Stranger (7 page)

When the course was finished she said goodbye to her new friends and to Lewis. For a year she shared the apartment with Lan. She washed dishes. She bought some new clothes. She went to the library and read books for free. She was happy enough. Sometimes she went to dances at a Spanish club, but the boys there reminded her of her brother, she said, who was dead.

And then, one afternoon, on the boardwalk by the ocean, Lewis found her. She was eating fish and chips when he walked by with a woman on his arm. He stopped and said her name and she looked up and saw him and it was very strange because she was both confused and happy. The woman on his arm was his age, maybe a bit younger. This was Laura, his sister. Lewis and Laura had the same nose. He wanted her address and he gave her paper on which to write it. He asked for a phone number as well. She didn't have a phone. An address is adequate, he said. This was how he talked and she recalled that she liked the way he spoke, with words that she didn't always understand. His sister stood off to the side and watched the seagulls and crossed her feet like sophisticated and pretty women do. Then Lewis shook Luisa's hand and said goodbye.

He dropped by to find her two weeks later. He was wearing a blue sweater and an orange scarf. The scarf made him look younger. He said that he was still teaching ESL. He asked if she wanted to get a drink, or something to eat. She said that she didn't drink. Fine, he said, we'll eat then. They went to a small Italian restaurant. She had never been to an Italian restaurant—in fact, she had not been to a sit-down restaurant other than those places on the wharf where she ordered fish and chips and sat at picnic tables and chased away the gulls. He ordered spaghetti for them. And a bottle of wine. He poured himself a glass and then poured a small amount for her as well. Try it, he said. She found it dry and sour. Still, she finished it and he poured her some more. She told Íso that this was the first and the last time she became drunk,
and she sometimes thought later that if she had not had wine that night, many things would have been different in her life, though she did not know if her life would have been better or worse. The wine gave her a pleasant feeling and when Lewis took her hand and asked if she would look at his apartment, she said yes. They sat on the hardwood floor in his living room and talked until midnight and drank more wine. He burned candles, she said, much like the candle that is burning here on the table. She waved a hand at the candle, as if it might be chased away, but it kept burning.

She said that Lewis kept telling her she was beautiful, and she asked him what he meant. You have dark hair, he said, and dark eyes, and I like your face, and I like your thoughts, and I like to hear your thoughts. He was very impractical. Or perhaps he was a dreamer. She thought this was funny. She didn't see herself as beautiful. She was too tall and her mouth was too wide. And then he said that he liked her, very much. She told him that she liked him too, he was a nice man.

More than nice, he said, and he tried to kiss her. She pushed him away, gently at first, but he wouldn't listen, he became stronger, and finally he was too strong and he took her by the throat and pushed her onto the floor. It was not love. And later, walking home alone, she passed by strange men—men whom she might have considered dangerous before, but who now seemed normal. She was crying, but no one spoke or said anything to her. In fact, they turned away. She told no one. Not the police, not Lan. And eventually she began to imagine that nothing bad had happened, and she wondered if she had made up the story in her own head.

There was something about living in a country where the language was not yours. You appeared to be stupid, and you weren't noticed. Or if you were noticed, it was for your body, or to clean someone's toilet, or to look after someone's child. You turned into someone to chase or to scorn or to look down on. It was necessary, wherever you lived, to have the poor so that everyone else felt better. You want to know a poor woman, she said to Íso, look at her hands. And she held up her hands for Íso to see, but the light was dim, and in the darkness her hands looked young. Íso took them and held them as her mother continued to speak.

She said that when she met Diego, he saw only her face, and he spoke to her tenderly of her beauty and he held her rough-looking hands, unaware of both her physical and her spiritual poverty. She said that she met him at a dance for those who spoke Spanish. Though there were also boys there who didn't speak Spanish. Most of the boys had come to meet a muchacha. The girls were popular, and these boys thought the girls were simple and easy, but they weren't. She noticed Diego right away. He was a good dancer. His hair was combed back and it was shining and he wore leather shoes and a beautiful soft pale shirt and his smile was devastating. And she felt safe for the first time. He worked in the valley picking asparagus, moving from farm to farm, and on Sundays he drove all the way into San Francisco to find her and this is how he wooed her. He invited her to join him. She did. They travelled the countryside, and on weekends they went to the coast and walked on the beach and put their feet into the water. For a year their life was full and rich, even though the
money they had was little. He showed her a piece of land that he one day wanted to own. How much is it? she asked. Too much, he said. One Sunday they ate a picnic on a blanket on that land, in the shade of a tree, and pretended that the land was theirs. All was hopeful. That afternoon, on the drive home, the police stopped them because the tail light was broken on Diego's pickup. They were arrested and put in holding for three weeks, and during that time she did not have contact with Diego. She heard that he was sent back to Mexico, and a week later she was sent back to her own country.

She never saw Diego again. She tried to contact him in his village in southern Mexico, but there was no response. So now she put the past behind her and she concentrated on the future. She found a job cooking and washing clothes for the family of the man who would become Íso's father, a man who had lived in the village all his life, a man a little older than she was. He had never left the country, and he was a local boy who had grown up poor, but he had managed to make enough money to put a down payment on a van, and so he started his own business. That was the man she married. And he became your father, she said. He was not like the other men she had known. No lies, sweet nonsense, and then anger. No big dreams of America and a piece of land. He was gentle. He loved me. And we had you, Íso. And you, because of him, will have more than I ever had. You are smarter, and you are better inside, and you will not make the same mistakes that I made. Do you see? Then she said that her story had been too long, and that possibly it had not made any sense.

It made sense, Íso said. It made me sad. And then she asked her mother why she had waited so long to tell her this story. She said that if she had known sooner, she might have been wiser.

Señora Perdido said that wisdom was earned. It didn't come from hearing stories of other people's lives. Even now, she said, you'll make decisions that will take you down a difficult road. And she squeezed Íso's hands. Íso thought that her mother was very beautiful at that moment, and she experienced the thrill of being a confidante, one into whose soul has been poured the many secrets of the teller.

A
S TYPICALLY HAPPENED WITH KEEPERS WHO WERE PREGNANT,
Íso became popular with the women who came to take the waters. She was aware of being studied and admired. There was always one woman each day who asked if she might touch Íso. She allowed this. What followed were questions about how far along she was, and was the baby moving, and was it a girl or a boy. She didn't know the gender and she said that yes, the baby was moving. This happened more and more at night as she lay in bed beside her mother. The baby threw itself around in her womb. And she would take her mother's hand and place it on her belly and say, Here.

And they laughed together.

She was constantly hungry. She found herself eating at night, late, and waking with heartburn, for which she took aloe juice. And during the day, if the woman she had served left any food on her
plate, she ate that as well, in secret. She was very fond of raw vegetables and always had a carrot at hand. Her back began to ache. Her ankles and knees. Her work became more trying, though the time in the pool was a relief.

No one at the clinic except Illya truly knew who the father was, though the other keepers certainly would have guessed, and Elena as well. If there was any gossip, she ignored it. One time when she happened to be working with Betje, Betje asked about the father, and she used Eric's name, but Íso pretended that she hadn't heard the question, and she turned away and made herself busy.

She thought often of Eric and imagined him as he was before he left, before the accident, and she found herself doubting everything that had happened between them. His body, her name in his mouth, his hands, and his hair flying out behind him as he rode his motorcycle. All was a dream. She wrote letters to him that she did not send, long letters describing the development of the baby, explaining that the girl (for she imagined it was a girl) would now have fingernails, and eyelids, and a brain, and hair. She said that the little girl would have wonderful hair. Imagine. Always, after she finished one of these letters, she saved it and closed down her computer, and the letters became like her thoughts, for herself only, unspoken, not to be shared.

During one two-week block she cared for a Frenchwoman who spoke no English and only a little Spanish, and so they communicated by touch and gestures and with their eyes and with a shared elementary vocabulary. The woman's name was Odette. She was a slight woman, with a crooked back and dark eyes. Her husband was
at home, running the family business. He planned to come within the week. Odette was always asking to touch Íso, and she allowed this, but it was clear that Odette could not see that she was more than a womb carrying a fetus. Odette asked one time if she could put her ear to Íso's belly. She would like to listen. She touched her ear and then touched Íso. Yes? she asked.

Íso allowed this. She lifted her blouse and Odette laid her head against Íso
's belly. She was quite large by now, and Odette was very small, and for a moment, looking down at her, Íso thought that Odette resembled a doll, or an infant herself.
Íso said
, Okay, and she lowered her top. Odette was lying on her back on the massage table. She was trembling.

Íso had learned that a woman
's mouth will signal her personality. A wide mouth meant a generous woman. An undersized mouth indicated miserliness, a person who was always taking. Odette's mouth was undersized and thin.

The following morning, the director, Elena, spoke with Íso. She called her into her office and asked her to sit down.
Íso
had not been in Elena's office since that day when Elena laid out the rules about fraternizing with the doctors. And now, here they were, both of them aware that she had not told the truth about Doctor Mann. But it was too late now. The road had been chosen.

Elena wore a black-and-white sleeveless dress with a pearl necklace. Íso was wearing her blue smock and her sandals. She felt diminished.

Elena asked how Íso was feeling.

Íso said that she was good. Strong.

And the baby? It's strong?

Íso nodded.

You're big, Elena said. Chubby. She said that it was important to gain weight. Then she said that a request had come from a patient regarding a contract for Íso's baby.

What do you mean? Íso asked. She knew exactly what Elena meant, but she couldn't think clearly and so she asked the question.

Someone is interested in your baby.

Who? Odette?

As you know, Íso, we never release names.

I'm not interested, Íso said.

They're offering a large amount.

There is no amount large enough.

You will want to think on it, Elena said, and she waved a hand casually, as if they might have been talking about the purchase of tortillas or a handful of limes in the market.

No, Íso said, I won't want to think on it.

Elena appeared disappointed. She said, I see that you wish to have the baby here, in one of the private rooms.

Yes.

That's good. It means so much to the clients when our keepers use the premises. A sense of trust and faith. Is it a girl or a boy?

I don't know.

I never wanted to know the gender of my children. It can be like a little game, full of anticipation and curiosity.

This was the first time Íso had heard Elena speak of her children. She felt off balance.

Elena asked if Doctor Mann knew about the baby.

Íso was quiet. She saw Elena
's fingers playing with the pearls at her chest. Her fingers were quite fat, like little chorizo sausages.

It was clear that he loved you, Elena said.

Íso lifted her head.

And that you loved him.

She had no words, her thoughts were confused.

Elena asked again if Doctor Mann knew about the baby.

Íso said that she hadn
't heard from the doctor. He had completely disappeared.

He's still recovering, Elena said. His head. And here she waved at her own head.

You spoke with him? Íso asked.

With his wife.

Does she know? About the baby?

If she doesn't, she should. As should the doctor. Isn't that reasonable? The fact is, Íso, you went against the rules of the clinic. And now you seem to think that the baby is yours alone. That you single-handedly created it. You have too much pride.

I don't think so.

Elena said that it would be best to write Doctor Mann and tell him about his child. He had a right to know.

Íso
found it hard to breathe. She placed her hands on her stomach, and bowed her head. I'll write and tell him, she said.

Good, Elena said. She looked at her watch, which was oversized and made of silver. She lowered her arm. She waited.

Íso realized that the conversation was over. She stood and excused herself. In the hallway she walked slowly, holding her belly.

That day, in the pool, she wanted to drown Odette. Push her
miniature mouth under the water and hold it until all the French bubbles had disappeared. Instead, she whispered soft words of hope and relaxation. Odette's eyes were closed. She breathed deeply. In the bath, she asked again to touch Íso.

Later, at home, Íso wrote a message to Eric. She explained that she was pregnant. She said that it was his child. She was sorry she hadn't told him sooner. She'd heard through Elena that he was still recovering. Perhaps that's why you don't write? I'm thinking of you. Always.

She knew of course that Eric's wife would read the message, and she knew that it might come as a shock, but she thought too that Eric and his wife had lived separate lives, and that only after Eric had the accident, when he was incapable of deciding things for himself, did his wife reclaim him.

There was no response from Eric. She did not understand. To be certain, she wrote him a regular letter and mailed it to the address he had given her when they were still close. Still close. When she said these words in her head, she was very sad.

He didn't respond.

And so she let him go.

S
HE
planned to have the baby at the clinic. She had a midwife, and her mother and her aunt would be present. Along with Illya. She asked Betje if she would be available if necessary. Betje was happy to say yes.

One day, a week before her delivery date, she was turning up
the corridor towards the clinic's kitchen, her belly out in front of her like a ship's prow, when she saw the doctor's wife walking in the garden. She stopped and looked again, but the doctor's wife had disappeared. She waited. She put it down to a vision. Her mind was not exactly quick these days. But still, the figure had been so clear, and the angle of the jaw, and the hair. She asked Selia, one of the keepers who had known the doctor and his wife, if Doctor Mann's wife had returned to the clinic. Selia shook her head and said that she didn't think so.

The next day she was sure she heard the voice of the doctor's wife, but when she turned into the courtyard, it was empty save for the gardener, who was sweeping leaves. She asked the gardener, whose name was Felipe, if he had seen a woman pass through.

He said that the director had passed by.

Was she with someone?

He said that it was not impossible. He waved his hand in the direction of the nearby corridor.

She walked into the corridor and saw nothing. Only plants and the red baldosas of the floor, and the soft light that fell through the large windows.

Later that day, she checked the register at the front desk, searching for Susan Mann's name, but she found nothing. She counselled herself that she was being illogical.

That night she did what she had always hesitated to do: she opened her computer and typed in the search term “Doctor Eric Mann” and she put the name “Susan” after it. She found images of the doctor and his wife. He in a tuxedo and she in an evening
dress. They were both smiling, her small head on his shoulder. Another of Susan in a large room with other people, holding a glass of wine, looking as if she absolutely belonged. And one of Eric alone, at a hospital somewhere in the States. And at the clinic at Ixchel, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, his long hair flowing. Eric on the motorcycle. She stared at the photos for long time. There was an article about his wife. She owned an art gallery that specialized in primitive installations. Íso wondered about the word “primitive.” She went back to the photo of Doctor Mann, the one at the clinic, but it was just an image. There was no smell, no voice, nothing to touch.

The next day she came home to find her uncle Santiago standing at the counter in the tienda, talking to her mother. When Santiago saw her he hugged her and touched her stomach as if it were a delicate glass bowl and he joked about her big beauty and she asked if it was too big. Never, he said. Never, my beautiful niece. He held her hands and asked if she was worried.

Why? she asked. No.

Good, good, he said. If you worry, you come to your tío.

I'm not worried, she repeated.

That evening Íso was standing behind the counter in the tienda, selling a pack of Marlboros to an American tourist, when her water broke. She heard a pop and she felt liquid trickle down her legs, and when she looked she saw a little puddle at her feet. She excused herself and went into the back and told her mother that she was going to have the baby. Her mother flagged down a tuk-tuk, and together they rode to the clinic. Her mother kept
telling the driver to slow down, and to be careful on the bumps. My daughter is having a baby, she said.

Íso
had requested a small room off the main building. There was a matrimonial bed and a sink and a bathroom and there was enough room for her mother and her aunt and Illya to sit on the floor and eat and wait. And there was a window that gave out onto the garden and the pathways. It was dark. The sky was clear. When she checked in, the night nurse had asked her to sign the permiso. Íso thought it was a little silly—she worked there, didn't she?—but she signed on three separate lines, dated everything, and then declared that she was now going to have a baby.

When Francisca the midwife arrived, she pulled from her bag a stethoscope, clean towels, lotion, blankets. She laid this all out on the table beside the bed. Íso told her that she was excited and afraid.

Don't be afraid, Francisca said. She felt Íso's abdomen, moving her hands from the fundus down to her pubis. Then she touched Íso's forehead and said that she was doing well, and she sat on the floor beside Señora Perdido.

Illya arrived, carrying a basket with rice and beans and avocado and pineapple. She hugged Íso, who smelled the outside air on her skin.

Íso had observed many of the women in the village give birth. She had always been aware of their solitude and their calm natures and the fact that they didn
't cry out or call for help. With each contraction she went inside herself, though she could hear Francisca singing, and her mother praying. The women sat cross-legged on
the floor, and between the contractions she was aware of them eating and talking quietly together. No one paid attention to her. She was happy for the privacy.

As the contractions grew in frequency, Francisca lifted the blanket and touched her and then she took some lotion and began to massage Íso's perineum. Íso closed her eyes. She breathed quickly and then slowly, depending on her state. She saw herself as floating on water, and then she became the water and the water became her. She went under, and she rose to the surface, and again she went under. And each time she went under, she went a little deeper, so that when she looked up at the surface of the water she made out vague shapes, and dim lights, and she heard as if from a great distance her mother's voice singing. She was no longer afraid. She was quite peaceful. The final time she went under she went very deep, and as she rose she saw the surface shimmering above her, but it was quite a distance, and she was losing oxygen, and just as she felt that her lungs were finished, she broke through the surface and gasped for air and the baby was born. She did not see the baby being born, of course, but she knew, because as she sucked for air she felt an extreme euphoria, and she heard Francisca say the word bueno, and she heard the women's voices rise and fall in happiness, and in that moment she believed she had done something that no one else had ever done before, and she was amazed at herself.