silently on her own. If she were hurting, then so would those around her. Especially me.