What I know now is that it was probably the first of her psychotic breaks, the first sign of the twisted synapses in her brain. It became quite common over the next few years. We thought she was sleepwalking, and were very careful with her. Maybe she was, in a way. Maybe all of schizophrenia is a sort of sleepwalking in an alternate reality.
But that night, as I struggled to ease Gypsy's terror, I cried out for my mother, and she didn't come. She was sleeping in the double bed next to ours, and I didn't understand how she couldn't hear Gypsy's noises. It's a sound that's hard to describe—a keening terror that went on and on, as if she were being tortured.
“Mom!” I cried, and climbed out of bed to shake her awake.
The bed was empty. I stared at it, Gypsy's stuttering sobs breaking the air behind me.
It didn't sink in for a minute: My mother wasn't there.
I turned on the light and she was still gone. My heart exploded with dire imaginings: She'd been kidnapped. Or … killed. There was a man with a big knife in the bathroom, waiting to attack us and kill us next. I whirled around to look at Gypsy, suddenly certain I would see that her screaming was because she had been cut to ribbons and left for dead.
She moaned and put her hands in front of her face, as if something was indeed coming at her, but her skin showed no damage. Her nightgown was twisted and her hair was damp with sweat, but she wasn't hurt.
The room was empty. And I noticed, suddenly, that my mother's purse was gone.
She'd left on purpose!
Gypsy screamed and started thrashing around on the bed, making so much noise I was afraid somebody would come and find out my mother wasn't here, and then what would happen to us?—so I put my hand on her, whispering, “Shhhh, Gyps. I'm here. It's okay.”
It didn't help. The instant my hand touched her, she reared away, banging her head on the nightstand. Her eyes were open and wild, but I could tell she couldn't see me. A little blood showed up in a cut on her forehead and she pulled pillows around her.
At least it was something I could offer. Whirling around, I yanked the pillows from my mother's bed, and the covers, and pushed them onto our bed, and covered Gypsy up, put a pillow behind her so she wouldn't bang the nightstand again. Then, shivering, I pulled the sheet off my mother's bed and wrapped up in it and settled at the foot of our bed. I cried myself to sleep, wishing for my daddy.
The woman I am now, the woman carrying a baby in her own belly, thinks of those two girls alone in that hotel room so long ago, and I'm furious. What was my mother thinking? How could she have been so casual?
I'm sleepy and cold, and pull the covers more closely around me. The nest comforts me, and I imagine, as I did when I was a preadoles-cent, that the bed is a solid raft afloat upon the sea, a perfectly safe and comfortable cradle to keep me from the dangers of the deep. I hug a pillow and wish I could call Jack. It's four A.M. in New York, and I'd never disturb him, but some part of me knows that I could if it were bad enough, that he'd be bewildered and sleepy and not particularly talkative, but he'd pick up the phone. He'd stay on the other end as long as I needed him.
For some reason, this makes me want to cry.
God, I'm tired of being alone! The cold depth of my loneliness tonight makes me even think of my mother, close by, just one flight of stairs away. I could crawl into bed with her, put my face against her shoulder and let her sing to me. Sleepily, I imagine myself in an oversized flannel nightgown, dragging a teddy bear up those stairs and knocking on her door. The imaginary smell of Tabu wafts over me and I fall asleep.
When I awaken at seven-thirty, I am very ill. It's morning sickness to the twelfth power, repetitive waves of nausea that roll over me with the monotony of the sea. Lying there in my pile of pillows and covers, trying to breathe slowly I think I shouldn't have imagined my bed was a raft on the ocean.
It takes me a half hour to even get to the shower, another half hour to keep down a cup of tea. From somewhere floats a smell of sizzling meat, and it sends me to the toilet again. I'm absolutely certain I can't face a café this morning. I call my mother's room and tell her to get some room service breakfast. “I'm just going to take my time.”
Her voice has the particular raggedness that comes of smoking dozens of cigarettes. “Anything you need, sweetheart?”
“No.” I pause. Then again, “No, I'm fine. It's just a headache.”
I order breakfast for myself, breads and tea only, nothing with an odor that might send me back to the toilet. And finally, it's better. An apricot Danish stays down. Another cup of tea. The top of my stomach feels bruised, and I do wonder how people get through a whole pregnancy like this. I wish I could ask my mother. I can't remember if she ever said she was sick when she was pregnant with us. Probably not. She probably smoked and drank and danced like normal. In the old days, pregnant women were not quite under the hostage situation that I will face in public, as if my belly does not belong to me, but the world in general.
Creepy.
I'm finally able to dress and get downstairs, but it's wobbly all the way. Everything seems off-kilter. Smells, sights, sounds. I feel like I'm underwater, except that I'm trapped down there with bubbles of gaslike explosions of smells. A woman on the elevator was eating garlic the night before and I nearly faint with cold sweats before I escape her.
In the lobby, I smell again that awful, sticky, hot scent I can't place, and I say to my mother, “What is that smell?”
She gives me a quizzical look and says, “I just smell chiles and onions.” Her eyes narrow. “You look a little green this morning, child. Are you okay?”
I shake my head. Without thinking, I touch the top of my stomach, that bruised place, and yank my hand away instantly. “Just a little tired, I think. Maybe a touch of food poisoning.”
“Might be. Might just be that all this rich road food is disagreeing with you.” She hands me a piece of Juicy Fruit, which I unwrap with gratitude.
I'm all right in the car. I get us out of Santa Fe and on the road to Gallup without incident. The sky is dark and cold this morning, threatening more snow. “I forgot to look at the weather forecast. Did you hear it?”
Eldora shakes her head. “Doesn't look good, though, does it? The weather hasn't been great for us. You'd think April would be better.”
“Mother, you've lived in this part of the country for forty years. It always snows in April.”
She lifts a shoulder. “Never seems like it should, though.”
There's a hot smell coming off the engine this morning, like oil burning too fast or something. It's bothering me a little, but I can drive anyway. My mother is quiet, and doesn't nag me to get out for a cigarette. She's somewhat hungover, I suspect, going by the tender way she holds her head, the lack of chatter spilling out of her. I consider asking her if she's ever going to give it up, and think better of it.
Traffic is light, the clouds low and dark over the mountains. I'd forgotten the reservations along the road to Gallup. The pueblos start north of Santa Fe, with the most famous and one of the most photographed places on the planet, surely, Taos Pueblo. From Taos, they lie in a waterfall across the desert, most with the names of Spanish saints: Santa Clara, Santo Domingo, San Felipe. I remember it seemed there was nothing to see when I was a child. I'd been so excited to see the pueblos, and we never even glimpsed one.
Now there are big, prosperous-looking casinos perched along the highway. Every pueblo seems to have its own, and every parking lot has plenty of cars. To my mother I say “You could do some gambling through here. They must be raking in a fortune.”
“Pretty smart,” Eldora says with a nod. “Turns the tables on white greed, doesn't it?”
So to speak, I think, but don't say. In truth, I tend to discount the depth and experience of my mother's intelligence, and this statement has taken me by surprise. I know better. She reads all the time. “Did you grow up in Indian country?”
“Yeah.” She takes a breath. “Reservations were sorry places in those days,
I'll tell you.”
“It was the dark ages of Indian affairs.”
“Like there's been a bright age?”
I smile softly. “Touché.” I pass the giant, shiny-new casino with its packed parking lot. “Did you want to stop at one of them, check it out?”
“No, I'm ready to get to Las Vegas.”
“The real thing?”
She lifts a slim shoulder. “I guess. I'm not really going there to gamble.” She lowers her sunglasses. “Are you worried that I have a gambling problem, India?”
“No, not at all. I worry about your drinking and your smoking, but not your gambling.”
“Well, good. I've never been crazy with it. I like playing the slots for fun, but I stay within my limits. I stick with my drinking limits, too, sugar. You might not think so, but I pay attention. I know it's not good for me.”
I can't think of anything to say and simply nod.
“It's flirtin' with disaster, I get that.” She clears her throat. “The smoking, too. Believe me, I think about it a lot. It's just so hard to imagine giving up something you've been doing practically your whole life.”
“I know.”
“I'm glad you never took up smoking.”
“Gypsy smokes enough for both of us.” I grin at her a little. “Whatever will the tobacco industry do if they cure schizophrenia?”
She's silent for a minute. “Wouldn't that be something? If they figured out how to cure it?”
“I can't even imagine.”
“That's what I thought was beautiful about your daddy's fight. He really did believe that if enough people made enough noise for long enough, maybe someday they could come up with a cure. Or at least better drugs.” She abruptly clears her throat and looks out the window. “He had more faith …” Ducking down, she picks up her purse, starts digging through it. When she speaks again, her voice is wavery “Than anybody I ever met.”
“I miss him a lot, too, Mom.” I turn the radio down a little so she can talk about him if she wants. “I made some chocolate-covered cherries for Jack, just so I could think about Daddy.”
“That's beautiful, India.”
“I should go through his paperwork and see where he was involved, see if I can take up some of the work he was doing, anyway.”
“We all give in our own way, honey. You don't have to do exactly what he did. Just find your own way.”
The oil smell is working on my stomach a little. “Can I have some more gum?” As she's pulling it out, I add, “What do you miss, Mom?”
“His laugh,” she says without hesitation. “His silly jokes. The way he'd whistle when he took out the trash. He was a very happy man, you know?” Unwrapping some Juicy Fruit for me, she says, “But if you really want to know, what I miss most of all is the feeling of his arms around me at night. It's hard to go on without that, night after night after night.”
“Maybe you should date a little.”
She doesn't say anything for a long while. Finally she says simply, “It wouldn't be the same.”
I feel ashamed of myself. After a few miles, I say, “Mom, how did you end up in Las Vegas finally? You haven't finished your story.”
“You don't have to humor me, India.”
I laugh. “It's hardly that. C'mon. Tell me a story to keep me awake on this drive.”
“Maybe later, sweetheart, all right? Just this minute, I'm tired.”
In alarm, I glance at her. “Do you want to get out, have a smoke or
something?”
“No.” She closes her eyes and leans her head back. “I'll be all right in
a little while.”
Part Five
EL RANCHO MOTEL
Home of the Movie Stars
Formally opened December 17, 1937, the El Rancho Hotel was built by the brother of the movie magnet, D. W. Griffith. Drawn by the many films made in the area, Ronald Reagan, Spencer Tracy, Katharine Hepburn, and Kirk Douglas were among the stars listed in the guest register. Autographed photos of the stars, Navajo rugs, and mounted trophy animal heads adorn the magnificent two-story open lobby with its circular staircase.
Chapter Twenty-seven
India
It's only a three-hour drive to Gallup. An odd, thick sense of dread is building in me as we approach the town, and I'm thinking maybe we should just go on to Las Vegas today. It's another six hours, but we can do it. As we enter the town proper, looking for the address I found for the homeless shelter, I feel almost strangled with … what? Dread, sorrow, something.
“This is where Gypsy ran away the first time,” my mother says. “Do you remember?”
“Yes.” We couldn't find her for more than six hours, and when we did, she had a bruise on her cheek. She never did tell us how she got it. “I don't want to talk about that right now, though. We just need to find this shelter.”
“I'd really like a break before we do that. A cup of coffee? There's a diner right there.”
I drive by without stopping. “I want to check the shelter first.”
“For once, India, I'm gonna say no. Let's stop, get out, stretch our legs. The shelter isn't going anywhere.” She points with one long-nailed index finger at a big neon sign on the main drag. “There. Stop.”
She is my mother. I was an obedient child. Some habits you just can't break. We get out of the car, and I find myself scanning the sky. A cold wind has the bite of winter in it, and the clouds are heavy and ominous. Damn.
We walk into the diner and that awful smell hits me again, that sweaty something that makes me tell my mother, “I'll be right back.”
At a near run, I make it to the ladies room, which is bright and cheerful with Navajo diamond patterns on the wall in border paper. In the toilet, I throw up impressively and wonder how much a person can throw up every day before it ruins her throat. Like bulimia. The thought makes me smile as I flush the toilet, wipe my eyes, rinse my mouth. I expect to look as wan and clammy as a person who has been throwing up all day should, but my face in the mirror is surprisingly robust. Roses in my cheeks, the whites of my eyes as pristine as freshly bleached sheets, a dewiness to my sallow skin.
From the cosmetics section of my purse, I take out a lipstick, comb my hair, eat a mint. Put everything back exactly where it was.
Raising a brow, I step back to take a longer look at myself. It's not an illusion. I look hot, as in sexy, as in younger than I've looked in ages. “Wow,” I say, touching my still unrevealed belly, my lusher breasts. “Not bad, kiddo.” Until I say it aloud, I don't realize I'm talking to the kid.
Damn. I want this baby. I want to see what she'll look like. I want to hold her and touch her and smell her. I want to see Jack's eyes or hair or fingernails mixed up with my nose and neck and toes. How selfish is that?
It brings tears to my eyes. “Oh, stop it!” I've been as weepy as a willow and I'm tired of it. I can just see me going through a whole pregnancy with tears streaming down my face.
I suddenly, painfully, want pie. Cherry pie.
My mother has settled in a booth by the window. All around her, men send covert glances in her direction. God, it used to drive me crazy! No matter where we went, the male of the species admired my mother, even when she was forty and I was in my teens and you'd think I might get a few appreciative glances of my own.
There is an especially handsome Indian man sitting two tables away who makes no secret of his frank measuring. I know he's Navajo rather than some other nation because of the way he's wearing his hair, in a traditional bun. The hair is salt and pepper, thick and shiny, and I suspect it would be spectacular if he freed it. In his late fifties or early sixties, cheekbones like mesas, full lips and broad shoulders. He looks … substantial. There are turquoise and silver cuffs on his sturdy wrists. His hands look as if they could manage everything from horses to dishes to women. He's wearing no ring.
As I cut through the restaurant, trying to breathe through my mouth so I don't have to inhale that sweaty scent of meat cooking, I notice
my mother noticing the man. She touches her hair, looks his way as if by accident. He nods with respect and a very, very small quirk of his lips. She smiles.
I like him even more when he doesn't fall to his knees and worship her. His acknowledgment is not dazzled, but a very slight smile of his own, a knowing sort of expression. He's been worshiped now and again himself.
Sliding into the booth, I blink coquettishly at Eldora. “Oooh,” I say, with a wicked grin. “Not bad.”
She straightens, demurely looks down, touches her face. “Don't be silly.”
The waitress has a dark round face and hair to her hips. I ask for cherry pie.
“Before you eat?” my mother asks.
“Lunch is lunch.”
“It smells wonderful in here,” Eldora says to the waitress. “Is that chile?”
“Fresh this morning,” the waitress says.
Chile, I think. Great. It's the combination of chiles, onions, and meat that are making me so sick. I'll be very glad to get out of New Mexico.
“Do you mind if I have some, India?”
I look at her. “Why would I care?”
“The smell seems not to be agreeing with you.”
Startled, I meet her eyes, see her knowledge. New raindrop tears show up in my eyes. “No, it's fine. Go ahead.” But having thrown up, I'm very hungry again. “Maybe I want something, too.”
“We have a Navajo taco with beans,” the girl says, pointing the eraser of her pencil at the menu. “Beans are good if you're having a baby. Lots of iron.”
Do I have a sign on my face that says I'm pregnant? I'm disconcerted and don't know what to do with my eyes or my hands. Or how to answer. “All right” is what I finally come up with.
“The chile for me,” my mother says. “Coffee, and then some cherry pie after.”
The waitress grins. “You got it.”
Lady Luck's Map of Vegas Page 19