Boundaries (11 page)

She runs out to meet her parents, the coat bundled in her arms. Her mother raises her head when she sees her and slips her arm out of the crook of her husband’s elbow.

Her father quickens his pace. “We didn’t want to disturb you,” he says as he reaches her. “You needn’t have come. It’s short walk.”

Her mother makes burring sounds with her lips. “My God, it’s freezing,” she says.

It is not freezing. The weather has turned, but for the beginning of fall it is still a relatively warm day. Anna wraps the coat around her mother’s shoulders and buttons it at the top.

Her mother continues to blow her lips. “I don’t know how you can stand it, Anna.” She clutches the collar of the coat and brings the ends together at her neck.

An old bitterness threatens Anna’s determination to be the good daughter.
How can she stand it?
Soon it will get cooler and then cold. When the temperature drops lower, water pooled in crevices will freeze, icicles will hang down from the tops of buildings. People will slip and slide, some will break bones. The wonderland of white snow will turn to filthy slush when cars drive by and trucks trundle through the streets. Trees will be stripped of their leaves, left naked, their limbs exposed. Everywhere brown will replace green. Days will be shorter. It will be dark in the mornings when she leaves for work, dark when she returns.
How can
she stand it?
How can she turn her back on warm days, on sunshine all year round, on green trees? How can she bear the layers of clothing that weigh her down? Her mother had never asked. Not once.

But her mother is ill; tomorrow she will have surgery. Anna bites her lip and releases it. “It’s not so bad,” she says. “It’s beautiful when it snows.”

Inside the apartment she prepares the tea. Her mother observes her every move. “It’s good to see you haven’t lost our customs, Anna,” she says.

Tea at four is not their custom, at least not their custom originally. It is a legacy of colonial rule, so precious to the British they made addicts of a country. Two wars, spanning more than twenty years, in 1839 and again in 1856, because the British discovered that if the Chinese became addicts, they could keep their silver and get the tea for free. So they went to war with China and forced her to open her ports and import the resins from the poppy seeds they grew in India, one of their colonial outposts.

The addiction of a country because the British liked the custom of four o’clock tea. It has become a custom too on the English-speaking islands.

Anna pours tea in a cup for her mother and adds evaporated milk, Carnation, the brand she likes. She serves her father the Crix biscuits and orange marmalade. Her mother is impressed. “Where did you find the Crix?” she asks.

Anna tells her about the West Indian markets. “It’s how immigrants can stand it,” she says, still bristling from her mother’s words.

Her mother raises her cup to her lips, stops, and brings it down again. She turns to Anna. “I was wrong about America,” she says. “The Americans were all very nice to me. All the nurses, all the doctors, they were very kind.”

EIGHT

H
er mother had doubts before. Before she came to the States, she believed what she saw on the American TV channels beamed to the island and she was afraid. She had seen black people handcuffed by the police, black people on drugs, black people screaming in rage and horror when an innocent man was shot down. Forty-one bullets aimed at twenty-three-year-old Amadou Diallo when he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. It was dark; the NYPD believed he had taken out a gun. Nineteen bullets entered his body. Beatrice Sinclair did not want to come to a country where her color would define her, where the density of her melanin would determine the treatment she would receive. She is here because she loves her husband, because Dr. Ramdoolal has convinced him that in the States his wife will have a good chance for recovery, because Dr. Paul Bishop, a son of the soil, offered to be her surgeon. So it is with a measure of awe and disbelief that later that night she relates to Anna what transpired in the hospital that morning. Some of the nurses were Latino, some were black, but both the lab technician and the nurse who treated her were white. “They were caring,” she says. “They knew I was afraid and they put me at ease.”

This is no time for Anna to say to her mother that the story of America is complicated; America is a work in progress. There are black people who own mansions, who are heads of large corporations, who are highly respected professionals in every field. The richest and most powerful person on TV in America is a black woman; the most powerful person in the government is a black woman. Americans are the most generous people in the world. If there is a catastrophe anywhere in the world, the victims can count on the kindness of Americans. Ordinary citizens give millions within hours. The government sends money, supplies, manpower. And yet America has supported some of the world’s most vicious regimes, the world’s worst dictators. And yet in America there are places where black people are corralled in drug-infested ghettos. It is not the time to say America is both selfless and self-serving. Her mother has seen the better side. And perhaps that is enough. She does not need to know more.

“So considerate,” her mother says. “I could not wish for better.”

In the morning she is ready, so confident and upbeat that though Paul Bishop has asked an attendant to bring her by wheelchair from the apartment to the hospital, she insists on walking. She is not afraid now. She has prayed the three mysteries of the Rosary—the Joyful, the Sorrowful, the Glorious. “We do not always understand God’s way,” she tells Anna, “but no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.” The Desiderata. Her mother has a framed needlepoint copy of the prayer on her wall.

Paul Bishop is also confident. While her mother is being prepared for surgery, he speaks to Anna and her father. He has done this surgery hundreds of times before. Beatrice Sinclair is a strong woman; she will pull through fantastically, he promises. The chemo she was given in the previous weeks has worked; her tumors have shrunk considerably. In the presence of Anna’s father, Paul Bishop is all professional, but he speaks like a friend too. He says to Mr. Sinclair that he will care for Mrs. Sinclair as if she were his mother. If Mr. Sinclair wants, he can arrange for him to spend the night in the room with his wife.

John Sinclair is grateful; he wants to be in the same room with his wife.

Paul Bishop takes Anna aside. He’ll be free in the evening, he says. Perhaps they can have dinner together.

The surgery is successful. Two hours after her mother is wheeled to her room, they are given permission to see her. Her head is propped up on white pillows, her body covered with white sheets that reach to her neck. Surrounded by all that white, her mother’s brown face shines as if bathed in a sort of celestial light. She is bald, there is not a trace of makeup on her face, her skin is slack, the muscles still loose after hours of sedation, but to Anna her mother seems more beautiful than she can remember.

“Mummy,” she whispers. Their eyes meet. Anna wants to say more. She wants to say: I was so afraid. I was so worried. I am so glad, so relieved this is over. The words do not come. Years of restraint between them stifle her impulse to show affection, to tell her mother how much she loves her. She cannot, she does not know how to breach this barrier. She smiles; her mother returns her smile, and then her eyes drift away. She is searching for her husband. He is already next to her, holding her hand. Her mother feels his touch and turns her head toward him. John Sinclair steps closer to his wife.

“John,” she whispers, “it wasn’t so bad.”

He repeats what he said to her when she confessed her most personal fear. She would be deformed if she has a mastectomy, she said then; he may be repelled by the scar on her chest. Now, in a voice loud enough for Anna to hear and for the nurse and the male attendant in the room to hear, he says: “From now on, Beatrice, you and I will have our showers together.”

In the evening at dinner with Paul, Anna is withdrawn. She gives one-word responses to most of what Paul says to her. When he explains that though it is too early to tell, he has seen little evidence that her mother’s cancer has metastasized, she responds, “Good.” When he gives her the prognosis for her mother’s recovery, she murmurs, “Hmm.” He says her mother will probably live to be ninety and Anna replies, “She prays.” She moves her food around her plate with her fork and puts little of it in her mouth. He asks if she would rather order something else, and she says, “It’s fine. Really.” He does not believe her. He takes her hand in his. “What is it?” he asks.

She does not know herself. She does not understand why her mood has sunk so low. She was looking forward to dinner with him; she wanted to celebrate the day that has turned out so well for all of them. Her mother’s surgery was successful; she could live for many more years. Her father is happy for his wife, elated he can spend the night with her. His wife is happy her tumors are gone, happy she will not be alone tonight. Their daughter is happy for them, happy too to be with a man she is growing to like, a man who has been kind to her parents, who has removed the tumor from her mother’s breast and the one in her lymph node. And yet she cannot shake off the gloom that has settled over her, the dark cloud that has enshrouded her.

“Is it your job? Are you worried about your writer, what’s her name?” Paul asks.

“Bess Milford,” she says. She has not forgotten Bess Milford. The unspoken accusation still rings in her ear. She has let her down; she has let down all the Bess Milfords of the world. Bess Milford expected more of her. A black editor should have brought a different sensibility to her work, should have known the importance of publishing a novel like hers, and should have insisted. But she is not thinking of Bess Milford now.

“It couldn’t be her that has you so gloomy, could it?” Paul Bishop withdraws his hand.

“No,” she says quickly. “It’s not about my job.” She puts down her fork.

“Is it the chicken?” He is looking at her plate. She has barely touched her food. “Is it tough?”

She shakes her head. “It’s been a stressful day.”

“That has ended well.”

She has been ungrateful. She apologizes. “We can’t thank you enough,” she says.

“I wanted to help.” He reaches for her hand again. “But, of course, I had another motive.”

“I’m glad,” she says. And indeed she
is
glad. After Tony, she has been reluctant to risk romance again, but Paul Bishop is a good man, a kind man.

The waiter clears their table and offers them dessert. She forces herself to smile. She wants to show her appreciation but the dark cloud lingers. She chooses the most sumptuous dessert on the menu, a triple-chocolate cake. She’ll have the ice cream too, she says.

Paul Bishop is not fooled. He asks her one more time. “Tell me, I want to know. Perhaps I can help.’’ She still has no answer that satisfies him, so he says what he believes will comfort her. “Your mother’s going to be okay. All she needs is love and attention. You and your father are the best medicine for her now.”

And suddenly, without warning, the dam she has plugged cracks and tears stream down her cheeks. They begin with a trickle but soon the tears are fatter. They pool in the neck of her blouse. She cannot stop them. Paul Bishop hands her his napkin and she presses it to her eyes. The tears do not stop. She is crying quietly, without sound, as if her heart will break. Paul signals to the waiter to bring the bill. He gets up and moves to her side of the table. He puts his arm around her shoulders. “We’ll leave now,” he says. He guides her out of the restaurant.

They make love. She is about to put her key in the door to the apartment when he pulls her to him. This time there is no questioning the passion in his kiss. His mouth still on hers, she opens the door. He slides one side of her jacket off her shoulders and she wriggles it free; the other side falls to the floor. Leading her backward, he takes her across the room, undressing her, unbuttoning her blouse now, reaching for her bra. “Not the bedroom.” She tugs his hand. He releases her and breathing hard (he is not a young man), he throws the cushions off the couch and unfolds the bed. He reaches for her again and she stops him. “Wait!” She presses the palm of her hand against his chest. These are new times, times when sex can be life threatening, but he is ready.

“I have one,” he whispers.

Afterward, lying next to him, she asks. “How did you know to come prepared? Or are you always prepared?”

“I’m a doctor,” he says. “We know the cost of not being prepared.”

Still, she wants to know. “Did you think we would make love?”

“If not today, some day soon. I knew it the moment I saw you.”

“In New York?”

“No. On the island. Didn’t you know that was why I stayed an extra day?”

She snuggles close to him. It has been so long she has forgotten how wonderful it feels to lie naked with a man you like, may possibly love. His body feels warm. Soft. Tony worked out; the muscles in his arms and legs were firm, taut, the contours of his chest defined, his thighs hard. He made love to her with an urgency she once thought was passion, but which left her frightened by his greed, his ravenous desire for her body. She could have been any woman; it was her body he wanted, not
her
, not her body and spirit. But Paul made love to the whole of her, to her body, her mind, her spirit, pacing himself, waiting until she felt what she had never felt with Tony, a slow, growing fire rising deep inside of her. When it exploded she fell against him, spent, her head on the cushion of his chest.

He strokes her hair and she slides her hand over his middle-aged paunch. This is the first time they have made love, but it feels to her as if it is one of the many times she has lain next to him breathing in the musky scent of his body.

“So tell me now, why the tears?” His mouth is in her hair.

The tears surprised her too, but now, her body limp, encased safely in his arms, she does not want to remember.