Beyond the Ties of Blood

by Florencia Mallon

“Thank God.”

  “Doña Sara, I don’t know what happened, but she arrived with her bag about an hour ago. She was crying, and refused to tell me what was wrong. I told her she could stay with us. I set up a bed for her in my room.”

  “Ay, hija, you don’t know what a huge weight you just lifted from my shoulders. I need to tell Eugenia right away. Could you just wait a moment? I’ll be right back, I—”

  “Wait. I really need to get off. I left her with Joaquín at the kitchen table, drinking some mate, but of course I didn’t tell her I was calling.”

  “All right. I’ll talk with Eugenia tonight, and at some point tomorrow we’ll give you a call. And thank you again, Marcela. You really saved our lives.”

  Eugenia called the next day around lunchtime. “Marcela,” she said when she heard the other woman’s voice on the phone, “this is Eugenia. Is this a good time?”

  “Hi, Eugenia. Yes, we can talk now. Joaquín is in school and Laura left this morning for the Committee. I encouraged her to keep up a routine, to get her mind off whatever has been happening.”

  “I wanted to thank you. You don’t know how much it means—”

  “Actually, I think I do.” Marcela’s voice sounded choppy. “You and I both know how it feels when someone we love …” Eugenia heard a cough.

  “Yes,” she said. “Has she told you anything?”

  “Only that she can’t go back to doña Sara’s. I’m sure she’s said more to Joaquín, but neither of them is talking to me.”

  “I’m not surprised. Marcela, we don’t know each other very well, so forgive me if I’m completely out of line here, but …”

  “She’s not Manuel’s daughter, is she.” Eugenia tried to answer, but all that came out was a hack. “I bet doña Sara wasn’t entirely surprised, either, was she? Don’t worry, you don’t have to answer. Eugenia, it’s just that, in the Committee … over the last fifteen years … Let’s just say that this is not the first time I’ve known about a case like this. We’ve seen so many things, you know. And yet, when it comes to our own families …”

  For a while the rough syncopation of their breath was the only evidence that they were still connected. Marcela recovered first.

  “Doña Sara already knows this,” she said. “But all this truth … at first, I thought I would get some relief from knowing. But instead … Eugenia,” she continued, “just leave her here with us for a while. I’ll keep her focused on her daily routine, let the two kids talk things out between them. I’ll keep track of what they’re doing, I’m sure you know what I mean. You and I both know that our mothers couldn’t stop us, either, but I’ll make sure they’re protected. And then we’ll see.”

  For several weeks after she arrived at Joaquín’s house, Laura did not dream. Then one night, when the rains had let up briefly and a full moon had risen, clear and bright, above the city, the man in olive garb returned. They were no longer on the path in the woods but in Santiago, in a park she did not know. He reached out a hairy paw and grabbed her arm, and he smelled of mold. But she didn’t struggle, there was no point. When she stood still and looked at him, for the first time his eyes were not muddy and she could see his pupils. With a start, she realized they were her eyes.

  She startled awake, but everything was quiet. The light of the full moon still slanted in through the small space between the curtains. She could hear Marcela’s regular breathing in the bed across the room, so she hadn’t cried out during the dream. She felt the tears on her cheeks. She groped for her Walkman on the floor next to the bed and cued Prince’s “When Doves Cry.” Then she reached for Paco and cuddled him close. She knew she would not sleep again that night.

  The early April rains fell hard, bringing the oak leaves down with them. After several weeks trying to decide what to do, Eugenia decided to move back into her mother’s house. Since the confrontation at the end of the summer, doña Isabel had remained reclusive, staying in her room, asking that her lunch and dinner be brought to her there. Irene had extended her vacation through the middle of February and asked for a family leave through the end of March. But she finally had to go back to work.

  “It’s like after Papa left, Chenyita,” her sister told her on the phone when she called to say good-bye. “The falling out with you, with Laurita … I think something just snapped. I really don’t feel comfortable leaving her alone.”

  “Don’t worry, Nenita,” Eugenia answered. “With Laura gone, it’s better for me to move back in anyway.”

  “I feel so terrible, leaving you in the lurch this way, Mamita depressed, Laurita not talking to you. But I don’t have a choice now, unless I quit my job.”

  “Nonsense, Nenita. With all you’ve done for me, for all of us, over the years …”

  “And Amanda. She’s been so understanding, but when I talked to her last night she was crying.”

  “Don’t worry. Maybe if I’m in the house, taking care of things, it’ll be easier for me and Mamita to mend fences. Besides, what else do I have to do except to wait things out? I’ve sent Laura several cards saying I’m sorry, and Marcela says she reads them, but she doesn’t answer me. And she won’t respond to Sara, either.”

  “Do you think you’ll come back to Boston at some point?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “If you do, you know you can stay with us as long as you want.”

  “Yes, mi amor, I know that. And give Amanda my love, okay?”

  So over doña Sara’s protests, Eugenia packed her bags. “It’s really for the best,” she insisted. “Marcela keeps saying things will get better, and I want to believe her. But I can’t just sit here in your house waiting for my daughter to be willing to talk to me. Besides, Irene finally had to go back to Boston and, in her present condition, my mother can’t be left alone with the servants.”

  April blended into May, and then the early June snows fell on the cordillera. Every morning that dawned clear after a heavy rain, the massive mountains covered with white, was like a miracle. After consulting with Rosa about the day’s meal plan and meeting with Demetrio to discuss the garden, Eugenia took a walk down by the Mapocho River. As she measured the arrival of winter in the swelling of the current, she thought about Laura. The loss of Manuel was overwhelming, Eugenia realized, severing all kin connections with the people who had most accepted her in Chile. Did Laura now see herself as a constant reminder to her mother of the pain and torture she had suffered? Would she ever be able to forgive Eugenia for the lies they had lived? Doña Sara insisted on seeing the future with optimistic eyes. “At some point, hijita,” she told Eugenia on her weekly visits to their house, “Laura will realize that, having lost Manuel so painfully herself, she shares even more with us, not less, than before.”

  As Eugenia grieved the loss of her daughter, her mother seemed to revive. She asked for the newspaper every now and then, and began to complain when the toast was burnt. One morning, Eugenia heard her mother in the shower.

  “Chenyita!” her mother called, shortly after the water had been turned off. “Can you come in here? These towels look like they haven’t been changed in months!”

  Eugenia read in the living room most days, taking breaks to walk by the river or in the park, and at least once a week she wrote a short letter to Irene, bringing her up to date on their mother’s condition and the lack of progress with Laura. Doña Isabel still spent the morning in her room, having breakfast in bed and not getting up until the early afternoon. But she and Eugenia began to dine together under Rosa’s watchful eye. There was a caution to their interactions now, both women still nursing the torn ligaments of their mutual hurt. But occasionally, especially after a glass of wine, the beginnings of a playful tenderness would emerge in a gesture, a hand resting briefly on a forearm, a quick kiss, like a butterfly’s wings, on the forehead.

  The phone rang one morning as Eugenia was finishing her coffee. She knew Rosa was upstairs serving her mother’s breakfast, so she got up to take the call.

  “Hel
lo? Ewegeenea Aldunate, please?” The pronunciation, it had to be from the United States.

  “Yes. This is she.”

  “Ms. Aldunate. This is the Dean’s Office at Carmichael College. Please wait on the line for Dean Henderson.” A short pause, then a deep female voice.

  “Ms. Aldunate, I’m so glad I caught you.”

  “Hello, Dean Henderson, how are you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. Ms. Aldunate, I’m calling because we haven’t heard from you about your plans. The end of your leave is coming up now in mid-August, and we were wondering if you were meaning to return.”

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. It’s just that there have been several emergencies here over the past several months, and my mother’s been ill.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. It sounds like your return to Chile has been stressful. But I’m afraid that I must have an answer from you by the end of next month. I can actually extend your leave one more semester, but to do so I need to have firm assurances from you that you will be back by the end of next January. Otherwise, I’m afraid I will need your letter of resignation.”

  “My goodness. I had no idea. I’m sorry. It’s just that … I don’t feel prepared to decide, now, I …”

  “I completely understand. Look, would it help if I extended the deadline until the end of August? You would have one more semester in any case, and quite frankly, I don’t think we could find anyone to replace you.”

  “Oh, Dean Henderson, that would be wonderful. I promise I will be back in touch with you by the end of August. Thank you so much.”

  They were sitting at their favorite café, inside now in the middle of the cold winter rain, drinking coffee and milk and sharing a hot ham-and-cheese croissant. The flaky dough, crispy from the oven, melted in Laura’s mouth and she chewed on the ham, savoring the contrast of salty and semi-sweet flavors. As usual, Joaquín had picked her up at the Committee right after school. They left the office now before four, since that was when doña Sara usually arrived.

  “At some point you’re gonna have to stop running from them,” Joaquín said, his voice muffled slightly behind his portion of the croissant. It was the first time he’d brought it up so openly, and he was probably right. She knew that deep down. But she just wasn’t ready.

  “Maybe,” she said. “But you don’t know how it feels. I just can’t. Not yet.”

  “It’s been more than three months. Don’t get me wrong. I love living with you, and I know my mama loves you, too, but—”

  She put her mug down hard. “Look. No one knows me the way you do, and you’re the only one I really trust. But believe me, this one you just can’t understand!”

  “Why not?”

  “Come on! That’s such a stupid question! Shall we review the story? My mama and I grow up alone, in exile. Every time I feel I have a home, she pulls out the rug from under my feet. The one thing I can hold on to is that my papa was a wonderful man, who cared about the poor, and she loved him so much. Remembering him hurts, but somehow, between the nightmares and the crying, I manage to put together a picture of him.

  “And then, from one day to the next, it turns out he never was my papa in the first place! And the people I’ve grown to love most in the world, my Bobe and Zeyde, aren’t even related to me anymore! And now, every time I look in the mirror, I see my mama’s rapist! Let me see. Did I forget anything?”

  With that last remark, Laura stood up from the table, overturning her mug. The coffee and milk spread across the surface and began dripping down from the opposite corner onto the black and white checks of the tile floor. Joaquin reached across for the napkins and tried to soak up the liquid still on the table. Laura sat back down, crying quietly. The owner arrived with a mop and pail and cloth and, after cleaning up the mess, took the now-empty mug back behind the counter. Joaquín slid his chair over next to hers. She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing.

  “You’re right,” he said after her sobs had quieted a bit. “I can repeat your words, I now know them by heart. But I can’t really understand.” He ran his hand over her thick mane, smoothing the edges back into place. “Still,” he said, “I’ve listened. And well … maybe in some ways, you aren’t as unique as you think.” She pulled away at that, but he continued.

  “Of course it’s different for me. I didn’t wake up one day and find that my papa wasn’t my papa. But my whole life, Laurita, growing up … I felt that my mama cared more about the picture pinned to her blouse than she did about me, flesh and blood, living and breathing right in front of her. When you used to tell me about your mama’s nightmares, how you felt like her mother, comforting her, I knew exactly what you meant, because the same thing happened to me. At the same time, I envied you. I’ve never told you this. I felt your mama told you more about your papa—yes, the man you grew up knowing as your papa—than my mother ever told me about mine. Strange, isn’t it? Turns out he might not have really been your biological father, but in some ways you still know him a lot better than I’ll ever know mine.”

  The owner came back with another mug of coffee and milk and set it on the table, waving off Joaquín’s attempts to pay for it. Laura took a couple of shaky sips.

  “I used to be so angry at her,” Joaquín continued. “A couple of years ago, I had a pretty rocky time. I was cutting school, drinking with some guys from the neighborhood. Smoked a lot of pot, sniffed some stuff, was getting pretty close to the edge. I’d been to the Committee a couple of times, just to see what all the fuss was about. And then I ran into you.”

  He moved his chair closer again. She sat stiffly, but didn’t move away. “At first I only came back to see you,” he whispered. “But I began to see the same story in those files, day after day. Mine. Yours. All of ours. We all hurt, yet we’re all to blame. But it’s not our fault.”

  Slowly her stiffness lessened. After a while she put her head back on his shoulder. They sat in the half-light of the lamps that hung over the counter. The rain still fell, at first in loud sheets on the metal roof of the café, then letting up until only a light spattering could be heard above them. When it finally stopped, she sat up. Her voice was crumpled, like a piece of cloth kept too long, folded, in the drawer.

  “So what can we do now?” she asked.

  IX

  A Velvet Porcupine in the Suitcase

  For weeks after Dean Henderson’s call, Eugenia paced her room at night. With the electric heater turned off, in the early hours of the morning, she could see her breath. Sometimes, when the grey and orange of winter dawn mixed with the swirls of mist emerging from her mouth, she’d catch a glimpse of Manuel’s face. What was he trying to tell her? Every night, his face seemed further away.

  She was less and less able to call up his memory, his black tobacco and orange smell, the soft roughness of his beard. Every time he appeared before her, he was more faded, less defined. She struggled to regain his contours, the warm longing in the middle of her chest. Where was he going, disappearing yet again before her eyes?

  The math. Why hadn’t she done the math? His elusive presence berated her from a distance. What was it about being the heroic widow, the sacrificial mother, that she hadn’t done the math? How could you, his faded image seemed to ask. How could you hurt Laura this way?

  What choice did I have, she yelled back inside her head. They all admired your sacrifice, even if I didn’t know why it mattered. So what else did I have? You had your life, his shadow said. And even if she wasn’t mine, you had Laura. The daughter of a rapist and a killer, she answered, and I was her mother. What did that make me?

  One morning, when the light broke slate-grey against a curtain of smog, she felt rather than saw the beginnings of an answer. Not doing the math had allowed her to avoid coming to terms. Would she now have to pay the price of not raising Laura honestly, by losing her entirely?

  The insomnia faded, and at night she relived old nightmares. At first they were the same as always, faceless figures inflicting dark pain and nameles
s terrors. But then they changed. She began to see the torture room, to smell the dank mold in the corners. She was once again lying on the metal bedframe, wires wrapped around her arms to increase the power of the electricity. She tried to wake up, but the charge coursed through her, burning all the way up to her shoulders.

  Every morning she woke exhausted, yet driven to write everything down. There were three men she began to recognize in her dreams, mainly by sound since they would hood her before taking her into the torture cell. She wrote about the texture of their voices, the smell of their sweat, how they sometimes laughed among themselves or commented on the latest soccer scores. And then the explosions of pointed light behind her hood when they turned on the juice, how she thought her neck would snap in two.

  One night she dreamed she was in her cell. Shivering under a thin blanket, she felt the spikes of the straw mattress gouging her side. The door opened and at first she thought they’d come to take her to the “power plant,” as they sometimes called it. But there was only one man, and he didn’t put a hood on her. Talking to her in a soft, oily voice, he lifted the blanket and pulled up her gown. When he was done, she almost wished for the electricity. After that he came many times, a short man with a single brow across his forehead and eyes so dark they had no pupils.

  Three men, one torture room, countless electric charges. Countless rapes, one cell, one rapist. Finally she could do the math.

  When she woke the next morning, she realized she’d run out of room in her last notebook and would have to go out to buy a new one. Still in her pajamas, she stepped into the closet to grab some clothes to wear and her foot bumped against something soft that had been pushed to the back. It was her bag from the trip with Ignacio, and it still had the dirty clothes in it. She took out one of her blouses, the one whose sleeves he had peeled off her arms when they first made love in Bucalemu. It had been the first time since Manuel that sex had been connected to love in her life. Eugenia sat down on the bed for a moment, forcing herself to breathe through the familiar burning of grief in her chest. Then she pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater, emptied the bag into her hamper, and walked out to the corner bookstore.