Everything Here Is Beautiful

by Mira T. Lee

  “Do you know, the last time I saw you, you were only four months old?” I said.

  “Yes, that’s what Papi said.” Her eyes, bright. “Thank you for the books, Tía. All the English books.”

  “Of course. And how is your Papi? He mentioned something about a painting business?”

  “Yes, he’s been talking about that,” she said. “But my Papi, you know, he’s usually kind of . . . slow to move.”

  Tortoise. And Lucia, the hare.

  “But he’s getting married this Christmas. Her name is Daniela.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know! I’ll have to congratulate him,” I said.

  Though Manny and I had been in contact these past few years, it was primarily with regard to Esperanza’s schooling. I would not say we were “close,” this was not the right word, but in our concern for Lucia we’d shared an uncommon bond, and I now found myself teary-eyed, moved. I thought: Yes, how much he deserves this.

  “She’s nice. She has three daughters, my new sisters. My Papi is really happy.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said. “And your Uncle Fredy, how is he?”

  “Gordito is fine.” She blushed. “That’s what we call him. Gordito.”

  I opened a box of chocolates, offered them to her. She selected an almond nougat. “My Papi loves these,” she said, grinning. And then, out of nowhere, the most jarring non sequitur: “Tía, will you tell me about my mother?”

  I was taken aback, I admit, though her abruptness was tempered by her genuine manner, and I found myself admiring her straightforwardness.

  • • •

  She wanted to know everything, of course. A young person wants to view a parent through another’s eyes. All those years Lucia lived in South America, she had no past, no ties, no history, no other angle of light by which her daughter could perceive her. So I tried to tell my niece, from the beginning, how Lucia was, even as a child—vibrant, vivacious, a free spirit who did as she liked while somehow remaining immensely likable. And how she and her father met, what little I knew, and how they lived north of the city, in one of the towns on the Hudson, until they moved to Ecuador.

  “You don’t remember anything about the States?” I asked.

  “I was too young,” she said. “Well, maybe, I remember a zoo. I think my mother took me to a zoo.”

  And then there was Lucia’s illness, on which the doctors could never agree, whether it was schizophrenia or bipolar disorder or something on the spectrum in between—this ruthless illness which hijacks its young sufferers, evicts their souls while blinding them to any cognizance of their own malady . . . oh, I could go on.

  I asked Esperanza if she knew anything about her mother’s condition and she said yes, her Papi had mentioned it and she’d read about it on the Internet. I did not probe about her life in Ecuador, though I was curious as to what kind of mother Lucia had been. Was she lax or strict, engaged or removed? Did she and Manny argue all the time? Lucia was never a good fighter; Yonah said she held too much inside, that this made her sick—but then, he never did understand her illness.

  My niece did not know about Yonah, I realized, as we continued our conversation. How would she have known?

  • • •

  She was ten years old when her mother went to Minnesota. By then, Lucia and I had grown painfully distant, estranged, ever since that night in Cuenca. But while our few days together with Yonah failed to bring about any grand reconciliation, I now prefer to think of that time as a thaw. She had driven me to the airport—a quiet ride, but we listened to music, the Rolling Stones, sang together a few lines here and there. When it came time to part, we’d hugged at the curb, and I was not the only one fighting back tears.

  “Take care of yourself,” I said. And in that moment those words meant no more, no less, only a simple expression of love.

  “You, too,” she said. “Bye, Jie.”

  She was wearing her purple jacket, and she waved until I was well inside the terminal, and the sliding doors drew closed.

  This is my last memory of my sister.

  • • •

  There was a storm. Her body was found, frozen in the snow.

  I could not parse what I’d heard.

  • • •

  Those days after I recall as a blur. I was angry. So angry. Angry with her, angry with myself, angry with those nosy reporters in that provincial town, and outright furious with Yonah (though I’d loved him like a brother), who was already dead, who had remained ignorant of Lucia’s illness, who had run his mouth loud and loose up until the very end—I thought, immediately, she had gone off her pills.

  Stefan had tried to reason with me. This was his usual approach, but I refused to listen—I blamed him, too. Or rather, as part of blaming myself, I attacked him whenever he tried to acquit me of guilt. He’d criticized too harshly, refused to get involved—but I realize, now, that in essence it was this: I faulted him for not loving her the way I did.

  It would take years before I could see his side.

  Fourteen months after Lucia’s death, I embarked on a soul-searching trip to China. A car accident, we’d been told, and I had believed without question. Our Gong-gong Po-po, no longer alive, our mother born an only child, but I was able to track down one of Ma’s cousins who lived in Guilin, an old ayi not shy with her opinions. Your Ba gambled, she said. He ran with cheap women, had illicit affairs. A car accident? No. Swamped in debt, facing arrest, our father had driven off a cliff to his death, a bus full of schoolchildren as his witnesses.

  His image, tarnished forever in my mind. Yet I could not say I was shocked or surprised. But if part of me had suspected, it still saddened me deeply, above all this thought: that our mother had insisted on carrying these burdens alone.

  Not long afterward, I told Stefan I wanted to leave Switzerland. I could not articulate why, but whatever we said to each other, it was never right, or enough, and a bitterness had become entrenched in both of us. He was not at fault, nor his family, ever appropriate and polite; even Rafael, by then, was finishing up medical school, living with a girlfriend in Geneva, preparing their own vegan meals. I knew only that I wanted to be somewhere different, to reset my mind, and if this rendered me selfish, somehow I no longer cared. But Stefan did not attempt to dissuade me—he let me go. As Yonah had done with Lucia fifteen years earlier.

  I came to New York. I came alone. I rented a tiny apartment on the Upper West Side. I was recruited by a health care firm, worked nine to five, went running, painted, cooked as I liked. I visited Tess and her family in Brooklyn Heights, occasionally babysitting for her three children on the weekends. Apart from that, I admit, I led an insular existence. But I was calm in a way I’d never been before. After two years, I decided to pursue a master’s degree in arts management—at an “advanced” age, yes, but I was undeterred.

  I did not know I would stay, or that Stefan and I would eventually decide to reevaluate (via hours and hours of video counseling), or that he would join me here for three months after Grossmuti died. How trite, but true: things change. Some all at once, some over a lifetime. I work for one of the museums now, managing their education department, a position I enjoy immensely. Stefan will come again next week, for six months this time. It has been nearly twenty years since we first met, playing tennis. And Rafi and his wife are expecting their first child this winter—a boy.

  I still go to Chinatown, to my favorite bakery on Mott Street. But I cannot bring myself to venture to the East Village. The store is no longer, I’ve been told, replaced by a trendy Moroccan restaurant with a hookah lounge. One day I will summon enough courage to go check it out—though by then, perhaps it will have evolved into something else.

  • • •

  Sometimes I still try to imagine what it must’ve been like, Lucia alone in her dream-state. Perhaps, if she closed her eyes, she could still feel his presence: his raspy
voice, the rough skin of his palm on top of her hand, his cindery breath mixed with aftershave. Curious (for how could one not be curious in a dead man’s domain?), she floated through the house, snooped through closets for old keepsakes—a shoe box of old photos of his children, perhaps, or one perfect snapshot of their wedding day. Had he other loves? What of all those years after she’d gone away? She would’ve imagined it then: his life. Her life. If only she’d come back to him.

  She had started to pack his belongings. A day here, a day there, at an unhurried pace—to launder his sweaters, his sweatshirts, his socks, his jeans, to organize his personal items before giving them away. Keep. Salvation Army. Trash. She would’ve needed a day, at least, just to sort through his tools. Yonah possessed little clothing, but owned dozens of screwdrivers and hammers and wrenches and pliers. One drawer contained only flashlights, another, nails and screws. In the master bedroom, I did come upon an odd sight: an ice chest full of batteries, plopped in the middle of the king-size bed. Perhaps she’d been tempted to throw them away, then heard his voice in her ear: What?! So she’d sat cross-legged on the bedspread, sifted through them methodically: the D’s, the C’s, a batch of double and triple A’s. Each time, the battery tester’s needle floating on its color-coded dial: Good. Low. Replace. She’d sorted the acceptable ones into piles, placed them inside a series of Ziploc bags. There must’ve been hundreds in all.

  I never told Manny these details, only that after Yonah died she must’ve had a difficult time, and things had ended tragically. I did not attend Lucia’s funeral in Ecuador; likewise, he could not come to the memorial service that Tess helped me arrange in Westchester, a simple ceremony, in a park, with a lovely view of the Tappan Zee Bridge. Though Lucia seemed to know everyone, she was close to few, so it was a handful of her friends from college, a few former colleagues, a Pakistani woman I did not know, an older woman with dyed-orange hair.

  “My Papi, he can’t come to this country,” said my niece.

  I nodded. I knew this was because he had violated the provisions of his visa many years ago—he was an illegal in this country, and would never be allowed back in. Lucia had understood this clearly.

  • • •

  That night in Cuenca, banging around in that tiny room, she knew it was wrong, plain wrong, to take Esperanza away from her father. But she could not bear to leave her young daughter behind.

  Was I wrong? Misguided? Was I out of line? If I hadn’t burst in that night, could Lucia’s life have taken a different path?

  I still picture her with Yonah sometimes, the two of them sitting on that dilapidated bench outside the store, chatting with the denizens of the neighborhood.

  But if I hadn’t stepped in, Esperanza, the sole innocent among us all, would’ve lost her father. In my deepest heart, I believed this to be wrong. Manny was a good father; he loved his daughter. And for Lucia to raise the child alone seemed impossible—this was what I thought at the time. But in retrospect, one could say it was Lucia’s right to live the life of her own choosing, regardless of her illness, and I should never have interfered.

  I don’t know.

  This is my secret. I never did tell Manny the truth. I will not tell Esperanza.

  “My Papi is a good person,” she said.

  “Yes. Yes, he is. Your mother was a good person, too. A dreamer, always a dreamer, wanting to have it all. This is very American, you know.”

  “I’m Chi-meri-dorian,” said my niece, flashing a grin. She leaned forward to touch my elbow, as if I were in some need of reassurance, and I could see it already: those NYU boys flocking to her side like rowdy pigeons.

  “That’s probably a good balance,” I said.

  “She was sad sometimes.” Her gaze fell to the floor. “I remember that. My mother was sad. Why?”

  I knew no clear answer to this question. She felt isolated, maybe. Constricted, misunderstood. Lucia, always chasing some happily-ever-after; she needed to be free. Or was she simply childish, self-centered, irresponsible? For a long time I saw her as the latter, I admit.

  “Did she love my Papi?”

  “I don’t know.” I sighed. “I’m sorry, Esperanza. There are a lot of things I just don’t know.”

  She bit her lip, the way her mother often did. As if mulling the acceptability of this answer.

  • • •

  The cause of death was ruled “accidental.” I like to think this is the truth. I picture her, alone in that kitchen, listening to the wobble of her mixing bowl on the countertop. Perhaps she went to check if she’d left the garage light on, or the car unlocked, or a snow shovel in the driveway. Perhaps she heard a dog bark or howl or glimpsed a deer through the window, cracked opened the glass sliders, smelled the wind, the pines, the smoke of a distant wood fire. She stepped outside, let the arctic gusts blast away stray images of bulky latex-gloved men carting off her Yoni’s body on a stretcher. (Memories of death, those final days, forever etched in one’s mind.) Tired of confinement in that somber house, she decided she needed fresh air. She enjoyed long walks. The majesty of the forest. The light snow would’ve offered a peaceful idyll—nature is a comfort, she always said. Or perhaps it was so much more mundane: She was missing an ingredient (baking soda? almonds?) and thought she’d go say hello to the neighbors. Ward Dunkel and his three Irish wolfhounds, acquainted with her, lived on the other side of the lake.

  The storm came quickly, the police officers said. One could get lost in those woods.

  • • •

  The voices. It could’ve been the voices. Serpents, she once told me. Two. A pair. “What do the serpents tell you to do?” I asked. “They don’t exactly tell me to do anything,” she said. “It’s more like they expose my inner state.”

  If only she had not been alone.

  I replay those days in Minnesota. I search for clues. Was her behavior irrational? Did she seem deeply depressed? She was sad, of course, yet hadn’t she flown all the way to New York City, returned with one of those ridiculously large suitcases stuffed full of Chinese herbs?

  • • •

  But the shock, the grief, the stress of it all.

  The serpents did it—yes, this is easy to say. But I like to think that she simply went out looking for something beautiful.

  • • •

  “Esperanza,” I said. “It’s still sunny outside. Would you like to go for a walk in the park?”

  “Central Park?” she said. Not the words, but her voice, her manner, so like Lucia.

  We entered at Seventy-second Street just as the day was starting to wane, dipping into the splendorous light of magic hour. I brought her to Strawberry Fields—was she familiar with the Beatles, John Lennon, maybe the Rolling Stones? Of course, she said, and this surprised me, and we discussed music and she said she played guitar, liked to sing, though her Papi had given her strict orders to study finance or computers, something practical, but she would see first how her classes went, she might find politics or literature interesting, who knows? (I was impressed with her English, which was endearingly proper, with a slight British accent, and her grammar mostly smooth.) Our conversation continued then, beyond the past to her future, and next I noticed the sunlight had disappeared.

  “It’s genetic,” I said, suddenly. Not to be morbid or unpleasant, but because I felt I had a responsibility to tell her, my niece, this girl on her journey to womanhood.

  “This illness, it’s genetic.”

  “I’ve read that,” she said.

  “You need to be careful. Get plenty of sleep. Stay away from drugs. Take good care of yourself.”

  She nodded with insufficient gravity, though correct politeness.

  I’m so sorry.

  I wanted to say it, but I couldn’t.

  “It’s getting late, Esperanza. Do you know where you are? Can I help you get back to your dorm?”

  “No, no,�
� she said. “I can find it. Though I think I’ll walk a bit farther. Maybe I’ll go to the zoo.”

  “It will be closed now.”

  “That’s okay. But, Tía Miranda, please, there is one small thing.”

  “What is it?” I said, and in that moment a maternal tenderness overwhelmed me unexpectedly. She was still so much a child.

  Protect this girl, God. Protect her, goddammit.

  “I hope you can call me Essy.”

  “Essy. Yes, of course.” Its lightness off the tongue suited her. “Welcome to America, Essy. Or should I say, welcome back. Can I take you out for dinner next week after you’ve settled in? Stefan is in Switzerland at the moment, but he’ll be here by then. Maybe pizza, or sushi?”

  “Sushi?”

  “Japanese raw fish. Have you tried?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Well, my Papi says in America there is everything. But . . . maybe pizza first.” She yum-yum tapped her belly, laughed, and I could not resist wrapping my arms around her slender shoulders.

  “Pizza, then,” I said.

  My niece.

  Hope.

  Butterfly.

  She clung to me and did not let go.

  I was caught by surprise. Tears filled my eyes.

  I’m here, I said. My words, barely a whisper.

  I did not know what more to say, so I said nothing more, but I patted her slowly on the head. And after a long moment she pulled back and smiled, and her lightness was again restored.

  Besitos! Good-bye!

  I waved and she waved. And I stood, watching, as she walked away—envious of her youth, admiring of her grace, though she wobbled every few steps on her Mary Janes, catching a heel on the pavement.

  Acknowledgments