Everything Here Is Beautiful

by Mira T. Lee

  She heard his desperation, his fear. But she could not bring herself to tell him the truth: that she’d already been to Ecuador. Six weeks ago. She’d gone to try to make things right.

  • • •

  That night in Cuenca, Lucia was a complete disaster. Disheveled, agitated, she argued to herself, banging around in that tiny room. The spider, she repeated, again and again. What spider, Lucia? What are you doing, Lucia? But all Lucia could say was I don’t know, I don’t know, and her reply was, Lucia, he’s her father. You can’t do this.

  “You’re sick,” she’d said. Yet Lucia refused to admit she’d stopped taking her pills. “You’re lying,” she’d said. Though some small part of her worried she was wrong, because she was not sure—was it the illness? Some decree from the serpents? Or could Lucia have spun herself into such a frenzy from the sheer force of her guilt? Doubts like these had never seized Miranda before. And then, her worst fear: that the line between her sister and the illness was becoming irrevocably blurred.

  “Lucia, take these now.” She’d tried to stay calm. Held out four of the small white pills—four, a therapeutic dose when symptoms became acute.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Lucia, come on.”

  “I hate you. You’re not my master.”

  “Stop it.”

  “You stop it.”

  “Lucia, please.”

  “YOU take them.”

  And then Lucia had lunged forward, snatched the medicine from her hand, swung at her wildly, and Miranda had fallen back against a wall.

  “YOU’RE sick. YOU take them. YOU see how it is.”

  Those maniacal eyes. The outstretched hand. Clamped on Miranda’s face, and then covering her mouth, and the bitter chemical taste spread across her tongue. And though she did not believe in God, she cursed him now. She spat at him. She spat and spat as she scrubbed at her tongue with her wrist.

  Why her? Why her, God? Why her, why not me?

  Every ounce of Miranda’s being shook: her hands, her heart, her voice, her will. There was only one thing left she could think to say: Lucia, take these. Take these, now. Or I swear, I will tell Manny what you’ve tried to do.

  And Lucia, at last, had downed the pills in a desolate fury, flung the bottle out the open window. Tic-tac. Then she flung open her ugly plaid suitcase, hurled its contents across the room: a shoe, a hair dryer, an antique brass lamp. It struck Miranda on the forehead.

  In the aftermath of that brawl had come a tense, bitter silence, like a steel cage, her sister locked inside. Let’s go to the park. Let’s get something to eat. How about you show me your favorite bakery? Lucia? The next afternoon, they’d finally walked to the pharmacy, procured a refill. And then Lucia had turned to her and issued her proclamation: Are you satisfied? Now get out. Just get out of my fucking life.

  • • •

  “She won’t even go to Cuenca,” said Manny. “She wasn’t like this before. She was happy. Excited. Looking forward to taking Essy to Switzerland. I don’t understand what happened.”

  He didn’t know. He still didn’t know. She wanted to break down then, to tell him everything, expose her sister’s lies. Reveal Lucia’s intentions to run off with their child. But truly, she did not know what he would do if he knew. Fly into a rage? Kick Lucia out? Forbid her from ever seeing her daughter again? To tell him the truth would poison whatever relationship he and Lucia had—and then what would happen to Lucia?

  “Manny, she won’t listen to me. I want to help, but I can’t control her any more than you can. I can’t make her do anything.” This was the truth. One he could not seem to hear.

  “Please,” he said. “I beg of you. Please come take her. Please, Miranda, help.”

  She sat in the wicker rocker on her back porch, tapped furiously on her laptop, no longer noticing the clock tower in town with its copper-green cupola or the cows dotting the hillside or the Stöcktalersee or the snowy peaks of Glärnisch in the distance. She tracked down phone numbers, e-mails, names and more names, spoke in broken Spanish to clerks at the immigration office in Ecuador, found a French psychologist in Cuenca and explained the situation in broken French. But the closest psychiatric hospital was almost four hours away. She called the American embassy in Quito. Huh? they said. No, they could not evict an American citizen with proper papers. Not unless she was a criminal.

  • • •

  Sunday morning she feigned a headache—unfathomable, to face another fondue dinner with her in-laws. “Miranda, please,” said Stefan. She knew it pained him, having to make excuses for her. “You didn’t come last week. It might help take your mind off things.”

  It was true, she had missed last Sunday’s dinner, and the one before, too, and by late afternoon she’d relented, picturing the sincere look of disappointment on Grossmuti’s face. She downed two Panadol, baked a strawberry tart, and when Grossmuti exclaimed, Oh, how delicious! it eased her guilt. And Rafael? Is my great-grandson coming today? and Miranda watched Stefan’s gaze veer to his hands, his lower jaw protrude, I’m sorry, he has a project to finish, and this pained her, too.

  She commented on the weather, the cheeses, the lovely new Marimekko place settings with the floral prints.

  “This wine is delicious,” said the sister with the pretty twin daughters.

  “From Lavaux,” said the brother with the petite French wife. “We were in Geneva last weekend, decided to take a detour. Have you been, Miranda?”

  “What?”

  “The Train des Vignes is spectacular, from Vevey to Puidoux, through the vineyards.”

  She nodded, the words trailing through her ears.

  “You should take her, Stefan,” said the petite French wife. “The gardens are breathtaking.”

  “Yes,” said her husband. “We could use a trip.”

  Glancing around the table at the assortment of fair faces, harmless as vegetables, she felt like an alien. She longed for some loud, wacky aunt, some unemployed alcoholic uncle, some hint of tarnish in their normalcy that might legitimize her own strife.

  “Are you all right, dear?” asked Grossmuti, her blue eyes warm.

  “Oh. Yes.” She smiled. “The wine is excellent. I’d love another glass.”

  • • •

  She woke at one, at two, at four in the morning, her body buzzing like millions of microscopic bees lived in her blood. She lay awake, stomach curdled, fists tight, tornados of thoughts spinning wildly in her head. Anxiety, the doctor had said. Manifestations of stress. Her nights had been fitful these past few months, since before that trip to Ecuador. She needed sleep. Sleep was of critical importance to the brain’s proper functioning—the doctor said that, too. She tried relaxation techniques. Imagined sheep. Counted backward from one hundred. Chanted sixty oms.

  She was happy. Excited.

  She climbed out of bed, went to the kitchen, downed a double dose of Ativan.

  A week passed and she had not heard from him.

  “Should I go?” she asked. She asked Stefan; no one else knew.

  He stared at her in disbelief.

  “You were just there,” he said.

  “But this time . . .”

  “What would you do? Drag her kicking and screaming? She’s a grown woman.”

  “But he needs help.”

  “Then he can take her to a hospital.”

  “How can he do that? They live in the middle of nowhere.”

  She imagined it, dragging Lucia by the hair. She remembered the shoes, the hair dryer, the antique brass lamp flying through the air.

  “He’s a grown-up, Miranda. And your sister is, too.”

  That dispassionate face. She could slap it. Suddenly he seemed a stranger, occupying her bed.

  “She has an illness, for God’s sake. It’s not her fault, Stefan. It’s not his fault either. Please, have some compa
ssion. You’re a doctor, after all. My sister has an illness of the brain.”

  She could see him fizzing inside, resenting the accusation.

  “This isn’t about me,” he said. “Don’t take this out on me. Besides, where would you bring her? Here?”

  No, not Switzerland. Mental health laws in Switzerland were as foreign to her as in Ecuador. “New York, maybe.”

  “Do you really think you can drag her onto an airplane with you to New York, to go to a mental hospital?”

  The edge in his tone, fully realized, and now he no longer bothered to hide his exasperation.

  “You could at least try to be helpful,” she said. Rankled, up for a fight.

  “Schätzli, please don’t make this about me. I told you, tell him to get her to a doctor.”

  “But she’s angry with me. Her aggression, the rages, those are meant for me.”

  “Stop it. Miranda, it’s enough.”

  Stefan rarely raised his voice, but he raised it now. And later, much later, when she could view this part of their lives through her husband’s lens, Miranda would invariably cringe—because this is what he knew: that the hospitals, Ecuador, these episodes destroyed her every time. That she would not eat or sleep; that the stomach pains would wake her at all hours of the night; that she would become angry, irritable, and any opinion he offered, regardless of how gentle or solicitous, would be wrong, dismissed, and she would snap or yell or burst into tears, and they would say things they each regretted later. That gash on her forehead—she didn’t think he knew, but he did. He was not unsympathetic to the others, but in Stefan’s reality, there was only one person whose well-being stood at stake: his wife. Miranda, who was good. Miranda, who tried so hard to do what was right. And if this put her in opposition to him, he hated it. Yes, he was selfish, too. Her turmoil was his. Her unhappiness, his anguish. No, he could not tell her to go to Ecuador now. But he also could not demand that she stay. It tore him up, that he loved her—he tried so hard to love her—yet how best to love her still eluded him. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” he said.

  “This isn’t about me, Stefan. It’s about her.”

  “But it is about you. Don’t you understand?”

  “She’s crazy. She’s hurting people. She’s causing them pain. And you want me to sit here and do nothing?”

  “But you can’t help her,” he said. His tone returned to an alarming calm.

  “I can try.”

  “You have tried. You’ve been trying, all these years.”

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  “I love you, Miranda. Don’t you understand? I love you.”

  She jerked away, bristling. “This is me, Stefan.”

  “What about your life, Miranda?”

  But she refused to back down. He loved her. Did he? If so, the pronouncement only amplified her anger now. “This is not helpful, Stefan.”

  She threw on a robe, stormed out to the kitchen.

  He sat in their bed, his pulse too fast.

  She waited, shivering, slumped in her chair.

  He did not go to her.

  • • •

  Besides, she was busy. Too busy. She was chairing a fund-raising campaign at the hospital, presenting to the board next week. And the other morning, she’d been in the middle of a meeting, had to excuse herself, suffered her first full-blown panic attack in the ladies’ room. No, she could not go.

  Another three days passed. She dreamed she was on an airplane, falling; her teeth fell out, clicked around in her mouth; she was thirteen years old, beating an injured bird to its death with a baseball bat. If it died, she would no longer have to care.

  Stefan was right. What more could she do for Lucia?

  But for Manny.

  For Esperanza.

  But.

  The bees buzzed in her blood.

  If you need anything, I can help, I promise.

  “I have to, Stefan.”

  They were eating dinner. Lentil loaf with steamed broccoli. Rafael was playing video games in his bedroom.

  “The awards banquet is on Saturday.” Her husband was being honored for his work with the community outreach program at the hospital.

  “I know, I’m sorry.”

  “I’d really like it if you came.” His tone chilly, hesitant. As if he’d had to give himself permission to ask.

  “I want to come. You know I do.”

  “And there’s Sophie’s communion.” His niece, whom she’d tutored in English up until last year, when Sophie’s extracurriculars became too overwhelming.

  Miranda exhaled slowly. “Come on, Stefan.”

  “It’s an important family event.”

  “I’m aware of that. But Sophie is a child. And I can’t take a guilt trip right now. Please.”

  “A guilt trip, Miranda? When have I ever stopped you from doing anything you wanted to do?” No, not the first time she went to Ecuador, when he thought she was meddling, and he’d expressed his concern as diplomatically as he could, and she’d stormed out of that fancy French restaurant in the middle of dinner.

  But he did not sound angry now. Only cold, wounded. “You’re sure you want to do this? After last time?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you think I want to go?”

  This was not the right question, they knew.

  “Do you want me to tell you to go? Okay. Go.”

  “Stefan.”

  “Sophie looks up to you, Miranda. You’re important to her. And she’s important to me. She’s my sister’s daughter.”

  And who the fuck is that child in Ecuador?

  Miranda exploded. Rocketed off her chair, threw open the front door. Stefan realized, too late, the offense of his words. She was gone before he could apologize.

  • • •

  “Manny, it’s Miranda.” Her hands were sweating. She wiped them on her skirt. “I’ve booked a flight. How is everything?”

  She held her breath, suspended the phone several inches away from her ear, as if this would soften the impact of the blow.

  His answer came swiftly.

  It was not as expected.

  “She is calmer now. I put the pills in her tea.”

  “What?”

  “I crushed them into powder. Put them in her tea. Every morning for the past two weeks.”

  She imagined it: Lucia’s back turned, his hands shaking, the clink of the spoon as he stirred.

  “I’m sorry. I know this is wrong.” His voice, choked.

  “No, Manny, don’t be sorry, please. . . .”

  “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “I understand. Of course.” She nodded into the phone. “And how is she?”

  “She’s been sleeping a lot. Yesterday she went to see a doctor.”

  He did not need her to come anymore.

  “But I’ve already booked a ticket. Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. I think it will be okay.”

  Miranda set down the phone, stupefied. Whether it was awe, or horror, she could not say. But it was gratitude.

  8

  Manuel

  He did not speak with Lucia about the incident or the pills or the new doctor she saw in Cuenca from time to time. “It’s private,” she said. But this was what she’d always said, and so they returned once more to this delicate dance: he, terrified of retriggering her anger, of launching her into another episode; she, resentful of his mistrust. He hated being her minder, her keeper. “You take care of it,” he said, and she said, “I will.” But nothing was truly different, nothing made him feel safe—only time would soften his vigilance, allow his anxiety to transition into relief.

  Slowly, they slipped back into their lives. He and Essy continued to paint the casita. Polka dots. Stripes. When his daughter had turned five, they’d added
two more rabbits, one on each side of the door, and then the pigs, Princess and Pea, and then Fredy, who they painted on the south-facing wall, as tall as the roof, and then a cow named Victoria.

  Lucia seemed to flatten out, like a spinning coin laid to rest. She brought Essy to the river, taught her how to scrub underwear with a small rock against a bigger rock, where to lay clothes in the grass to catch the late afternoon sun. Yasmin was sent away. Lucia resumed work at the gringo newspaper, too, though in some different capacity, commuted once every other week. She would start a new book, she said. “About what?” he asked. “Healing,” she said. “And El Pollo? Unheard Voices?” “No,” she said.

  He was glad she read again to Essy every night. Rotated through tall stacks of children’s books borrowed from a used bookstore in Cuenca. Charlotte’s Web. The Mouse and the Motorcycle. A dog-eared Spanish-English dictionary, in which she’d highlighted her favorite words. Serendipitous. Dulcet. Vivir. Querencia. One day she brought home a brochure for a girls’ school in the city run by British expats. “What’s this?” he said. “Just to look at,” she said. “For when she’s older, maybe. Essy is really smart.”

  • • •

  One day she returned from a long afternoon in the woods, smiling. She had encountered a wise man, an old shaman, she said, who lived on the other side of the mountain. “You could meet him,” she said. “Some other time,” he said. Thereafter, she would often return with sprigs of herbs, seeds and seedlings, a vial of tincture, a crystal to hang in the window. She brewed tonics for Tío Remy’s arthritis, Mami’s stomach pains, Tía Alba’s cataracts, prescribed motherwort and licorice root for Tía Camila’s night sweats and hot flashes.

  “This works?” asked Tía Camila. She poked a finger at the sediments afloat in her cup.

  He could not look her in the eye, but Lucia did. “Try,” she said. “You have to try, Tía, and you have to believe.”

  He half believed, and the half that did not humored her, downed bitter concoctions tasting of earth. “Ewww,” said Essy. His daughter wrinkled her nose, zipped shut her lips, threw away the key. He recalled how he used to take her to the candy store, how their faces puckered sucking on lemon drops, how they stretched gummy worms to nearly a foot. By now, she had long finished with the village day care, wore a proper school uniform with a green plaid skirt she’d hike up past her knees whenever her mother wasn’t looking. She no longer wore her hair in pigtails, rather a single braid down the middle of her back. Lucia taught her math. How many pigs and chickens in a barnyard with twenty-four legs and eight heads? “Four and four, of course,” said Essy. One day Lucia brought home a violin she’d found at a pawnshop in Cuenca. The screeches hurt his ears. “Essy, practice out in the garden,” he said. “But Papi,” she said. “Music is the language of the universe. Mama says.”