Boundaries (9 page)

“I plan to go back when I retire,” Paula says.

“You might as well assimilate in the meanwhile. Life will be easier for you. You’ll find all the foods Americans eat in your supermarket. You won’t have to make the trek to Flatbush.”

“Assimilation is a pipe dream,” Paula says.

Anna does not reply that the pipe dream is planning to return home when you retire. The statistics are there for Paula to read. Of the few who go back home, many return to the States when they discover that time has marched on: the place they returned to is not the place of their dreams.

“America is a salad bowl,” Paula says when Anna does not respond. “It’s not a melting pot as the politicians want us to believe. A tomato is still a tomato in the salad bowl. And who’d want to melt anyhow? You’d lose your identity if you melt.”

“You’d become an American,” Anna counters.

“Impossible! I’d know one of us no matter how long we had lived in this country. I can tell just by the way we walk and talk. All that hand gesturing, the sing-song accents.”

“But not our children. They won’t speak with our accents and they’ll walk like John Wayne,” Anna says.

Paula slaps the side of her thigh and bends over laughing. “John Wayne? You can’t be serious, Anna! Who’d want to walk like John Wayne?”

“If you and I had children …” Anna pauses. They are both childless but they are not menopausal. Perhaps there is still time. She starts again. “The children of people like you and me walk as if they have the right to be, the right to exist. They have ingested America’s ideas about freedom and individuality.”

“They swagger as if they own the world,” Paula says. It is a criticism Anna is familiar with; she has heard it many times before. “Still,” she responds, “I like the freedoms Americans take for granted. I like the way they believe in the sanctity of the individual.”

“Sanctity? Are we talking about religion here?”

“I mean the fact that the individual has inalienable rights.”

“The right to pursue individual happiness even when that pursuit is damaging to the community?”

They have reached their usual impasse, Paula not budging on her conviction that the rights of the community must have priority over the rights of the individual. Anna accuses her of advocating socialism. “Even the communists know that while socialism may be a good idea in theory, in practice it does not work,” Anna says. “The Berlin Wall fell; the Soviet states have disintegrated.”

But Paula responds that it is the “me, me, and me alone” generation that is eroding family values.

“I like having the freedom to be me,” Anna says. “I like having the right to pursue my happiness. That’s what I want for myself.”

“Well, you don’t have to stop eating Caribbean food to want that,” Paula answers irritably.

But Anna has not stopped eating Caribbean food. Not entirely. She has simply expanded her tastes. For her parents, she will keep a Caribbean kitchen. While they are here, she will cook Caribbean food.

On Saturday Paul Bishop calls. He thinks it will be better if her mother comes directly to New Jersey from the airport. He can arrange for her to stay in one of the apartments the hospital keeps for out-of-town families. She and her father may stay there too, of course. From there they can easily get to the hospital for her mother’s pre-op tests on Monday, and he’ll send one of the nurses to accompany them to the hospital on Tuesday. Tomorrow he will take her to the airport to meet her parents, and, if she agrees, he will drive them directly to the apartment in New Jersey.

Anna is overwhelmed by his kindness. The arrangement he proposes is perfect, more than perfect. Her parents will be extremely grateful to him, she says. She will never be able to repay him for being so kind to them.

“I don’t know about that,” he says jokingly.

Her heart flutters. She reminds herself that the kiss he gave her on her lips was a chaste one. She should not read more into his words than light banter. “Oh, is there a fee?” she asks, her tone as light as his.

“Time will tell,” he replies enigmatically.

He arrives the next day at the time they agreed upon. He is dressed in a light beige knit polo shirt tucked at the waist in tan slacks. He looks relaxed, happy to see her. He kisses her on the left cheek, the right cheek, and then on her mouth. The kiss on her mouth lingers. Suddenly shy, she backs away; he does not try to hold her.

She is already packed, ready to go: two changes of clothing, her laptop, her notebook, the final chapters of a manuscript she is editing. She has prepared a fruit basket to welcome her parents, with apples and grapes and the tropical fruit she bought at the West Indian market. She has added a package of Crix biscuits, a jar of orange marmalade, a box of Lipton tea bags, and a can of Carnation milk. Her parents will want tea in the afternoon, as is their custom. She will serve them tea with the biscuits and marmalade at four. She adds bread and butter and two tins of sardines, breakfast for her father. Paul has told her that there will be no need for her to make dinner. “Breakfast or lunch, for that matter,” he says. “The hospital has a great cafeteria.” But she will stick to her plans.

Paul helps her carry the basket and her luggage to the car. His fingers are on the handle of the car door when he hesitates, turns, and pulls her to him. He kisses her again on her lips. This time she does not back away. “You look lovely in red,” he whispers in her ear. She has dressed for her mother in her favorite red sweater and black pants, but she is glad he likes her outfit. If he thinks red looks good on her, then her mother will think so too.

On the drive to the airport Paul reassures her that her mother has a very good chance of remission after the surgery. Estrogen feeds most breast cancers, he says, but her mother’s body has long since stopped producing the level for a woman of childbearing age. He admits the tumor in her lymph node under her arm is worrisome, but he believes it will be contained.

“Is your mother a praying woman?” he asks.

Anna tells him that her mother is devoted to the Virgin Mary. She prays the rosary several times a day.

“That’s good,” he says. “My patients who pray recover faster. Praying gives them hope, a positive attitude that helps them heal. The ones who don’t pray often sink into despair.”

But for more than two years, locked up in the darkness of her bathroom, her mother prayed to the Virgin Mary. Still, the tumors kept on getting bigger and bigger until the one on her breast erupted and bled.

“Mummy might have gone to the doctor earlier if she had not relied so exclusively on prayer,” she says.

“Yes,” Paul concedes. “That’s the other side. Sometimes religion gives them false hope.”

“So much false hope that they wait too long to see a doctor,” Anna says wryly.

“You mustn’t blame her. Your mother was afraid.”

Anna is afraid too. Her mother’s mother died of breast cancer; and now her mother has breast cancer. The arrow is pointing directly to her.

“What about you?” Anna asks. “Are you a praying man?”

“Me? I’m a believer in a general sense. I suppose you could say I am spiritual rather than religious. I believe there is a power, some entity greater than us that rules the earth. It keeps the planets from colliding into each other; it keeps us from destroying each other.”

“It doesn’t stop wars,” Anna says.

“I believe in cosmic justice. Do evil and it will come back to you.”

“
Evil on itself shall back recoil, and mix no more with goodness.
”

“Something like that.”

“John Milton,” she says. “A poet. He wrote that.”

“Hmmm.” He is looking straight ahead at the road before him. Then, as if her words have finally penetrated his mind, he says, “The power of books. Yes?”

“Of good literature.”

“Milton was a smart man.”

“A brilliant poet.”

“I see what you mean,” he says. He turns briefly to her, smiles, and then his eyes go back to the road. “He’s right, Milton. If somehow you escape paying for the evil you do, your children will surely pay, and if not them, your grandchildren, and so on. I believe that.”

“Me too.”

“Are you religious?”

“I do not disbelieve,” she says.

He grins and plays with her words on his tongue. “
I
do not disbelieve
,” he murmurs. “The double negative.” They speak no more about religion or their beliefs.

Her mother is wheeled through the gate at the airport. She sits with her back erect in the wheelchair, her head held high, a proud brown-skinned woman cognizant of her worth, seemingly unaware she is in a country where white skin has more value than hers. Her father lags behind the agent who pushes his wife up the ramp. From where she stands waiting for them, Anna sees her mother beckon her father. He comes to her, she whispers something to him, and he reaches for his wallet. The agent shakes her head, her mother says something to her, the agent shakes her head again. She has probably offered the agent money, Anna thinks. Her mother is a woman accustomed to paying for service: for Lydia who cooks and cleans for her; for the woman who comes once a week to iron her clothes; for Singh who tends her flowerbeds; for the boys who mow the lawn and weed; for a driver when her husband is unavailable to take her to appointments. Her father tries to take the handles of the wheelchair from the agent and when she does not allow him, her mother smiles graciously at her and gets out of the wheelchair. She places her hand on her husband’s arm and walks toward them. But she does not need her husband to support her; her gait is strong, steady.

For a woman inside whose left breast and under whose arm malignant tumors throb, she appears to be in remarkably good health. Her skin is silky smooth, unlike the skin of so many women her age who live in temperate climates where heat flowing out of ducts beneath the floor sucks moisture from everything, leaving faces pinched and parched, wrinkled like prunes. At seventy-two Beatrice Sinclair could well pass for a woman of sixty or younger. Her head, bald from weeks of chemo, is covered with a soft navy-blue fleece hat. In the absence of hair, her deepset eyes and prominent cheekbones are more pronounced. Around her neck she has loosely tied a silk Hermès scarf. Anna recognizes it as the one her father bought for her mother on their last visit to Paris. In all, her mother has three Hermès scarves. This one has a pattern of gold and brown horseshoes scattered across a navy background. The color matches the brass-buttoned navy cardigan and navy slacks she is wearing, and the crisp white shirt beneath the cardigan makes a stunning contrast, brightening her complexion.

Where has her mother learned to dress so appropriately for the fall?
She should not be surprised. Her mother has traveled often with her husband to the States and Europe. In spite of herself, Anna feels proud she has such a stylish mother.

Paul thinks her mother is stylish too. “You look wonderful, Mrs. Sinclair,” he says, and shakes her hand. “You are such an elegant lady.”

Her mother flashes him a wide smile. “Thank you. I feel wonderful. I don’t know why they insisted on making me sit on that wheelchair. Dr. Ramdoolal must have said something to the ticket agent. But, as you can see, I didn’t need it.”

Anna comes closer and brushes her lips across her mother’s cheek. It is the only embrace she gives her. Her mother does not expect more. But her father reaches for her. He wraps his arms around her and draws her to his chest. Anna has to hold back tears that begin to well in her eyes when he whispers in her ear, “Thank you.”

“And you too, Mr. Sinclair,” Paul says. “You look like a million dollars.”

Her mother has probably dressed him. Her father would not have picked out the fawn-brown sports jacket or the light beige scarf around his neck. He is not a man who cares about fashion. He would wear the same clothes forever if his wife didn’t stop him. If his clothes are not dirty, he sees no need to change them, he tells her. Every day Beatrice must remind him that in the hot sun he gets damp and sticky. He smells. And yet John Sinclair is a meticulously neat man. In his closet shirts are lined up by color, pants hung the same way. His socks are balled in a neat pile in his drawer next to his handkerchiefs which he carefully folds, though occasionally they are sticky with the peppermint sweets he eats, sometimes as many as ten a day, throwing the transparent wrappers all over the lawn even when there is a dustbin nearby. It is a habit that infuriates his wife, the one idiosyncrasy that belies his neatness.

He looks tired, drawn, Anna thinks, the circles under his eyes darker than she remembers. The skin on his face is slack, his long nose more beaked. He has already lost most of his hair and now her mother has lost hers too. No strands peek out from under her hat, not even wisps and tufts left after her last chemo treatment, but without hair her mother’s features are stronger, more defined. Her father’s bald head, circled at the base with a sparse scattering of gray hair, is the head of an old man.

He had not seemed this old when she left the island, and guilt stabs Anna’s heart.
She should not have left so soon
.

“It was a long trip,” her father says. “Your mother slept on the plane, but I couldn’t find a way to get comfortable.”

Perhaps that was all, the tight seating in the plane that made it impossible for him to relax. But they have traveled in first class, where the seats are wide and comfortable.

Anna tells him about the apartment Paul has arranged for them. They are relieved, grateful to learn they will be staying on the hospital grounds. Her mother says she was worried about how they would get from Brooklyn to New Jersey. John Sinclair places his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Your father raised a good son,” he says.

The apartment is small but tastefully decorated. There are two rooms, a bedroom in the back and an open space in front with a kitchenette, a small table and four chairs, an armchair, and a couch. The couch opens up into a narrow bed and Anna tells her parents she will be more than comfortable sleeping there; they can have the bedroom. Her parents do not protest. In more than forty years of marriage, they can count on their fingers the number of nights they have not slept together on the same bed.