Everything Here Is Beautiful

She knows he is watching. She knows he knows that she hates it when he watches, that it makes her feel small and deficient, like a parolee or a zoo animal or an erratic child. And so each night—after she washes her face and brushes her teeth and spits into the basin in the kitchen, all the while sensing him slink out of bed, sneak to the doorway to watch, proctor, spy, as she pours another cup of boiled water from the plastic jug kept on a low shelf next to the rice, retrieves from a high shelf the small orange bottle masquerading as a spice—she carefully, deliberately, turns her back to him, facing instead the gas company calendar or the gold-framed picture of Jesus Christ, though he does not know it’s deliberate because he doesn’t know she knows he is watching, but she has always known, and this is the way she saves some fragment of herself, her center, her dignity, as she throws back the small white pills. So one day when he says, Let’s take a trip to Cuenca, and she says, Why? and he mumbles something about buying new boots and tools and maybe some fabric for Mami and maybe some shoes for Essy and then finally says, By the way, I think you may need more pills, she is not surprised. But it feels like a violation, even though she knows he watches. An unspoken breach of trust.

But there is only one farmacia in Martez. It’s dirty and understocked and unreliable. So one Saturday Papi unloads them from his banged-up pickup truck and they wait and wait on the main calle, chitchatting with Vera and Isabel and Luz and their bucketfuls of potatoes. Vera’s brother, a paraplegic, has married a Taiwanese nurse and now lives in Taipei; Isabel’s youngest son is mute; Luz, Vera’s daughter, dreams of raising roosters for cockfights in Guayaquil. The stories! She digs out her notebook. A handful of children come by waving bags of candy. Only the transients still mistake her for a tourist.

Finally, they board a chicken bus, one of the old yellow school buses from the States that has been granted an illustrious afterlife, spray-painted with neon colors and flamboyant designs. The bus stops and starts. One woman sits with a crate full of guinea pigs in her lap. Another boards with three chickens. Essy’s eyes grow wide. “Chickens can ride the bus?” She laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen in her three-year-old life.

After the quiet of the campo, the city shocks the senses. Salsa and merengue blare from the shops, taxis blast their horns, buses barrel around corners spouting blue diesel fumes. But she savors it—the people, the bustle, energy in motion. She imbibes the sounds, the smells, the colonial grandeur, the archways and ironwork and domed cathedrals, cobblestone pavements and red tile roofs. Pretty, but not pristine. And everywhere, everything in bloom.

They decide to shop at the biggest mall in Cuenca, all white lights and flashy signs and floors gleaming like mirrors. Her daughter’s mouth forms a perfect O. It’s been a long time since they’ve seen so many things.

“This one, Mama.” Essy holds up a pink sequined flip-flop with plastic daisies.

“How about this one,” says Manny. He pulls out a boy’s sandal, blue with double Velcro straps, appropriate for tromps through water and mud.

“That’s ugly,” says Essy.

“She’s kind of right.”

“That one, it scratches her feet, it breaks in five minutes.”

“Please, Papi! Gracias, Papi! Please, Papi! Hooray, Papi!” Essy jumps up and down, pumps her fists as though she has already won. It’s an effective technique; he can’t resist. He scoops her in his arms, dangles her upside down by her ankles as she squeals in mock protest. In the end, they buy both pairs, a fuzzy pink purse and sunglasses, too.

Another store sells only traditional fedora hats. Another sells only yarn, another only embroidered towels, another only kitchen items. She spends twenty minutes choosing a bright yellow enamel pot with a thick bottom, ample enough to accommodate soups and stews. Ten minutes in search of the perfect nonstick frying pan. “Just big enough to hold two fried eggs without touching,” she explains, and the vendedora finds for her one the exact right size. Muchas gracias! They exchange high fives.

For lunch they stop at an almuerzo, order chicken cutlets, French fries, cabbage salad, plantains. Outside, the drizzle has stopped, the clouds drift apart, the mountains surrounding the city snap into focus. Essy’s stroller serves as a convenient shopping cart, piled high with boxes and bags. She wears her new pink flip-flops proudly, kicks her feet from atop her Papi’s shoulders.

That afternoon, Manny takes Essy to a park, a playground, a candy store. Lucia heads to El Centro, but first winds her way through a pretty neighborhood lined with blossoming trees. Maybe it’s one of those new gringo enclaves—each house with ornate wrought iron bars on the windows, fronted by a security wall of concrete or brick, with shards of broken glass embedded up top. In El Centro she finds a respectable-looking pharmacy on one of the main calles. The farmacéutica’s doughy body feels at odds with her alien-like face. Lucia passes her the empty vial. It is only when she glances up to see if the woman is raising her eyebrows, casting judgment, that she realizes—the woman has no eyebrows. No wonder she looks so strange!

Next, she finds a trendy Internet café, complete with two pet iguanas roaming the premises. How long has it been? Three months off the grid, unplugged. Time, enjoyed as a lazy blur. Now her in-box full of junk, except for a few messages from her old boss in Westchester, one note from Nipa, three from Jie, each spaced about a month apart. She clicks. The connection, painfully slow.

Hi Lucia, Hope you arrived safely and that everything is beauuuuutiful. Heard about the blizzard in New York. Bet you are glad you’re not there. Shoot me an email and let me know the best way to reach you. Ok? Love, Jie

Hi Lucia, haven’t heard from you. Do you have email access? What’s the name of your town? What’s your address? Should I send you some chocolates, or anything else? Hope all’s well. Love, Jie

Lucia, everything ok? Please let me know. Take care of yourself. Jie

Jie. No news, lots of worry.

Hi Porcupine,

I’m here, and I’m fine. We’re living in the campo, no internet, so I only check email when I come into Cuenca (~1.5 hours by bus). We went shopping today. I got a perfect pot and a perfect frying pan. What’s up in Switzerland? I didn’t hear about New York—we’re in our own world down here. Manny’s family threw a gigantic party for us, roasted a whole pig on a spit. Everything here is beautiful.

Lucia

Hi Funky Girl! We were down at Ryder’s playground, thought of you. How is your Big Adventure going? Natey is . . . potty-trained! Can you believe it?! And Jasmine just turned one! I will be back to work in a week, at a new teaching job in White Plains. Much more convenient than the city. By the way, some bad news. Winston and I are splitting up. It was his decision and it feels sudden, but in a way we have been disconnected for a long time. It’s been civil enough and I’ll be fine, but of course poor Natey doesn’t understand. I keep telling him, Daddy will still be Daddy, just in a different house. Our therapist says it’s for the best, this happening while the kids are young. Take care down there, and come back to visit, ok? Miss you! Nipa.

Oh, Nipa. Poor Nipa! She misses her, too. How long ago was it, that day they first met at the mamas’ group? She’d cried all the time. She sounds so healthy now, in spite of everything.

Hi Nipa, it’s so great to hear from you! It’s beautiful here, spring all the time, lush and leafy, the air like flowers. We live in the boonies, on a farm with Manny’s parents, and I’m growing so many vegetables. Backyard organic! Wish I could zap you my tomatoes, I bet you could sell them at the farmer’s market for three bucks apiece, but here I get only ten cents a pound. Everyone is well. Essy loves it here. I’m so sorry to hear about your breakup. Hope you’re ok. Channeling blessed thoughts. As they say, everything happens for a reason. Lucia

She hopes her words are true.

Finished, she steps in line to pay the cashier. The girl, dressed in a denim jacket over a denim miniskirt, twirls a finger in her frizzy brown hair. Something about her feels slightly familiar. Susi. Susi! But no, it is not Susi. A quick stab of guilt, and then tears stream down her cheek and that silly children’s song is stuck in her head:

Where, oh where, oh where is Susi?

Way down yonder in the paw-paw patch.

Come along, kids, let’s go find her

Way down yonder in the paw-paw patch.

On the bus ride home, she asks Manny, “What do you think happened to Susi?”

He shakes his head, does not meet her eyes.

“Where was her family? Do you think maybe she didn’t really get deported? Maybe the government figured out it was all a big mix-up. Maybe she was just away for a little while.” Brightening at this thought, she pictures Susi in that kitchen with its yellow linoleum floor. Susi, hanging colorful streamers. Susi, baking a cake, decorating it with pink frosting flowers. Susi, cleaning the dirty dishes left in the sink by the Vargas boys. Susi, hermanita, whose presence she recalls as her sole comfort during those dark, muddled days. Susi, whose kindness remained free of judgment.

Essy. She has Essy. Here, sprawled across their laps, asleep, contentment on her face.

“Do you think she should go to school?” she says. She slides a finger down her daughter’s nose. The skin, smooth and supple. Those eyelashes. Every part of her small being a miracle.

“School? Why?”

“Just for something to do. It might be good for her.”

Manny shrugs. “My hija, she is beautiful.” He strokes Essy’s hair.

“Angelic.”

“Amazing.”

“Perfect,” she whispers. She pats Essy’s head.

“But especially when she’s sleeping,” adds Manny.

She laughs. On this, at least, they will always agree.