duérmete

Teré kept herself busy. Work from morning till dusk. Classes at night. Sometimes she picked up a graveyard shift as the on-call nurse. If she kept busy, she wouldn’t have time to think.

She started early every day, fitting in four or five visits before noon. Mostly elderly patients recuperating from recent hospitalizations. Some in good spirits, some listless, some silent, some talkative, some lonely, some surrounded by attentive family members. A structure to every visit: greeting; casual conversation; noting disposition, clarity of speech, memory; checking vitals, blood pressure, glucose levels, respiration; checking prescriptions, activity levels, answering questions; and always at the end, a firm but cheerful goodbye and a reminder to keep taking their medications, to follow their routines, to stay active, to take care, to call if any issues arose.

Some called her ‘m’ija,’ some called her ‘Miss,’ some called her ‘Señorita.’ Very few called her by her name. She’ d always wanted to be named ‘Teresa,’ (‘Teré’ for short), but even after two years, she sometimes forgot to respond to this new name. She’ d torn her old name to shreds, burned it, buried the ashes. Teré didn’t expect to ever hear it again. Two years since she’ d spoken to her mother or any family member. Two years since Ignacio had last screamed her old name. Two years since she’ d left Edinburg with nothing but what she could carry in one suitcase and her purse. Brownsville wasn’t that far, a little more than an hour, still in the Rio Grande Valley, but closer to the Mexican border and closer to the Gulf. It was home without being home. It had welcomed her, let her change her name, find a job as a home health nurse, start a new life.

She loved her job. With every patient she tried to be courteous, attentive, kind. Not long ago she’ d been in the hands of unfeeling doctors and calloused nurses and vowed she’ d never treat anyone that way. Of course, it was easier with some patients, more difficult with others.

Mr. Gonzalez was a newer patient, a very sweet old man, nothing like her father or grandfathers. He called her ‘Sweetheart.’ He called everyone ‘Sweetheart’: his good-natured daughters, his tiny grandson, his German Shepherd.

“Good morning, Mr. Gonzalez!” Teré said brightly as she stepped into his bedroom, found him sitting by the window.

“Hiya, Sweetheart, I am having a good day today. Slept like a baby for the first time since all this happened,” he said, waving in the vicinity of his chest, his wispy white hair catching all the sunlight streaming in. He was diabetic and recovering from a quadruple bypass.

“That’s great news. Wish I could sleep like that.”

“Hmm, you’re looking a little tired around the eyes.”

Teré gave him a tired smile, felt the weight of her swollen eyelids resisting. “I’ll be okay, just having a little trouble staying asleep through the night.”

“Sounds like a man’s causing you grief,” he said, his eyes glinting.

“Nope, just can’t sleep.” She took his file out of her bag, pulled out a stethoscope and a blood pressure monitor.

“What—a good-looking woman like you doesn’t have anyone?”

“Not anymore—no man, no boyfriend, no fiancé, no husband,” she said drily, “mejor sola que mal acompañada.”

“Ain’t that the truth, but Sweetheart, if I was fifty years younger—”

Teré laughed, “I’m good by myself.” She wrapped the cuff around his upper arm.

“Musta been pretty bad to make you believe that.”

“It was.” She tucked in the stethoscope. “Okay, relax your arm and hold still. Let me get your blood pressure.” Teré counted silently.

Mr. Gonzalez held perfectly still until she released his arm from the cuff. Inexplicably, she dropped the cuff and the pump. When she bent down to get it, she dropped her pen and banged her knee into the tray table next to his chair, sending his remote and an empty plastic cup to the floor. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Gonzalez, I don’t know why I’m so clumsy!”

“It’s okay, not a problem.”

Teré scrambled to pick everything up. Took off her old gloves and put on a fresh pair. “I’m sorry about that. Let’s check your blood sugar next.”

She held his fragile hand in hers, rubbed it with a sterile alcohol pad, took the lancet and pressed it against the tip of his index finger. Nothing. No drop of blood welling up. She squeezed the finger slightly. Still nothing. “Hmm, let’s try that again.” She pressed the lancet to the side of his finger. Still nothing. “Okay, let’s try another finger.” She wiped the tip of his middle finger. Pressed the lancet, trying to apply a little more pressure than she had before. Her vision swam for a second.

“Ay!” Mr. Gonzalez cried out. Teré bit back a curse herself when she saw how much blood was pouring out of Mr. Gonzalez’s finger. No light piercing, she’ d punctured and torn the skin. She could tell already that it was going to bruise. She took out a small cotton ball and held it against his finger, raising his hand and applying a small amount of pressure. “I’m so sorry. I was just trying to apply a little more pressure…”

“I guess I won’t be asking you about your love life again,” Mr. Gonzalez chuckled. “It’s okay, no harm done. I’ve done that to myself sometimes when my fingers were stubborn. And insulin shots have hurt a lot more.”

Teré shook her head, “There’s just no excuse for it. I’m sorry.” She put his hand down, wrapping a bandage around his finger to keep the cotton ball in place. She packed up her bag.

Mr. Gonzalez reached out suddenly with his other hand, holding her thin wrist in a surprisingly firm hold. “Don’t let him win, Teré. My mother used to have the look you have. She got out of it, but the memories were strangling the life out of her until she died. You gotta keep on going.” His eyes were piercing.

She couldn’t speak. She laid a hand on his shoulder and nodded. Hurried to her car as her eyes filled up with tears.

Teré woke in sweat-drenched sheets. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t will her lungs to expand. There was a weight on her chest, a tightness around her throat. Her hands batted at the empty darkness. The sheets were so tangled and knotted around her, she tumbled to the floor, clawing and kicking her way out of them. Her hip struck the nightstand, sending the wooden lamp, her glasses, the alarm clock, two books and a tiny bottle of perfume in arcs through the air. They fell over, crashed against the floor, scattered under the bed. Teré dragged herself across the room to the windows, reached to open the blinds. She pulled too hard, and as they came crashing down, she raised her arms to protect her face. Pushed the collapsed waves of plastic away and put her face against the screen. Night. She could smell the night through the blood-iron scent of the screen against her skin. Except for her own ragged breaths, it was quiet.

No. No. No. No. On nights like these, it was the only prayer she could reach for. No. It wasn’t happening anymore. She was safe. No. She wasn’t hurt. No one was going to hurt her. She took a deep, deep breath of cool air. Teré wrapped her arms around herself, and covered her face with her hands. She was so tired of waking up crying. Tired of waking up remembering. So many times she’ d woken to his fists in her hair, her body sent crashing against the wall.

She shook her head. No, not again, not tonight. She wasn’t going to relive it all over again, wasn’t going to surrender her whole night to her fear. She’ d survived. She was free. And she was going to go back to sleep. She knew how. Breathe, Teré. Let go, let go of it all at once. Empty of everything. Think of sleeping, duérmete, duérmete. One hour, or four, it didn’t matter. As long as she slept.

It was always the same time of day when Teré would find herself in front of Doña Marta’s house. After the sun had set, before night came. Dusk. Not twilight but the time before, when the air itself seemed to turn a rose-tinted gold. The scent of the earth was more pungent, everything living and dying exuding both sweetness and decay.

The first time she’ d seen Doña Marta’s house, she recognized it in her bones though it was nothing like her grandmothers’ houses or her mother’s house. There were flowers blooming everywhere, so many shades of green laid over each other that it seemed a tiny paradise. In time she’ d come to learn the names: laureles here, bouganvilleas there, two dark-leafed mora trees, chile pequins outside the kitchen window, red and yellow roses along the sidewalk, purple sage along the chain link fence, tumbling vines of yellow trumpets along the windows, wild and pale morning glories bursting from everywhere.

Now the once black earth had gone pale, and the carefully kept narrow strip of green grass was singed and sparse. The too-steep cement steps were crumbling at the corners. A water hose, twisted into uselessness, was attached to a rusting water faucet. Insect-infested trees leaned against the house, decaying from the inside out. The profusion of thorned weeds and ant colonies were obliterating even the memory of green.

Teré didn’t know how much time had passed—months, a year?— since she’ d first pulled the creaking chain link gate open, since she’ d first seen Doña Marta’s face, felt the warm regard of her clouded eyes. Time did and didn’t exist in Doña Marta’s house.

“Buenas tardes, Doña Marta!” Teré called out when she found the old woman sitting on her porch, housedress fresh and tidy, her sparse white hair curling up at the ends. Her first notes on Doña Marta had been simple: seventy-five years old, a stroke the year before, diabetic, her left foot recently amputated, advanced diabetic retinopathy had left her almost blind.

“Ay, Teré, I’ve already told you. Call me Marta. Ven aca, m’ija, sientate aquí. Push those things away and come sit next to me. Mira que bonito, my little yard is blooming. That’s the red bougainvillea in that corner, nó? Qué bonito. Sit, Teré.”

“Como ha estado? I’m glad to see you out of bed.”

“Such a pretty day. Amanecí bien. I couldn’t wait to come outside and hear the birds. Even if I can barely see them—do they still have their nests in the palm trees? Y mis matitas—are the laureles shiny and green? Do I still have roses by the fence?”

“Pues it’s a little dry. I think the flowers missed you while you were gone, Marta.”

“Ay, que pena. As soon as I feel better, I’ll take better care of them. I’m going to have to ask Yole to find somebody to help me with the garden en mientras.”

“Did you want to stay outside or go inside for your checkup?”

“No, mejor adentro. I’ve been outside since after breakfast. Just help me inside, corazón.”

The house was hot, and everything seemed to give off heat. Teré’s tennis shoes made little slapping noises on the bare wood where the doorframes had been removed so that the wheelchair could pass. Teré gently maneuvered the wheelchair through the shadowed, plastic-covered living room with its porcelain farm animals punctuating the otherwise unbroken lines of family photos.

Doña Marta’s house was so different from her own. Even after two years in her new apartment, she’ d hung nothing on the white walls, brought in no plants, done nothing to make it her home. Even thinking of decorating made her remember how she’ d labored over her first home with Ignacio, filling it with warm colors, ferns and peace lilies and violets at every window.

Her eyes were drawn to Doña Marta’s wedding picture. It reminded her of her own wedding. Ignacio had loved her in white, had said it made her dark skin glow. The last time they’d gone shopping on the other side of the border, he’ d bought her a white dress, the sleeves and hem embroidered in more white. He’ d called her “luz de mis ojos.” Light of my eyes.

Doña Marta’s wedding picture was very different from the pictures Teré had burned when she left. Antique brass framed two stiff figures in front of a small wooden church, the woman’s white dress erasing her against the summer heat. Doña Marta’s hand was tucked into the arm of a tall lighter-skinned man in a black suit. It was hard to tell if she was happy to be standing next to him. Doña Marta was recognizable only in the young woman’s round lips, the arch of her eyebrows, the high cheekbones. Young, her face was thinner, smoother, and darker. The eyes a deep, glinting black. Now her eyes were clouded over with cataracts and age, blinded by illness. Deep lines bracketed her mouth, scored her cheeks, creased her eyes, etched shadows where there had been brightness. The lustrous black hair in the photo was now thin and white.

Teré slowly pushed the wheelchair through the tiny hallway into Doña Marta’s bedroom with its lacy curtains and bed piled with pillows. “Here you are, doña.” Teré put her bag down on the white wicker rocking chair in the corner. “ ’Ta bueno, let’s start by checking your pulse and your temperature and then your blood pressure.”

Doña Marta obediently held out her left arm.

Teré waited until she’ d removed the thermometer before she spoke, “Every time I come, it seems like you have more pictures, Doña Marta.”

She laughed, “My babies keep having babies. Sabes, hija, I had six children. Four children that lived, but six in all. The first one when I was young, much younger than you, maybe fifteen. But I lost that one at birth, and the next one de una enfermedad de los pulmones. Pobrecita, she couldn’t breathe. I didn’t think I was ever going to have a baby strong enough to live. But then the others came, Daniel, Martín, Isabela, and Marcos, mi consentido. Ay jue, they left white stretch marks all across my belly, stretch marks on my breasts—they even left stretch marks on my arms from carrying them. But I didn’t care. I was so happy they were fuertes y sanos. I did nothing but cry the first few years of my marriage thinking I would never be a mamá.”

Doña Marta paused and grimaced as the cuff reached its tightest point. Her eyelids drooped and the deep lines on her face seemed suddenly deeper, but then she smiled a little, “They grew up like weeds. Babies are babies for such a little while. Now, they’re all in their sixties. I can’t see so well now, but when I could I used to look at them and think, how could all those canosos be my babies, all white-haired and wrinkled and gordos? But I can still hear it in their voices what they sounded like as babies, as children… I have eighteen grandchildren, ¿lo sabias?…and forty-two great-grandchildren, and some of them have children now, too.

“They always ask me, abuela, they say, what was it like when you were young? And what can I tell them? Ay, m’ija, it was so much work. Always, work. Rising early in the mornings to cook and clean, the stacks of tortillas, the piles of dirty clothes, the feet bringing in dust and mud. Y los trabajos, working in the fields. Picking cotton, hoeing the fields, gathering onions, cutting sugarcane. Long days in the sun, walking, kneeling, bending, picking, wrapping. So hot que hasta la sombra mas humilde was a blessing… And then home to cook for all the hungry mouths.”

Teré removed the blood pressure cuff, wrapped it up and tucked it back into her bag. Another notation. Put on gloves and prepared the glucometer. You had two husbands, no?” Teré asked.

“Yes, Elijio, my first husband, he died when Daniel was very little. Me dejó viuda and life was so hard. Luego, I married Adolfo. He was much older, but his first wife died without giving him children and he loved Daniel like one of his own. Adolfo used to call me ‘niña’ and pull on my braids until I laughed. But he got sick, el cancer. He lived long enough to hold his first grandchild.”

“And you, when did you find out you were diabetic?”

“Uuuuy, long time ago…right before my grandson Ramiro was born, almost thirty years ago. Mis comadres said it came from so many sustos—a bad car accident, the sick children, my two husbands dying the way they did. I should have taken better care of myself, but there was always so much work to do. And my family didn’t want yoghurt and boiled eggs and steamed vegetables. They wanted fresh tortillas, chorizo, and fried papitas. I was okay, you know, fuerte y sana, for a long time.”

“What happened?” Teré asked, waving in the direction of Doña Marta’s legs.

“I was clearing out the dead lantanas along the gate. But then I lost my balance. I fell and my foot got cut. At first, I didn’t think it was too bad. Pero ya vez, llego hasta este punto. And now, here I am, getting used to this wheelchair.”

Teré stayed silent, wondering what it was that drove the old woman to live, to drag her limping incomplete body into a wheelchair every morning, to work so hard to discern something besides light and shadow, to try to smell flowers blooming and green leaves unfolding where there was only dirt and ants and weeds. She read the glucometer and noted the number down in Doña Marta’s file, “Excellent, today, Marta—104.”

“Y tú, m’ija, didn’t you ever want children?” Doña Marta asked gently.

Teré’s hands stopped in mid-air. She tried to speak but the words got caught in her throat, “I…I wanted…”

Doña Marta reached out, touched her arm, “Dime, Teré, you can tell me anything. Here, sit down. Take your time.”

She stripped off her gloves and perched on the edge of the rocking chair, holding the old woman’s hands in hers, rubbing them gently. They sat in silence. All of a life seemed contained in those hands with their bitten-down nails and all the calluses from a life time of picking crops, keeping house, tending her garden.

“I wanted so much to have a family. I dreamed of having two little children, a boy and a girl. Babies to hold, children to take to the playground. I imagined them growing, going to school. I wanted to be a mother.” Teré paused. “I’ve never told anyone. I was pregnant once. I lost the child. I…he hurt me and left me unconscious on the floor. When I woke, there was blood.” She choked back a sob.

“Ay, Teré,” Marta’s hands tightened around hers, “Hija, it’s always better if you cry it out.”

Night again. Awake again after crying out in her sleep.

Teré winced against the sudden brightness of the bathroom light. She leaned over the sink, splashing water onto her face and pushing back tangled dark hair. Dark circles under her eyes. The pillow’s imprint gouged the side of her face. She looked haunted. Teré leaned her face against the cold mirror. She hated mirrors. Impossible to pretend while looking in mirrors.

A hot bath. No candles. No flowers, no bubbles, no bath salts. Just the scalding hot water. The slip she wore to sleep fell to the floor, followed by her panties. Her skin flushed red the moment her feet touched the hot water. She wished she could stretch out in it, spread her arms and legs, be a starfish endlessly spinning. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her knees, head falling back. Slow burning tears ran from her eyes into her hair.

She hurt. She didn’t know if it lived inside her or in the air around her. Sometimes she couldn’t breathe around the immense pressure wanting to burst out of her chest. Nothing eased it. In the daytime, there were whole hours when she didn’t feel the weight of the darkness, the weight of her hurt. But at night, it swallowed her, drowned her.

She stretched her legs out. Lathered the wash cloth with plain white soap. Hot against her face, her shoulders, her arms, her breasts, the soft roundness of her belly, her legs, her feet with their unpainted toenails. Her body seemed strange to her. Smooth and dark. So few scars and blemishes.

But she remembered it differently. Remembered when purple bruises had bloomed along her face and chest, exploded across her belly, trailed down her legs. Remembered when she’ d cleaned away blood and his semen. She’ d married Ignacio right after high school. He worked as an auto mechanic during the day. She worked as a waitress at night and took classes at the local college during the morning, determined to become a nurse. He’ d always been jealous, but it got worse as she spent more hours at work trying to cover the cost of tuition and textbooks. Worse as her classes became more intense and she spent more hours in the library.

It wasn’t long before his jealousy became physically violent. Teré had run to her mother the first time, but her mother had called her a cualquiera and a puta, told her she should be keeping house and raising a family instead of being out en la calle all day because who knew where she was or what she was doing. And if Ignacio beat her, it was her fault for being a disobedient wife.

She had been nineteen. Hadn’t known where to go if she couldn’t go to her family. Her father was dead. Her two younger sisters were still teenagers. Her friends from high school were either still partying or were starting their own families. She’ d made no friends at work or in school that she could turn to. Ignacio had come back pleading the next day, “I love you, baby. You have to forgive me. I love you so much it makes me crazy.” He’ d fallen to his knees, wrapping his arms around her waist, his hot tears against her hip. “I’ve loved you since we were kids. I’m just afraid you’re going to leave me. What if you don’t need me anymore when you become a nurse?” She’ d stood there woodenly, bearing his weight against her bruises.

Ignacio started to spend his nights sitting in his pickup outside the restaurant where she worked, watching her. Then it happened again. Again, he begged her forgiveness. It grew worse. Much worse. It took her a long time to leave him. But she did, finally. In a matter of months, she got a protective order, a divorce, and her degree. He tried one more time, breaking into her house, breaking her ribs and her left arm. She screamed and screamed until she had no voice left with which to scream. He raped her with her head and shoulder wedged under the bathroom sink, her broken arm sending hot waves of pain through her. Someone called the police. Ignacio pulled out a knife and threw himself at them. Two convictions of Aggravated Assault on a Peace Officer and one Domestic Violence conviction later, he was serving time in Huntsville. She packed her bags, changed her name, and left without saying goodbye to anyone.

It was done. It was over.

Except for these nights.

These nights taking hot baths because she couldn’t sleep. These nights remembering the bruises and the blood. Her whole body pulsed dark blue with tears. She could barely stand to live inside her body sometimes. What peace could she make with it when he had loved it and hated it, made it beautiful and made it ugly, caressed it and attacked it? Weak body. She dragged herself out of the tub, wrapped herself in a towel and collapsed back into bed.

Duérmete. She watched the shadows travel across the room and cringed at the faint light. She wanted to stare at the dust on the windowsills and pass the night listening to static-filled and faraway radio stations. Wanted to sit in the closet as she’ d done as a little girl when the voices got too loud and too close. Wanted to imagine that none of it belonged to her, none of it had ever belonged to her. Duérmete, duérmete.

Dusk again. Doña Marta’s house again. Doña Marta’s daughter Yole was rolling out tortillas, turning the ones cooking on the comal. Teré sat at the kitchen table, tearing quarter-folded paper towels into smaller and smaller pieces. A cup of coffee sat untouched and cooling in front of her. Doña Marta was holding her cup of coffee with both hands, sipping slowly. Yole quickly picked up the last two hot tortillas, tossed them into the towel-lined bowl, and covered the bowl with a plate. “ ’Ta bueno, Mamá, ya me voy. Have a good dinner. You too, Teré, hope you like the tortillas.”

“Gracias, m’ija, ten cuidado,” Doña Marta said, after Yole kissed her on the forehead. “Bye, Yole,” Teré called out after her.

Doña Marta waited until the front door closed, “Pos, Teré, I can see it on your face. You had one of your dreams again. Tell me what happened.”

Teré smiled a small smile, “You know me too well, Doña Marta.” She abandoned her little piles and crossed her arms, leaning against the wooden table. “It was the ugliest dream. I was in a cotton gin, climbing mountains of cottonseed, like I used to when I was a kid. Then I tumbled all the way down. Head over heels until my body struck metal, and then I was on the conveyor belt. My legs and arms were hanging out, and I saw that I was naked. Cottonseed struck me all over—my face, my arms, the husks scratching against my skin. I tried to get up but it was impossible to stand, impossible to get a firm hold on anything. The belt threw me into the trailer bed.

“I was desperate to get out. But I couldn’t see how to do it. No one heard me yelling, and there wasn’t enough cottonseed for me to climb out. The walls didn’t look that high, only a foot above my head, but there were no footholds, no ropes or chains or pipes I could use to pull myself out.”

She fell silent, reliving the rest of her dream. How she’ d reached up to pull herself up, but the wall’s edge was slippery. She looked at her hands and found them bloody, blood running down her arms. She reached up again and found something warm and solid, took a firm hold and pulled. Long ropes of intestines, still slick and pink, steaming in the cold air, came tumbling down. She was struck in the face with livers and kidneys and hearts. Organs piled up around her feet. Teré shuddered, her stomach twisting, but she couldn’t get free of them. Her hair was tangled in the loops of intestine. She threw herself against the wall trying to get free, but all she succeeded in doing was covering her body with congealed blood.

“It was an ugly dream, Marta.” Teré sipped at her cold coffee, staring at the cup’s blue rim.

“Ay, Teré, it’s not that hard to understand your dream. No puedes seguir así, you’re hurting yourself, keeping all your wounds open. It’s all over, ¿qué no? You’ve put your life back in order…has salido adelante…”

Doña Marta grabbed at her hands. Teré’s eyes flew open to see cloudy irises gone bright and blazing. “Mira, m’ija, life isn’t easy. It’s never easy. But we survive and we keep on going. Life can be sweet too. You can’t change what’s already happened. Hay que mirar al futuro. You have the rest of your life, Teré, don’t waste it.”

On the way home, she drove to the closest Exxon Tigre Mart, crossed her arms while she waited for the gas tank to fill. The waning heat made hazy waves over the asphalt. Her eye was caught by a group of young teenagers hanging out on the side of the convenience store. Three guys, two girls, all Latinos. And there was a young couple leaning against the wall. She was pretty, in a yellow blouse and a denim mini-skirt. He was in dark colors, holding her tightly to him, one of her arms twisted behind her. His other arm around her neck, his hand against her face. Teré remembered Ignacio holding her that way. It had thrilled her when they were in school, had made her feel that she was his, even though she couldn’t move, even though being held that way made her arms and neck ache after a while. But she’ d never pushed him away.

She wanted to run towards them and pull the girl out of the boy’s arms, wanted to tell her, possession is not love. Wanted to tell her, run.

But the girl wouldn’t understand her. They’d all think she was crazy.

What was wrong with her? Other women were able to move on. Other women had become stronger for what they’d survived. Was she the only one who wished it had never happened? Was she the only one who didn’t want to be strong just because she’ d endured? Teré didn’t want to be this person who was a survivor. She desperately wanted not to cry anymore. Desperately wanted to heal. But even more, she longed to never have been hurt.

Teré got back in her car, turned her face away. What would it take, she wondered, to forget Ignacio, to forget everything? Why wouldn’t the dreams and the memories leave her alone? What else did she have to do?

Momentum had carried her. Making decisions and making changes had made her feel alive. And for a while, she had been able to sleep at night. Had hardly flinched. For a while, she’ d thought she was whole. Teré reached into her purse, took out the appointment card for her follow-up at the sleep clinic and tore it in two. There was no magic pill, no medical equipment that could help her sleep.

Later that night, Teré somehow found herself arm-deep in Doña Marta’s bedroom closet, taking down and emptying boxes, bags, and old suitcases. She flipped through old photograph albums with pages and pages of black and white photos, dozens of children’s crayon drawings, ribbon-tied bundles of letters, dusty and faded plastic flowers, boxes of clothes marked for Goodwill that had never reached their destination, boxes with shiny black low-heeled shoes, old purses with loose coins and old receipts still in them.

At the back of the closet, Teré pulled out a wooden box hastily wrapped in an old blanket. She uncovered it and grimaced against the scent that rose up. The wood had been cut before it was dry, left rough-edged and unpolished. It had that stink of things plucked before their time. It didn’t even have hinges, just a wooden square for a lid. Inside, something wrapped in layers and layers of pale linen. She kneeled in front of it and lifted the contents out, not liking the sound of things softly clinking against each other, not liking the sharp cutting lines against the cloth. The linen came away slowly.

Her eyes couldn’t make sense of it at first, but she’ d seen too many textbooks, studied each bone in the human body until she could recite them in her sleep. Phalanges. Metatarsals. Tarsals. Toes. Foot. Ankle. A frayed white handkerchief had been wrapped around the ankle. Teré put the bones on the bed. There was another bundle in the box. Also wrapped in cloth. Teré unwound it. Tibia. Fibula. Patella. Calf. Knee. The bones weren’t white, not even ivory, but a soft mottled grey. She didn’t know how the flesh had been removed, but it had been done carefully, cleanly. Perhaps boiled. Then dried out thoroughly. The ligaments had been cut away carefully, leaving only those necessary to hold the bones of the toes to the feet to the ankles. For all of the care taken, though, the bones seemed as if they’d been hurriedly wrapped in linen and then tossed into the box.

She cradled the bones on her lap, felt their edges with her fingers, tracing the lines and the scars, especially the too-precise lines between them. She shook out the cloths and the handkerchief. Slowly and reverently, she wrapped each part separately. Laid them one by one back in the box. Swaddled the box in the same blanket. Back in the closet. Closed the door.

When Teré woke the next morning, sunlight was already flooding the room. She felt so tired. She turned onto her other side. Sleep came back for her, covered her eyes and pulled her down.

Dusk. Teré parked her car in front of Doña Marta’s house, finding it odd that though the old woman wasn’t sitting out on the porch, she’ d left her wheelchair there. Sudden alarm made Teré jump from the car, leaving her bag inside and the keys in the ignition.

The old woman was lying on the ground, her hip lodged against the porch steps, her hands still clenching weeds. Teré ran towards her, fighting the tightness in her throat, in her chest. Doña Marta’s clouded eyes were staring up to where the blue sky should have been. Her face was haggard, the deep lines around her eyes and mouth gathering shadows. The thin strands of her white hair lay against the dry grass. The loose layers of her pale blue housedress had come up to her thighs, exposing legwarmers bunched awkwardly around what was left of her other leg. Her dark skin was too pale, almost translucent.

Teré fell onto her knees next to the old woman, pulling her narrow shoulders onto her lap. “No, no, despiertase—look at me—hablame—”

The old woman blinked, coughed once, twice, “I just wanted to see my plants, m’ija. I wanted to see how my plants were. I haven’t been able to smell them in so long.” She sighed, “Ay, Teré, I wanted to believe they’d been fine without me. I thought it was just my old blind eyes that couldn’t see the colors of my flowers. I kept imagining everything was just the way it was the day I went to the hospital—verde y floreciendo. But I knew, I knew.” She closed her sightless eyes, turning her face away from the sky.

Teré held her tight, cradling the old woman against her, whispering against her brow, beginning to cry, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I should have told you.”

The old woman slowly, slowly raised a hand up to Teré’s face, “It’s okay, m’ija, it’s okay, no llores. I knew my jardín was dead. Nothing leaves this life untouched.”

She ignored her own tears and wiped away the thin silent tears streaming from the old woman’s eyes, clouded but wide open. “You didn’t have to come out here alone. It’s my fault you’re hurt.”

“Ay, Teré, don’t you see, I had to touch it with my own hands.” The old woman smiled, “It’s okay. I know what’s waiting for me in the life after this one, en el otro mundo, Alfredo is waiting for me. And a huge garden. And I will be healthy and strong and pass my days planting seeds in the dark earth and watching the flowers bloom.” She sighed, “Even this garden is not dead. There are still seeds, m’ija, and strong roots. When the rains come again, some of it will grow wild and green. There is still life in it. It only waits for a loving hand.” She took another breath, smiled at Teré, “Cuidate, m’ija,” and then went limp in Teré’s arms.

The next night, Teré sat at the window, watching the moon rise and slowly lose its crimson color. When it was a perfect burning white, she rose from her seat. Slipped on her sandals. Left her house. Walked down the sidewalk. No one. No cars. No noise. Only the night sky and the night silence and the night breeze.

Doña Marta’s house wasn’t that far after all. The little gate creaked open at her touch as mosquitoes whined around her neck and bare arms. She walked up the steps and through the screen door, the living room, the hall, to the last bedroom. She didn’t need lights; the moonlight was enough to illuminate the small, still body covered only with a plain white sheet.

She drew the sheet back slowly. Doña Marta’s expression was serene. No make-up forcing life onto her paled cheeks. Her hair had been washed and combed out in a soft halo. Withdrawing the sheet had caused some of her hair to lie over her forehead. Teré gently smoothed it back, then bent to kiss her cool cheek, “Aquí ’toy.”

She worked quickly, not knowing if someone would be coming soon for the body. Teré pulled away the sheet covering the old woman, untucking it from underneath her. Then she turned to the closet, found the box, withdrew the bones, and laid them over Doña Marta’s chest. She wound the bed sheet tightly around the old woman and the bones. She took a deep breath and slid her arms beneath the body.

The body was light in her arms. In the silence of cicadas and crickets and branches swaying, Teré carried the body away from the house, away from asphalt, away from city streets and city lights, carrying the body towards the sound of the ocean. The sun hadn’t risen. There was only silence and stillness. Time melted away, and she came to the ocean. Gently, she laid the body down in the soft sand under a silver-thorned black-wooded huisache and unwrapped the sheet.

The soft white hair wisped away on its own as the scent of dried flowers rose from the body. The flesh fell away, relieved of the need to cling to the bone. Calluses fell away, scars fell away, varicose veins fell away. All burdens fell away. Teré ran sand, not water, over the bones. She’ d thought they would be smooth and untouched. But there were marks, soft interweaving circles, lines, and patterns gleaming brightly on the pale bones. Glyphs covered every inch, bearing witness to the old woman’s life. Pictographs that left nothing unsaid: years of work and struggle and illness etching deep diagonal lines; longing, grief, and loss spiraling around and around each bone; bruises and joys bursting like blooms. Her fingers traced them wonderingly. Everything was there. Pale shadows that spoke names and thousands of tiny handprints laid over each other. Even when the flesh that had borne so much fell away, the bones remembered.

Finally, Teré turned to the other bones. She ran sand over them and with thorns from the huisache, she cleaned the jagged lines at the ankle and above the knee. When she placed those bones, gleaming white, against the others, the whole skeleton seemed to sigh and melt together, a story fragmented and complete, resigned and at peace.

On her knees, she leaned down to lay a soft kiss on the bright skull. The old woman rested, scarred and whole on the dark ground. White moonlight on white bones. The bones glowed, filling the eye with their swirling, patterned gleaming.

The walls of her own house sighed with welcome. She left the lights off, tracking the moonlight coming in from the living room windows to the hall, softly passing through the darker shadows at the entrance to her bedroom before stepping into the light spilling in from the bedroom windows. Some other night when she hadn’t been able to stand the darkness, she’ d pulled the curtains and blinds down. They lay in unsalvaged wreckage against the walls, leaving the windows bare, letting the night in.

She looked down at her sand-filled clothing. When she shed them, fine sprays of golden sand arced out in every direction. Her body glowed a pale copper in the dark. She rubbed her hands against each other and shook out sand. Dug them into her hair and shook out more sand. Smoothed away the sand on her face, her neck, her shoulders, her chest, her belly, her thighs, her legs, balancing first on one foot and then the other to clear the sand away from her feet. As soon as she planted both feet on the floor, the light glancing off her legs left her gasping. She could see a glimmering beneath her skin. Her own spirals and glyphs shining outward from the bone. Her own scars transformed into something else. Wonderingly, she traced each line, each shadow with her fingers. Her skin felt the same, smooth and warm. It seemed as if her body should feel alien—or hurt. But it didn’t hurt. And now, with her bones glowing through her flesh, she felt more alive inside her body than she had ever felt. This body was wholly hers, with its memories and its scars and its surviving. Her body had survived, healed, grown strong again. She had survived, healed, grown strong again. She stood straight and walked to the bed. The gleaming didn’t leave her skin.

Time to sleep. She wasn’t afraid to close her eyes, wasn’t afraid to lose sight of the stars under her skin. She knew they’d always be there, constellations on her bones. Time to lie down. She fell onto the bed with her arms spread wide, wanting to lie in the darkness, the night air warm and soft on her skin. Nothing hurt. She wanted to listen to the branches of the mesquites and the huisaches swaying. Wanted to go to sleep slowly and driftingly, knowing she wouldn’t taste any more tears. Wanted to sleep and remember. Duérmete.

A black expanse of night sky broken with stars. A pale expanse of sand. Dark ocean with white-capped waves. The long rippling lines of dunes that rendered the ocean invisible from the road. The tallest dune that would feel the sun’s warmth first. It seemed to Teré that she could see it all from far away, high above. Too far to see exactly but she didn’t need to come closer, recognizing what lay on the tallest dune. The old woman’s polished bones, scarred into wholeness, perfect and white.