Miguel’s shoeless shadow approaches, then recedes. His bare feet slap on the cold tile floor as he roams through the common room and hall. After his escape attempt, his shoes were never returned to him. Negative reinforcement they call it. Silvia and Castule, eyes riveted on the TV, follow the latest mindless entanglements of doctors and nurses in a soap opera. I look around. I try to concentrate on a book, but can’t make any sense of the words. There isn’t enough silence. I feel entombed in the rabble of routine and schedules. Nothing else seems to matter here, and I feel outside of myself like a lock without a door. The eyes of others look me over without recognition. I try to remember the buenos días the island had instilled in me, but I have no use for it here. Transparent as a piece of furniture, I recall my grandmother’s words. She always called me a useless piece of furniture, and now, in the midst of beings who cannot see me, that’s what I have become.
We sit for dinner and Celia listlessly picks at her food. I worry about her depression, her destructive thoughts not tempered by a will to live. I wonder whether her sense of defeat is fuelled by her treatment at the hospital. I look at her, bent over her plate, drowned in lethargy, and I am stirred by a sense of self-preservation. No one has suggested shock treatment for me, but I dread it. I am at the brink, at any moment, of having my freedom to decide taken from me. All Dr. Hackson would have to do is declare me mentally incompetent. I couldn’t let that happen. Not when I’m so close to leaving this place. I must continue the lies and the deceit to get out.
Before we know it, the meal which constitutes the culminating part of the day is over. The evening ritual augers an illusory rest. More patients crowd around the TV. Daffy, toothy mouths spew promises of happiness from the screen if the sink is scrubbed with Brand X powder. Marital bliss is guaranteed by removal of ring-around-the-collar. The purchase of a slinky car secures a scantily dressed blond. Hemorrhoids can be shrunk, the mouths grin, and I remember how poor women in Puerto Rico applied hemorrhoidal cream to their faces to tighten their skin and make them look younger. The poor woman’s cosmetic surgery. The toothy grins flash in sheer delight. See, they say, you can be as happy as we are. As long as you follow the rules and buy buy buy bye bye.
I walk away from the loud-mouthed peddlers, preferring to read or listen to the buzz in my head. Miguel smokes and wanders around the room, unable to sustain his attention on anything, and distracts me from my thoughts. His bare big toes look like light bulbs.
Visiting hours begin, and Nina’s son comes into the room to fulfill his obligations to his braying mother. She is unusually quiet this evening. Other patients converse with family members and friends. But Nina’s son stares at the patients uneasily, sitting at the edge of his chair, squeezing his fingers. He behaves like a captive ready to climb the scaffold. I am examining the man’s expressive hands from my chair when the hall phone rings. It rings three times, like that night when my grandmother called me long distance.
“Hello, hello. Do you know who it is?”
“Of course. Give me your blessing.”
“May God be with you.”
“How are you?”
“So so, as usual. I bet you don’t know where I’m calling from.”
“From Puerto Rico?”
“No, my child, I’m in Ramón’s place.”
“You’re in New York?”
“I came last night and gave my sons the surprise of their lives. Heh, heh, heh.”
“I can imagine. What are you doing in New York?”
“I want to investigate things to come live over here.”
“With my father?”
“No, of course not. You know that boy lives alone in an apartment that’s so small even the cockroaches have trouble moving around. And Salvador, he doesn’t want to hear anything about my staying here. Says he won’t allow me to sell the house in Puerto Rico. But, like I told him, I have a power of attorney he himself signed years ago, and I can do whatever I feel like with that house.”
“Tell me, who will you be staying with in New York?”
“No, no, my child, I’m not staying here. I’m going to live with you.”
“With me?”
“Yes, yes, of course. All my sons tell me the same thing. I’m too old and sick all the time, and I should be with someone who can take care of me. They say that, since you’re the only girl in the family, it’s your duty because they’re men, and they don’t know anything about these things. So I’m getting ready to move in with you.”
“Listen, this can’t be decided so easily. You don’t know what my situation is like here. I’m studying and working very hard now. For goodness sake, I have to start working on my thesis soon. I have a lot of pressures, both at work and at school. You just can’t live with me right now. I’m sorry, but you should have discussed this with me first before making up your mind.”
“What? What are you saying, you wretched ingrate? After I gave you your life, after I gave you your very being, you abandon me in my old age. After I saved you from a certain death which is what would have happened had you stayed undernourished in that barrio of Arecibo. That’s how you repay me, right? You turd. I should’ve known you’d treat me this way, abandoning me now that you’re doing well over there. You’re too good for me now, is that it? Now that I’m old and sick I’m of no use to you, right? Now that you’re going to a fancy university, you don’t want anything to do with me. You shit. May God listen to me and may your daughter make you suffer as much as you’ve made me suffer, because he who kills by the sword, dies by the sword. May you meet a bad end!”
Click.
I shake my head and refuse to remember. Not now. My many layers of skin slough off painfully, one by one. I become the coarse texture of dreams, the clay amphora brimming with grievances, thick as lard. I am myself and I am another. I can as easily look into myself as step out and examine my own skin from afar. Yet I cannot define what I see, and in that inability rests the tragedy of my inexistence. In the clatter of cultures and languages that clash outside, I drown in anomy. I dig constantly within, to peel my layers of pain. My pain and my past are one.
Nina’s son sweeps by, having fulfilled his fifteen-minute visit. He glances over his hunched shoulders to make sure he does not suffer a surprise attack from a patient. He beats a path to the door. Taína and Rosa won’t visit tonight. I miss them, especially my daughter. Taína always arrives smiling, exaggerating the boring lectures of her teachers with grimaces, inflections and gestures, just to make me laugh.
Celia talks to her husband Juan, who gestures angrily. In a world defined by walls and slow-moving clocks, Celia is a link to myself. Sometimes we talk about Puerto Rico, afraid of poisoning our memories with words injudiciously spilled inside the imperious walls of the hospital. Concerned that a nurse might hear and order us to speak English because “You’re in America now,” as though Puerto Rico were in Australia, we whisper in Spanish, the language of music and stars, when the lights are switched off and before the sleeping pills drag us into our relentless nightmares.
Celia’s husband leaves the common room with long strides. For a second, he sucks the light from the hall with his corpulence. When he crosses the threshold, Celia comes over and sits next to me.
“How’s Juan?” I ask.
“He’s very well.”
“What’s the matter, Celia? Are you all right?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” she holds her head in both hands. “I can’t think. I feel so empty inside. It’s a painful emptiness. I don’t know how to explain it.”
Celia wrings her hands. She is on the verge of tears. “Juan just told me that he hired a very nice girl to care for the children and do the housework. She lives at home now, so he found a substitute for me. I’m sure she’s young and pretty. He says I shouldn’t see my children for the moment because they’re adjusting to all the changes. And the psychiatrist agreed with him. It’s not therapeutic, especially now that they’ve increased my shock therapy sessions.”
“Oh, no, Celia, that’s awful. How many more treatments do you have?”
“I don’t know. The psychiatrist, what’s his name, I forget, told me, but I forgot that, too.”
“Don’t give up, Celia. I’m sure you’ll feel better soon. You never know.”
“That’s right, I don’t know, what’s-his-name doesn’t know, no one knows. All I do know is that I’ve lost everything, even my dignity. What dignity can there be in a mind like mine? There’s no dignity in a body convulsed by electric shock. I lost all that’s important to me. I lost control over my own life, my own destiny. There’s nothing left.”
“Listen, Celia, don’t give up now. You have so much to offer. You’ll get well and live the life you want to live, with your children supporting you all the way. Your life is so precious.”
Celia looked at me, eyes brimming with sorrow. “It takes a lot of courage to live with this pain. I don’t think I’m that brave.”
“Yes, you are. You have to be. Maybe someday you won’t feel the pain any longer and can enjoy being alive.”
“How about you? Don’t you want to die, too? You tried to kill yourself, that’s why you’re here.”
“That’s true, I do think about dying. All the time. But you know, sometimes I ask myself, why, if I want to die, have I struggled so hard to live? That’s a mystery to me. There must be a part of me that refuses to give in. Despite the pain.”
“You have the courage to live with the pain. I don’t,” Celia says and gets up. She has a distant look. “What can I do, Blanca? No, don’t say anything.” She waves her hands in front of her. “No one can tell me what I should do because I have no will to do anything. I’ve lost even that.” She turns away and heads toward her room.
I want to comfort her. Knowing there is no possible consolation, I try anyway. Celia is in bed staring at the ceiling. The lights are off. I sit next to her and hold her hand. I look at the darkness beyond the window bars and think about the world out there for a moment. People. Shelter for people. Cars for people. Stores for people. Parks and movies for people. People come and go like fish swimming in dark waters. In the room, Celia and I defy the ocean out there. But in doing so, we are smothered while the people outside can swim.
The nurse comes at nine.
“What’re you two doing here in the dark?” she asks, and switches the light on.
“Just talking.” I wrinkle my forehead and squint at the stark light.
“Time for your medication. Then you’ll rest quietly all night and not bother anyone.”
I understand perfectly well the nurse’s concern. I swallow the pill with a gulp of water. Celia takes hers and turns to the wall. At ten on the dot the lights go out. The nurses check each room, making sure that everyone sleeps.
“Good night,” I say, but Celia doesn’t respond.
“Are you okay?” I persist.
“I’m just trying to sleep. Don’t worry.”
“If you need anything, just call me. All right?”
“I will. Good night, Blanca.”
I plunge into my dreams quickly. I stand in a room so brilliantly colorful it hurts just to look at it. I crash to the floor when fragments of red walls float by and wispy faces appear plastered to the ceiling, laughing. On the floor, I roll my eyes up and admire the reds, blues, greens, all primary colors of happy brilliance. The floor quakes and the walls float with the furniture stuck on them like decals. Then naked terror saturates me, and I can find no escape. I try to scream, but an invisible force encircles my throat and squeezes hard. Like a tornado, the force lifts my legs and crashes me into the ceiling, flattening my chest against an iron blackness. Entangled in my nightmare, I listen to my own voice urging me to wake up, wake up, but the steely fangs of the force dig into me. My face wet with tears and perspiration, I escape the terror somehow. I land on my feet in the middle of the room, heart beating like a loose board in a hurricane. I turn around taking in my surroundings. I see a dresser and look at it in confusion. Where am I? Where have I seen this? It looks familiar. But what is it? I notice the chair next to the bed and a fold in my brain recognizes it as a chair, a chair I have seen somewhere. But where? Where am I? Where am I?
A delicate light comes like a mist into the room. Garrulous birds welcome the dawn. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing next to my bed studying the chair, the dresser, the window, sinking into the emptiness of my memory for some indication which would help me recognize my surroundings. My eyes dart uncontrollably from one side of the room to the other. Then I tip my head gingerly toward Celia’s bed. The blanket is the color of wet sand. Under it, I see Celia’s slight figure. A black stain darkens the blanket. The stain drapes to the floor. Daylight enshrouds me now, and the chirping birds are quiet. Silence resonates through the room. Terror clings to my throat like thorns. I try to wrench myself from my own body and fly like a frightened butterfly toward the elm. My eyes are struck with fear. My lips peel back. I scream and fall in the puddle of blood that lies so very still.
Secured with leather straps to the bed, I see them take her body away. I fight to stay awake despite the injected tranquilizer. I will not surrender. I must stay awake and drink in the blood that clings with its mordant smell to my skin and seeps into my pores. The caked blood on my face and hands feels heavy, like a burn. Celia’s blood demands life and becomes my own.
Thinking I am asleep, the nurses talk about Celia openly. She had filched a glass from the dining room and hid it under the pillow until the nurse distributed the sleeping pills. She pretended to take the pill, but didn’t. When she was certain the nurse was gone and I was asleep, she wrapped the glass in a towel and cracked it against the wall. I must have been in the midst of my own hellish nightmare not to have heard anything.
I can imagine how she does it. I know too well how it feels. The sense of inevitability, the impotence of even one’s own children to prevent it. The relief. I can see her executing her self-immolation.
Her heart beats like a drum when she pulls the covers to her waist. She gropes for her wrist. She holds her breath and slashes the veins of one wrist. Quickly, before her strength wanes, she passes the bloody shard to her other hand and slashes deeply again. She draws the blanket over her head with blood-drenched hands. Under her shroud, she feels the throbbing pain of her wrists and her heart stammers wearily. An icy chill encases her and she is blind, swimming quietly in a cloud of ice. Her brain attempts a mutiny, but tires of raising unheeded warnings. She slips into darkness and sleeps.
They remove the straps, and I am free to amble aimlessly in the common room. I look out the window at a patch of blue sky. I lose myself in it, imagining the contours of freedom. Is Celia free now that she’s dead? Free from the wounds, free from the shackles of hurt?
I wonder if I have the courage to live with the pain.