Paula (48 page)

“Wake up, you're crying in your sleep!” I hear Willie's voice coming from a great distance, and, without opening my eyes, I try to sink farther into the darkness so my daughter will not disappear: this may be her last visit, I may never hear her voice again. “Wake up, wake up, it's a nightmare. . . .” My husband is shaking me. “Wait for me, Paula! I want to go with you!” I scream, and then he turns on the light and tries to put his arms around me, but I push him away brusquely because she is smiling at me from the doorway, lifting one hand to wave goodbye before vanishing down the hallway, her white nightgown floating like wings and her bare feet barely brushing the carpet. Beside my bed are her rabbit fur slippers.

Juan came to participate in a two-week theological seminar. He was very busy analyzing God's motives, but he found a way to spend hours with me and with Paula. Ever since giving up his Marxist convictions to devote himself to divine studies, something I cannot put my finger on has changed in his person: the slightly tilted head, the slower gestures, the more compassionate gaze, the more restrained vocabulary—now he doesn't end each sentence with a swear word, as he used to. During this visit I plan to shake that air of solemnity a little; it would be too much if religion killed his sense of humor. My brother describes himself in his role as pastor as a
manager of suffering;
his hours are eaten up with consoling and trying to help people who have no hope, in administering the scarce resources available for the dying, the drug addicts, the prostitutes, the abandoned children, and other wrecks in the multitudinous Court of Miracles that makes up humanity. His heart cannot stretch far enough to embrace so much pain. Since he lives in the most conservative area of the United States, to him California seems like a land of weirdos. By chance, he witnessed a gay parade, an exuberant Dionysian carnival, and then in Berkeley he attended frenzied demonstrations for and against abortion, political wrangles on the university campus, and a convention of street evangelists shouting their doctrines amid beggars and aging hippies, the last remnants of the sixties, still with their shell necklaces and flowers painted on their cheeks. Horrified, Juan learned that at the seminary courses are offered in
The Theology of the Hula Hoop
and
How to Earn a Living Making Fun of the Bible
. Every time this beloved brother comes, we mourn Paula's fortune, finding some remote corner of the house where no one can see us, but we also laugh as we did when we were young, when we were discovering the world and thought we were invincible. I can tell him even the most secret things. I listen to his counsel as I rattle pans in the kitchen to cook up new vegetarian dishes for him—a pointless labor since he barely pecks at his food: his nourishment is ideas and books. He spends long hours alone with Paula, I think, praying. He no longer wagers she will get well; he says that the presence of her spirit in the house is very strong, that she is clearing spiritual paths to us and sweeping our lives clean of trivia, leaving only the essential. In her wheelchair, vacant-eyed, motionless, pale, she is an angel opening doors to the divine so we may glimpse its immensity.

“Paula is getting ready to leave the world. She is exhausted, Juan.”

“What do you plan to do?”

“I would help her die if I knew how.”

“Don't even think of it! You would carry a burden of guilt for the rest of your days.”

“But I will feel even more guilty if I leave her in this martyrdom. . . . What will happen if I die before she does? Imagine that I'm gone, who would take care of her?”

“That moment hasn't come, you gain nothing by getting ahead of yourself. Life and death have their time. God never sends us suffering without the strength to bear it.”

“You're preaching at me, Juan, like a priest. . . .”

“Paula doesn't belong to you. You should not prolong her life artificially, but neither should you shorten it.”

“How far does ‘artificial' go? Have you seen the hospital I have downstairs? I control every function of her body; I measure every drop of water that goes into her system, and there are a dozen bottles and syringes on her table. And since she can't swallow for herself, if I don't feed her through that tube in her stomach, she will die of hunger within a week.”

“Would you be able to withhold food from her?”

“No, never. But if I knew how to speed up her death without pain, I think I would do it. If I don't, sooner or later Nicolás will, and it isn't fair for him to take on that responsibility. I have a handful of sleeping pills I've been keeping for months, but I don't know if they're enough.”

“Oh, Isabel. . . . How much can you suffer?”

“I don't know. I think I'm at the end of my strength. If only I could give her my life and die in her place. I'm lost, I don't know who I am, I try to remember who I was once but I find only disguises, masks, projections, the confused images of a woman I can't recognize. Am I the feminist I thought I was, or the frivolous girl who appeared on television wearing nothing but ostrich feathers? The obsessive mother, the unfaithful wife, the fearless adventurer, or the cowardly woman? Am I the person who helped political fugitives find asylum or the one who ran away because she couldn't handle fear? Too many contradictions. . . .”

“You're all of them, and also the samurai who is battling death.”

“Was battling, Juan. I've lost.”

Difficult times. Weeks of such anxiety that I don't want to see anyone; I can barely speak or eat or sleep; I write for hours on end. I keep losing weight. Until now, I was so busy fighting Paula's illness that I could deceive myself, imagine that I could win this battle of Titans, but now that I know Paula is going, my efforts are absurd. She is worn out; that's what she tells me in dreams at night and when I wake at dawn and when I am walking in the forest and the breeze carries her words to me. On the surface, everything seems more or less the same—except for those urgent messages, her ever-weaker voice asking for help. I am not the only one who hears it, the women who help me care for her are beginning to say their adieus. The masseuse decided it was not worthwhile to continue her sessions because, as she said, “Our girl is not responding.” The physiotherapist called, stammering, tongue-tied with apologies, until finally he confessed that Paula's incurable illness was affecting his energy. The dental hygienist came, a young woman Paula's age, with the same long hair and thick eyebrows, so much like her they could pass for sisters. Every two weeks, she cleans Paula's teeth with great delicacy, so she won't hurt her, then hurries away without letting me see her face, trying to hide her emotions. She refuses to charge anything; up till now, there's been no opportunity for her to hand me a bill. We work together, because Paula becomes rigid when anyone tries to touch her face; only I can open her mouth and brush her teeth. This visit I noticed the hygienist was worried; no matter how carefully I do the daily cleaning, there are problems with Paula's gums. Dr. Shima often comes by on the way from work and brings me messages from his I Ching sticks. We stand close to the bed, talking about the soul and accepting death. “When she leaves us, I will feel a great void,” he says. “I'm used to Paula now, she's very important in my life.” Dr. Forrester seems uneasy, too. After her last examination, she was silent for a long time while she thought over her diagnosis, and finally she said that from a clinical point of view little had changed; nevertheless, she said, Paula seems less and less with us: she sleeps too much, her eyes are glassy, she doesn't react to noises anymore, her cerebral functions are diminished. But in spite of everything, she is more beautiful: her hands and ankles are finer, her neck longer, her pale cheeks dramatically emphasize her long black eyelashes. Her face has an angelic expression, as if finally she had obliterated all doubt and found the divine fount she had sought so resolutely. She is so different from me! I can't recognize anything of me in her. Or of my mother or my grandmother—except the large, dark, slightly melancholy eyes. Who is this daughter of mine? What accident of chromosomes navigating from one generation to the next in the most recondite spaces of the blood and hope determined this girl?

Nicolás and Celia keep us company; we spend much of the day in Paula's room, closed now against the cold. In the summer, the children played on the terrace in their plastic pool littered with dead mosquitoes and bits of soupy cookies while our invalid rested beneath a parasol, but now that autumn is gone and winter is beginning, the house has drawn into itself and we all gather in Paula's room. Celia is a consummate ally, generous and stable; she has been acting as my assistant for several months. I don't have the heart to work, and without her I would be crushed beneath a mountain of paper. She usually has a child in her arms or dangling on a hip, and her blouse unbuttoned to nurse Andrea. This granddaughter of mine is always happy; she plays by herself and falls asleep on the floor sucking the corner of a diaper, so quiet that we forget where we put her and, unless we're careful, could step on her. As soon as I learn to live with sadness, I will take on my grandmotherly duties. I will think up stories for the children, bake cookies, make puppets and colorful costumes to fill the theater trunk. I need Granny; if she were here she would be nearly eighty, a slightly dotty and eccentric old lady with only a handful of hair on her head, but with her talent for raising children intact.

It seems this year will never end, yet I don't know where all the hours and days have gone. I need time. Time to clear away confusion, heal wounds, and renew myself. What will I be like at sixty? Not one cell of the girl I was remains in the woman I am today, only memory, enduring and persevering. How long will it take to travel through this dark tunnel? How long to get back on my feet?

I keep Paula's letter in the same tin box that contains Memé's relics. I take it out sometimes, reverently, like a holy object, imagining that it contains the explanation I long for, tempted to read it but also paralyzed by superstitious fear. I ask myself why a young, healthy, deeply in love woman in the middle of her honeymoon would write a letter to be opened after her death? What did she see in her nightmares? What mysteries lie hidden in the life of my daughter? Sorting through old snapshots, I see her again fresh and vital, always with an arm around her husband, her brother, or her friends; in all of them, except her wedding pictures, she is in blue jeans and a simple blouse, her hair tied with a kerchief, without adornment. That is how I must remember her, but that smiling girl has been replaced by a melancholy figure submersed in solitude and silence. “Let's open the letter,” Celia urged for the thousandth time. In the last few days, I have been unable to communicate with Paula; she is not visiting me now. Before, the minute I stepped through the door I perceived her thirst, her muscle cramps, the variations in her blood pressure and temperature, but now I can't sense her needs in advance. “All right, let's open it,” I agreed finally. I went to get the box; shakily, I broke the wax seal, opened the envelope, and took out two pages written in Paula's precise hand, and read aloud. Her clear words came to us from another time.

I do not want to remain trapped in my body. Freed from it, I will be closer to those I love, no matter if they are at the four corners of the planet. It is difficult to express the love I leave behind, the depths of the feelings that join me to Ernesto, to my parents, to my brother, to my grandparents. I know you will remember me, and as long as you do, I will be with you. I want to be cremated and have my ashes scattered outdoors. I do not want a tombstone with my name anywhere, I prefer to live in the hearts of those I love, and to return to the earth. I have a savings account; use it to help children who need to go to school or to eat. Divide my things among any who want a keepsake—actually, there is very little. Please don't be sad, I am still with you, except I am closer than I was before. In another time, we will be reunited in spirit, but for now we will be together as long as you remember me. Ernesto
. . . .
I have loved you deeply and still do; you are an extraordinary man and I don't doubt that you can be happy after I am gone. Mama, Papa, Nico, Grandmother, Tío Ramón; you are the best family I could ever have had. Don't forget me, and . . . let's see a smile on those faces! Remember that we spirits can best help, accompany, and protect, those who are happy. I love you dearly
.

Paula
.

Winter is back and it won't stop raining; it's cold, and you are worse every day. Forgive me for having made you wait so long, Paula. . . . I've been too slow, but now I have no doubt, your letter is so revealing! Count on me, I promise I will help you, just give me a little more time. I sit beside you in the quiet of your room in this winter that will be eternal for me, the two of us alone, just as we have been so often over these months, and I open myself to pain without offering any resistance. I rest my head on your chest and feel the irregular beat of your heart, the warmth of your skin, the slow rhythm of your breathing; I close my eyes and for a few instants imagine that you are simply sleeping. But sorrow explodes within me with the fury of a sudden storm and I feel your nightgown grow damp with my tears while a visceral moan born in the depths of the earth rises through my body like a spear and fills my mouth. They assure me you are not suffering. How do they know? It may be that in the end you have become accustomed to the iron armor of paralysis, and have forgotten the taste of a peach or the simple pleasure of running your fingers through your hair, but your soul is trapped and yearns to be free. There is no respite from this obsession; I know that I have failed in the most important challenge of my life. Enough! Just look at the ruins of what is left of you, Paula . . . dear God! This is the premonition you had on your honeymoon, and why you wrote the letter. “Paula is already a saint, she is in heaven and suffering has washed away all her sins,” says Inés, your scarred Salvadoran nurse who spoils you like a baby. How lovingly we care for you! You are never alone, day or night; every half-hour we move you, to maintain what little flexibility you have left; we monitor every drop of water and every gram of food; you receive your medicines on a precise schedule; before we dress you we bathe you and massage you with lotion to keep your skin healthy. “It's incredible what you've been able to do; she wouldn't do this well in any hospital,” says Dr. Forrester. “She can live seven years,” Dr. Shima predicts. For what? You are like the fairy-tale Sleeping Beauty in her glass coffin, except that no prince will come to save you with a kiss; no one can wake you from this final dream. Your only exit, Paula, is death. Now I can dare think it, say it to you, and write it in my yellow pad. I call upon my sturdy grandfather and my clairvoyant grandmother to help you cross the threshold and be born on the other side; I especially summon Granny, your grandmother with the transparent eyes, the one who died of sorrow when she had to be separated from you. I call her to come with her golden scissors to cut the strong thread that keeps you tied to your body. Her photo—when she is still young, with the hint of a smile and liquid eyes—is near your bed, as are those of all your guiding spirits. Come, Granny, come for your granddaughter, I plead, but I fear that neither she nor any other shade will come to lift this chalice of anguish from me. I will be alone beside you to take you by the hand to the very doorway to death, and, if I can, I will cross through with you.