The Ladies of Managua (40 page)

“The baby can have his name—”

“You're just being foolish now.”

“Madre, it's Mariana's life, she can get married when she chooses, if she chooses,” Ninexin says, again using her comandante voice.

“I would expect you to say that.” I turn back to Mariana and the conversation that matters. “You think you're being modern or smart, but you're just being selfish. Think of the baby. Think of Allen.”

“Mama!” Ninexin huffs, but Mariana says, “No, Bela's right. I guess I am being selfish.”

I lean back now that my point has been made.

“But maybe this is my last chance to be selfish for a while. I need to know I'm making the right decisions, and if it takes me a little longer than most people, maybe it's a good thing. The baby will learn early on not to expect perfection from me.” Ninexin pats Mariana's leg, but I, for one, am not about to let her get away with that ludicrous little speech.

“This must be the side of you that scares Allen.”

Mariana makes a one-syllable noise that isn't very attractive. “Oh yes, Allen is scared of you,” I continue. “But he still wants to marry you. He told me so.”

Mariana pulls the white hospital blanket up to her shoulders and curls into the shape of a seashell, turning her face toward me. “Did he, Bela? Well, I guess each of us is full of surprises these days.” She closes her eyes, and if she weren't in a hospital bed, I could almost convince myself we were back on Key Biscayne, and she was turning in early because she has a big exam tomorrow.

I can't be sure what Mariana meant by that, each of us being full of surprises. Mauricio's letter was sealed, so there's no way she could know I'm considering replying to him. Unless, of course, Allen told her. Which is entirely possible; you should never trust a man with a confidence, their constitutions aren't strong enough to keep secrets. That's why God gives us girlfriends.

But it's just as possible that Mariana's simply referring to Allen confiding in me, and to her pregnancy, although that's more of a shock than a surprise. Even perhaps to Ninexin's odd mood; she is so happy she almost seems giddy. The pregnancy, the emergency, it's making everyone act strange. It makes sense that it's all that Ninexin and Mariana can think of. But Mariana's right, I am full of surprises, because to my shock, even though my heart and head are full with this news—jumbled, and confused, happy, and outraged, but definitely full—I still find myself thinking about Mauricio, wondering what I should do. All those days in Granada, I thought that when I finally saw Mariana, I'd have the chance to show her the letter, that we could read it together. But now, she has her own upheaval to react to, her own decisions to make, although, with the brashness of youth, she seems to have decided everything and won't be swayed by common sense. It's not the right time to talk to Mariana about Mauricio. It might never be anymore. And that's disappointing but also a bit of a relief; just the thought of bringing up his letter makes me feel shaky. But if I'm too nervous to even speak of Mauricio, then how can I entertain the idea of one day seeing him? And if I decide not to see him, how can I reject him again after all these years? I don't know what to do or say. Before I can come up with anything, Ninexin looks up from the phone she's been glancing at, then slaps it shut and leans over to kiss Mariana's forehead. “Allen texted he's on his way back, so your Bela and I will go get something to eat, too, and let you sleep.”

“Okay, Mama.” Mariana closes her eyes but opens them again as Ninexin starts toward the door, and smiles at me. “See you later, Bela.”

I lean in to kiss her and she smells as she always has, of violets and soap. She still looks as lost, as swallowed up by the hospital bed as she did when she was sixteen and her appendix almost burst and we all slept at Mt. Sinai overnight. How can this little girl become a mother?

But as I think the words, I picture her holding a baby, and a wave of excitement breaks over me, so strongly that it almost knocks me over. A week ago everything seemed to be ending and now it's just beginning. I feel unwell all of a sudden, but then I realize that there's nothing physically wrong with me; it's just that I'm missing Ignacio more sharply than I have since the day he died. I wish he were here to see this, his great-grandchild on the way.

I give Mariana a kiss on each eyelid, like I used to when she was a little girl, and before I leave, I lean over and whisper, “Maybe just a civil ceremony in three months—and you can have the party with the dress and the champagne later, after the baby is born?”

 

42

Ninexin

Every Christmas and Easter, every time the three of us are together, really, I've watched Mama rattling on and Mariana laughing and patting her on the arm, and chattering back, and I always wondered what she found so fascinating about Mama's patter that my attempts at conversation lacked. Although most of the time Mama and I get along well enough, I have to admit that there were times when she would begin her stream-of-consciousness soliloquies with me, and the waterfall of inconsequential thoughts would infuriate me as I wondered, this is what Mariana calls several times a week to hear? For this she found an international calling plan?

But today Mama's as loquacious as ever and, while I'm not exactly entranced by her commentary, I'm not bothered either. Maybe it's because I've got such happy topics to think about as she chatters, or because I enjoyed my fair share of meaningful conversation on Solentiname. Or maybe I've just discovered Mariana's secret: if you let Mama's words wash over you without paying too much attention, she's really a delightful companion, or at least an effortless one. If that's the case, I wish Mariana had tipped me off long ago. I have no idea what Mama's rattling on about now. First it was Maria Leonora's daughter, who got married seven months pregnant in a gorgeous gown and the priest didn't even blink, then she moved on to the horrid state of nurses' uniforms today, and just now it was about how healthy Jell-O is for you, a fact she no doubt picked up in
Vanidades,
where she does most of her scientific research.

Now she's talking about how she wants to die at home—hospitals always have this effect on her—which means that soon she'll be planning her funeral, dictating lists of hymns that should be sung and the ensemble in which she'd like to be buried. The clothes change, but the music remains pretty static. And it usually drives me crazy, makes me yell, “For God's sake, Mama, you're not dying yet,” which gets her all teary and huffy, so she'll say something like, “Only God knows whether that's true or not, and the last time I checked He hadn't appointed you His spokesperson.”

But today, I don't say anything at all, I just roll along on the Ferris wheel of her conversation, up and down, swinging all around. Maybe we'll never argue again now that I've learned the trick of turning Mama into white noise, like what emanates from the expensive alarm clocks you find in fancy hotel rooms, with tropical frogs croaking or waves crashing to the shore, sounds that are equal parts pleasant and irrelevant.

The funny thing is, I think Mariana actually listens to what Mama says, and still they get along perfectly. It could be that my absence, although they both always complained about it, gave them the gift of all that time together, time in which they learned to understand what each of them was saying underneath their words. Or maybe it's just the distance the extra generation offers that somehow renders Mama charming and funny and poignant and wise in Mariana's eyes instead of wildly annoying, and that everyone holds their mothers—the person responsible for their existence—to a higher standard. Maybe that alchemy will benefit me with Mariana's baby?

*   *   *

I was so sure I was responsible for the death of that baby, too. I heard noise in the bathroom, the sound of Mariana bumping around in the dark, and when I stood up and turned on the flashlight and saw the trail of blood, I knew that it was my fault, as sure as if I had kicked Mariana in the stomach. It was telling her about her father, the kiss, and the murder that did it, expecting her to take in all that violence, when her body and mind were already full with new life, and had no room to absorb old deaths. I know that sounds crazier than any health advice in
Vanidades,
it's the opposite of scientific, but that doesn't mean it's not true.

By the time Mariana opened the bathroom door, I already had my cell phone in my hand. After I helped her to the bed, I sat there stroking her back while I called Hector Flores and arranged for his helicopter to retrieve us and take us to the Metropolitano. I could have called Managua's chief of police and sent for their helicopter, but this wasn't a crime, and the truth is, I thought Hector's would arrive faster. He's an almost maniacally efficient man; he just edged past Camilo Lopez to become the single largest coffee producer in the country. But he's also a genuinely nice person who won't make inquiries or expect favors, he'll just accept my payment of eight hundred dollars—the friends-and-family rate for use of the helicopter—with no questions asked.

By the time it was arranged and the hospital knew to expect us, Mariana had stopped crying and was starting to rock forward. I thought she must be in pain, but she was trying to get out of bed, moving toward the bloodstains on the floor, saying, “We can't leave this mess. It looks like a crime scene.” I managed to carry her back to bed, and pulled out some clean clothes for her to put on while I wiped the floor with the bathroom towels.

“Leave some cords so they can replace the linens,” Mariana said, stepping around me on her way to the bathroom. I wanted to tell her to stop worrying about the linens, no one cared about the damn sheets. But I didn't. I just pulled out one thousand córdobas and slipped them under the little wooden angel. I know that in times of crisis, it's comforting to think of anything other than what's happened, to focus on details that can be controlled. I wasn't going to say anything about the baby Mariana was clearly losing if she didn't. But then she stepped out of the bathroom in clean clothes, with a toothbrush still in her hand, and said, “I'm not bleeding anymore, Mama. Does that mean it's over?”

I didn't know. It's moments like that when I realize how few useful things I really do know. So I just grabbed her and held her while she cried. I had nothing helpful to say.

“Do you think it's because in the beginning I wasn't sure—” she whispered into my ear, and I grabbed her tighter and promised, “No, of course not.”

*   *   *

It wasn't until we were in the helicopter, holding hands in the last row, the farthest away from the pilot, who was trying his best to be invisible and leave the shaken women in the back of his vehicle to their grief, that I said, “I shouldn't have told you.”

This was my punishment. I was responsible for Manuel's death, and now this new life was being taken from us in exchange. And we didn't even know what was going on; was this simply a miscarriage or did the hemorrhage mean that something was horribly wrong with Mariana, too? Would she be able to conceive again? Or could the situation be even graver than that? Was there a chance she might be taken from me, as well? “I shouldn't have told you,” I said again, and I gripped her hand even tighter. She pulled it away, using the back of her palm to wipe tears off her face as she laughed.

“Mariana?” I asked with such force that the pilot glanced back at us for a minute before turning back to the controls.

“Mama, this has nothing to do with what you said or did. Can we just agree that this is happening to me, not you?”

Then I started laughing, too, because Mariana sounded just like herself, which made me feel that she might be okay after all.

*   *   *

When we got to the hospital, the on-duty doctor—so young, younger than Mariana—was overly solicitous the way they only ever are when something terrible has happened. He said he was going to perform a pelvic ultrasound and nodded at me to indicate that I should leave the room. But Mariana said, “She can stay, can't she?” And then, “Mama, please stay.”

I stood beside her and held her hand but I couldn't look at her; she seemed so small, so scared. I felt the same way I had when she was napping as a toddler and looked so peaceful and fragile that I had to rest my hand on her chest to make sure that she was still breathing. If I kept looking at Mariana I knew I would start crying, but if she wasn't going to, I couldn't let myself crumble. I didn't want to look at the screen, either, to see the emptiness there, so I focused on the doctor, who had a slight beard, which I found disrespectful: he works in a hospital in Managua, not a Red Cross camp in the jungle, the least he could do is shave for his patients. It was a thought that belonged more to my mother than to me, but I needed someone to be angry at and he was going to have to do. And then he smiled, breaking up his bristled face. When I saw that, I finally looked at the terrifying machine.

I hadn't realized that Mariana was keeping her eyes trained on me, not the screen with its blurs of black and gray, until she whispered, “What, Mama? Why are you smiling?”

“You have a good eye, se
ñ
ora,” the doctor said. Then he turned his bristly smile to Mariana. “Your mother has recognized her grandchild. There's the embryo, see?” He pointed to a pulsing blob on the screen.

“But the blood?” Mariana was crying now, so it would have been all right if I did, too, but all I could do was grin so hard that my cheeks hurt. I moved to press my hands against them, and when I realized I was still holding Mariana's hand in mine, pulling her arm up into the air, I didn't let go, I just dropped down to sit on her bed so we were on the same level and I could see my own feet, swinging like a little girl's.