Margarita Wednesdays: Making a New Life by the Mexican Sea (27 page)

L
ATER THAT NIGHT, AFTER
I had shut the door to my little house on Carnaval Street behind me, I gave Cynthia a call and filled her in on what had gone down that day.

“What the hell is it with me that I can go all commando when
everyone around me is freaking out, but when the most threatening thing around me is a steep escalator or a freshly mopped floor I’m the one having a total meltdown?”

“You know the answer to that, Deb. We’ve talked about it. Today was a perfect example of a situation where you were on high alert.” I could hear Señorita and Max yapping in the background. “And by the way, what
did
happen? Why the stampede?”

“I have no idea. Either nobody’s talking, or nothing really happened. But honestly, I didn’t really think anything
was
going to happen. There were just a bunch of rumors going around.”

“I understand that. Maybe your head had doubts, but your body was in high gear. And when everyone else started to panic, you jumped into action, because you know how to act in a situation of unreasonable risk.”

This wasn’t the first time Cynthia had talked about that. “So, what, if I just stay on alert all the time things like what happened in the mall won’t happen again?”

“That’s not the point, Deb. You really don’t want to live your life like that. You don’t want to walk around all pumped up like a Green Beret all the time, do you?”

“I guess not. So what can I do?”

“You’re already doing it. Look at it this way. The body has a natural impulse toward healing, a resilience. Acknowledging the trauma is the first step. And you’ve come further than that. I hear it in your voice. I see it in the choices you are making, the people you’re surrounding yourself with, your relationship with Denis.” Cynthia paused, the sound of crunching chips unmistakable through the phone. “And by the way,” she continued, “you were already on your way when you made the decision to move down here. That Indian guy up in Oregon was on to something, Deb. Trust me on this one. That time in California was good for you.”

“But I’ve told you how miserable I was there,” I whined.

“Yes, you were miserable. But you allowed yourself to tune in to
your own feelings, maybe even for the first time in your life. Whatever those feeling were—disconnection, isolation—you felt them. And you knew that place just wasn’t right for you.”

“That’s for sure,” I said, laughing.

“And buying the house in Mexico was another sign of your evolution.”

“I do have to admit it was one of the more practical decisions I’ve made in my life. But it didn’t really feel so practical at the time.”

“It’s true, it was sensible. But don’t discount that ‘pull’ you talk about as well. There is a sort of spiritual part of the healing process, a part that can only be accessed when you unclutter yourself. After you get rid of unhealthy behaviors and relationships, that’s when you start to get your answers from a deeper place.”

At first blush Cynthia’s words sounded a little like mumbo jumbo to me. But then I remembered the feeling of those powerful sensations that seemed to engulf me in Pátzcuaro, and suddenly I felt shivers go up my arm.

“Cyn?” I said in a quiet voice. “I’m going to come visit again. Soon. As soon as I can. Is that good with you?”

“Anytime, sweetie. Anytime. You know you’re always welcome here.”

W
HEN THE DAY CAME FOR
the baby shower I arrived at Cahoots early, eager to get everything set up before the first guest arrived. Though I had been under the impression that Teresa and I were to be sharing the hosting responsibility for this event, she had been totally missing in action, so I was on my own. And I was nervous. What did I know about Mexican baby showers? I didn’t really know Martha’s mom or her other family members, and I was anxious to make a good impression. All I knew was that showers were normally large affairs, and usually held in a restaurant. So I invited everybody, including all of my friends, who had become quite fond of Martha and Noah and were
excited about the baby, seeing as how there weren’t too many of those crawling around in our circle down here.

I
PLACED MY OWN PILE
of gifts under the arch of pink balloons I had purchased from Amigos Dulcería that who else but Sergio had already delivered. When I had told Denis I was going shopping for things to decorate the baby’s room, he laughed. “Just like when you did Zach’s?” He loved the story I had told him about when Zach, at nineteen years old, had come to Kabul to stay with me. He had been going through a rough time in Michigan, so I got him a job flipping burgers on a military base. I thought it might be nice to fix up his room before he arrived, to make him feel welcome. I was waiting for Sam at a job site, a lot where a new hospital was being built, when I came across a bunch of discarded old bombs that had been dug up and placed in nice, neat rows along the side of a shipping container. Zach would love these, I thought. He always had a thing for collecting anything old that looked like it had a story to tell. These would be great for his room. I could put a little shelf across them, and there was one really big one that would make a perfect lamp. One was just interesting to look at, with its little whirly-bird thing on top. They would be so unique, so Afghanistan.

“Here, grab these!” I shouted to the driver who was waiting by the car. I started tossing big ones, little ones, noticing him jumping and ducking as he strained to catch each one before it hit the ground. “Just throw them in the trunk,” I told him.

On the long drive home, the driver’s snail’s pace was beginning to irritate Sam, who started to berate him in Dari.

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“I told him his mother was a donkey’s ass.” He scowled, sighing loudly as the driver slowed even more to avoid one of the hundreds of ruts and potholes in the road.

I had to agree that the guy
was
driving like an old woman (though
I never did understand why mothers always had to be dragged into these kinds of insults). By the time we got to our compound Sam stomped off into the house in a huff. I asked the driver to unload the trunk and bring everything inside.

“What the . . .” Sam pointed to the rusty canisters the driver was cradling in his arms like a baby.

“They’re pretty cool, right?” I said. “I found them by the shipping container, all used up. Perfect for Zach’s room. He’ll love them.”

“All used up? What were you thinking?” He gestured to the driver, who gently placed the bombs on the salon floor. Sam bent down to take a look. “Some of these are still live. What is the matter with you?”

Needless to say, Zach ended up with a more traditional room, and my grandbaby would as well.

E
VERYONE ARRIVED AT
C
AHOOTS LATE
, and all at once, crowding in through the doorway of the restaurant like a bunch of chattering hens. I saw Martha’s mother, and rushed over to say hello, which was about all we
could
say to each other. Martha quickly came to our rescue, kissing her mom and bending over, not without some difficulty, to pick up the scarf her mom had dropped.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“A scarf ?” Martha replied.

“No, not that. That.” I lifted Martha’s shirt a little and pointed to the red cord, with a safety pin hanging from it, tied around her swollen waist. She and her mother looked at me as though I were nuts.

“What?” I asked.

“You don’t know what that is?”

I kind of thought it might be some sort of thong underwear, but I doubted she’d be wearing that at this stage of her pregnancy. I shrugged my shoulders.

“It’s for the moon. It’s to protect the baby.”

“The baby is in danger from the moon?”

“Do you mean the eclipse tonight?” Bonnie suggested, seeing the look of utter confusion on my face. She pantomimed two circles, one passing in front of the other, with her hands.

“Yes, of course.” Martha’s look dared me to mess with her.

“Oh, I know about this,” Lisa chimed in. “The Mexicans believe that if a pregnant woman is exposed to an eclipse, the baby will be born with a cleft lip. It’s an old Aztec superstition. They thought that an eclipse happened when a bite had been taken out of the moon. If a pregnant woman viewed an eclipse, a bite would be taken out of her infant’s mouth. They used to put knives on the women’s bellies before they went out at night, to protect them. Nowadays they just use safety pins.”

I nodded as respectfully as I could, suspecting that this wouldn’t be the last time I’d come up against a cultural challenge when it came to my grandchild. I turned around to see the two big tables filling up, my guests separating like two teams on opposite ends of the field. Mexicans and foreigners. English versus Spanish. My heart sank a little. An awkward vibe had taken over the room, but thank goodness I had a little something up my sleeve that I hoped would warm things up.

Now, I don’t do games. I’ve always hated those showers where they make you balance a balloon between your legs or guess how big the mother-to-be’s tummy is. No, it was my party, and we were going to do things my way. And when the five Trannies of Mazatlán came prancing into the room, you could almost feel the ice melting. These guys were amazing, and really quite beautiful, if not a little worn, in their sequins and silk. It wasn’t long before they got everyone hooting and hollering with their act. The Mexicans were clapping and chanting, and my friends had tears rolling down their cheeks, they were laughing so hard, especially when a platinum blond with boobs almost as big as mine lassoed Noah with a pink boa and pulled him up onstage for a dance. Martha was clearly having a blast. Fun is fun in any language, but I did worry a little about how this all was going to look in my granddaughter’s baby book.

C
HANGE WAS DEFINITELY IN THE
air. The cruise ships had stopped docking in Mazatlán, in reaction to the overblown reports of violence in the area. It was true that there had been a couple of stray incidents, the circumstances of which remained a little murky. And there was that shooting that happened down in a Golden Zone parking lot, unfortunately in front of a slew of tourists. But according to my friends, the exclusion of Mazatlán from the ships’ itineraries was an unfair and unwarranted blow, and some thought the move was no doubt financially motivated, a result of a battle over docking fees. “Hell, the crime rates against tourists in the Dominican Republic, Jamaica, and Cuba are all higher than Mexico’s,” Bodie told me. The travel advisory issued by the State Department didn’t help, either. “I don’t see any travel advisory for Tucson,” Glen pointed out, referring to the recent shooting that left six people dead and a dozen others, including Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords, gravely injured.

I thought the whole thing was crazy. All you had to do was spend thirty minutes in front of the big-screen TV at Macaws, watching the news from Detroit, to realize how ludicrous the finger-pointing at Mazatlán was. I swear Glen and Sharon deliberately chose to point to the Detroit satellite feed in order to make their B&B guests feel safer where they were. A fierce pride had sprung up among all us expats, eager to defend our city against the fearmongers and rumor junkies. A volunteer army of “Blue Shirts” was quickly formed to patrol the streets, assisting whatever tourists there were with directions and helpful advice, in an attempt to convince them that it was okay to venture out from the resorts. But for some, like Glen and Sharon, it was more than pride. It was survival. As word got out about the cruise ships, business started to drop like a rock. I worried about Noah and his ability to support his growing family.

I could also sense a change happening inside me, though this change was definitely for the better. Denis’s patience had paid off, and in fact became one of the many characteristics that made him,
eventually, irresistible to me. It was clear to me that Denis was different from most of the men in my life, but it also was becoming clear that I was a different person from who I had been with those men. While I was wide awake one night analyzing my past relationships, one after the other after the other, after the other, my own special version of counting sheep, I came to the revelation that the relationships all had something in common. They had all started up during periods in my life when I was feeling particularly weak. I’m really not sure if it was my weakness that compelled me to seek a partner, or if the partners were drawn in by my vulnerability, but either way, it was, inevitably, a deadly combination.

But by the time I was getting to know Denis, I was actually feeling relatively good about myself. And a relationship born from strength was turning out to be a whole new experience. That night in bed I ticked off the differences:

1. Denis and I don’t fight. Well, if we do, it’s usually just me doing the fighting.

2. Denis is low-maintenance. I love that. Except for the times when I hate it, and feel like I need to put a mirror under his nose to see if he’s still breathing.

3. Denis does not thrive on my adventure. For most men, instead of being arm candy, I’m more like arm TNT. Maybe it was because they were looking for some vicarious thrills, or some second-hand drama. I don’t think Denis really has any interest in going along for that ride.

4. Denis doesn’t want to rescue me. And by the time we met, I guess I really didn’t need a whole lot of rescuing, thank you very much.

5. And then there is that laugh. No man I ever knew before could light up a room the way Denis does, simply by opening his mouth and letting the joy burst out. That man can find humor in anything, he is such a good sport. Well, almost anything. He
didn’t laugh much the time I accidentally hit him right between the eyes with a cardboard Christmas ornament, as if it were a Japanese throwing star. I swear I didn’t mean to chuck it that hard, but I had been trying everything in my power to turn his attention away from the television—I yelled, I waved my arms, I got up and danced a little—I couldn’t believe this man was not noticing me just two feet away. No, Denis wasn’t tickled by that particular incident. But I sure was, once I realized he wasn’t hurt.