by Ruth Behar
I always knew I wasn’t dumb!
Before she leaves, Joy gives me a book of stories by Hans Christian Andersen. She tells me to choose one story and write an explanation of what I learned from reading it. I choose “The Red Shoes.”
This is what I write:
“The Red Shoes” is about a girl named Karen. Her mother dies and Karen almost starves to death. But an old woman adopts her. One day Karen gets a new pair of red shoes. Back then, good girls only wore black shoes. Red shoes were for bad girls.
The old woman gets sick, but Karen puts on the red shoes and goes to a party anyway. On the dance floor, the shoes take over. Karen can’t stop dancing and she can’t take off the shoes. They stick to her feet. She dances for days and days, forgetting about the old woman.
Karen learns the old woman has died. She didn’t even say good-bye to the old woman who saved her life! It was the fault of the red shoes. An angel had put a curse on her: “Dance in your red shoes till your skin shrivels up and you are a skeleton!”
“Chop off my feet,” she begs. And they chop them off and the shoes keep dancing by themselves, her feet still inside them. She cries and cries, asking for forgiveness, until finally another angel takes pity on her. She dies and he takes her to heaven on his wings.
I could relate to this story because having my legs in a cast feels like they’ve been chopped off. I know they haven’t been. They are still there. Yes, I have legs. I just can’t see them. Or move them. Or feel them.
“Good job, Ruthie!” Joy says. “You get a gold star.”
I feel happy when Joy pastes a gold star in my notebook, although I think maybe part of the reason I am getting it is because Joy feels sorry for me. She sees how hard it is for me to write lying flat on my back in bed.
I find out that it’s just as hard to read lying on my back as it is to write. I have to balance my book on the edge of the cast and lift my head to see the pages.
When my neck gets tired and achy, I let my head fall on the pillow and hold the book straight above me. Then my arms get tired and achy, and I give up and stare at the ceiling.
Sometimes when my whole body aches like this, I close my eyes and pretend I am lying on my favorite beach in Cuba. It had a curious name, Playa Vaquita, which means Little Cow Beach, and the sand was like silk. When the tide was low, long zigzagging sandbars would form. I could wade into the deep end without being afraid. The water wouldn’t come any higher than my knees.
I remember laughing and running on that beach, trying to keep my kite from falling down out of the sky.
I wish I had strong legs to run on the beach with a kite. It doesn’t have to be Playa Vaquita. Any beach will do.
I wish I had long arms like an octopus. I’d paste gold stars on the ceiling and imagine them twinkling day and night.
Those are my big wishes.
My small wish is to look out the window and just see the world. But the window is behind me. I can’t see the sun or the clouds. I can’t say “good night, moon” before going to bed. It’s just the ceiling and me.
Dear God,
Thank you for sending Joy to be my teacher. She is a very nice teacher. I am learning a lot and getting smarter every day. But if I had to choose between going back to the dumb class and not being able to walk, I would ask you to send me to the dumb class.
Ruthie
if Mami stops taking care of me
Time is different when you can’t leave your bed. The days go slowly because they all seem the same. Not moving, not going anywhere, always in the same place, it’s hard to tell if a new day has begun or an old day has ended. So Joy gets me a calendar to keep track of the days. The months are stapled onto a piece of cardboard. I’ve torn off January, February, March, and April—the month the accident happened.
Four weeks in the body cast and counting. Now I know why they call sick people by the word “patient.” The patient has to have patience. Wait and wait and wait and not lose hope.
It feels good to cross off the days on the calendar. When May passes, I’ll tear it off and that will feel good too. And then June and July, those months will come, and they will pass, so many months. Maybe in August I will get my body cast off? I hope, I hope, I hope.
It’s a Sunday morning and the sun is just coming out when I open my eyes. The light streams in from the window that’s behind my bed and feels like a golden cape around my shoulders. I lie in bed, stare at the ceiling. I need to pee, but I hold it in. I don’t want to bother Mami. She’s sleeping and I feel bad making her get up to bring me the bedpan.
When Izzie wakes up and jumps out of bed, I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. He rushes to the living room to wake up Mami and Papi, cuddling with them on the sofa bed until they’re ready to get up. I hear them giggling and laughing. They forget all about me.
Then Mami comes rushing, like an alarm went off in her head, and she remembers she has a daughter who can’t leave her bed. She brings the bedpan and a basin of water for me to wash my hands. After I’m done, she and Papi and Izzie eat breakfast in the dining room while I eat from a tray that sits on top of my cast. It’s a little lonely eating by myself, but I’m getting better at balancing the tray and keeping my food from spilling all over the place.
Then Izzie comes to say good-bye. He’s wearing his patched-up pants and a T-shirt, no jacket.
“Must be nice outside now.”
“Yeah, it’s nice,” he says. “There are flowers all over the place. Too bad we can’t walk on the grass or I’d bring you one.”
“That’s okay, Izzie. You enjoy looking at them,” I say.
“I promise, Roofie, I’ll look at them a lot, a lot, a lot!”
That makes me smile. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. It’s not his fault I broke my leg.
“See you later, Roofie!” he says and he’s out the door.
Papi comes in next. He’s dressed in black slacks and a red shirt and a red cap that says “Avis Rent-a-Car.”
“Where are you going, Papi?”
“I have to go to work, Ruti. Just for a couple of hours.”
“Do you have a new job, Papi?”
“Sí, mi hija, I am starting today. I’ll get to decide what cars to give people. If they don’t make a face when I speak English, they’ll get a nice car. If they act like they can’t understand me, I’ll give them the worst car they have at Avis.”
Papi and I laugh.
“That’s funny, Papi. But now you work every day, Monday to Sunday!”
“We need a little extra money, mi hija. The good thing is that in this glorious country there’s plenty of work for everybody!”
He bends his head so I can give him a kiss on his cheek.
“Now give your papi a big hug.”
I reach my arms up as high as I can and hug him around the neck, smelling his familiar Old Spice.
“Bye, Papi!”
Everyone is always leaving. And I am always saying good-bye since I can’t go anywhere.
My bed is my island; my bed is my prison; my bed is my home.
Hands soapy from washing dishes, Mami pops her head in. “You have company! Your zeide is here.”
When he appears in the doorway, I yell out, “Yay, Zeide! Come in!”
Zeide’s green eyes shine when he sees me. He often brings me a gift, something unusual, like a key chain with a Gumby hanging from it, or a crinkly fan with a picture of an old-fashioned lady in an evening gown.
This time he brings me a big bottle of prune juice, pours a glass for me, and drops in a straw.
“Why are you giving me juice?” I ask.
“Es muy bueno,” he replies. “It will help you.” He gulps down a glassful to show me how tasty it is.
“I don’t want to drink that, Zeide. It doesn’t look good.”
“Try it, you’ll like it. Just a l
ittle,” he says in his whispery gentle voice.
I sip some of the prune juice just to please Zeide. But I can’t get it down my throat. It’s the yuckiest thing I’ve ever tasted.
I spit some out, and a big black blob lands on the white blouse Mami washed and ironed for me.
“Sorry, Zeide,” I whimper, ready to cry. Staining my white blouse with my spit-out juice makes me feel like the grossest person in the world.
Mami comes marching in, furious. “Why didn’t you drink the prune juice?” she says.
“I don’t like it.”
“You need to poop or you’re going to explode! It’s been two weeks since you’ve made caca.”
“Mami, don’t use that word. It’s embarrassing!”
“Caca, caca, caca. You have to make caca!” she shouts.
She’s gotten good at turning me on my stomach. Before I know what’s happening, she’s reached for the pole between my legs and flipped me over.
“Wait! Tell Zeide to leave. I don’t want him to see!”
“I’m going out, Ruti, don’t worry,” Zeide says in his whispery gentle voice.
Mami slips something inside my butt that feels like a stick of butter.
“Stop, Mami, stop!” I scream.
“You have to poop! Everyone has to poop!”
My insides start gurgling. “Oh no, get the bedpan! Turn me around! Fast!”
Mami flips me on my back again, and I can’t stop the black liquid from pouring out of my body. It’s a stinky, stinky river.
“You’ve held it in for weeks! Why can’t you wait a minute now?” Mami yells. She goes running out of the room and runs back with the bedpan.
But it’s too late. The sheets will have to be changed. Mami puts the bedpan underneath me anyway.
“Change the sheets,” I cry. “Mami, please!”
“I will, in a minute,” Mama says and sighs as she turns to leave.
I hear Mami and Zeide talking in the living room.
“I try my best, Papá. Sometimes I just reach my limit.”
“Ruti is a good girl, but she’s suffering, and you’re suffering too, with her.”
“Papá, I know I shouldn’t say this, but I feel like I’m going crazy being cooped up all day in this tiny apartment, like I am in prison.”
“I know, mi hija, I know. But it is not Ruti’s fault. She is stuck in here all day too, wishing she could walk and run like all children do.”
“I don’t know how we are going to survive this, Papá.”
“As the saying goes, ‘No hay mal que dure cien años.’”
I translate the words I just heard: There’s no pain that can last a hundred years. That better be true!
Then I hear Mami respond sadly, “I hope you’re right, Papá.”
I smell the sugary Cuban coffee Mami must be making, hear the china cups tinkle in their saucers. If I could, I’d run to the living room and fling the coffee cups out of their hands. But I can’t do anything except lie in my poop and wait.
Finally Mami returns. She enters the room and whips the dirty sheets off the bed. She gives me a wet towel to scrub myself as she lifts me with the pole. Then she brings a basin with soap and water, and I wash my hands. Finally she puts clean sheets on the bed, stretching the cloth tightly at the four corners.
As she gathers the dirty sheets, she looks at me like I’m the most disgusting creature in the world. An animal. A pig.
“I’m sorry, Mami, I’m really sorry.”
Mami doesn’t answer. She walks out carrying the dirty sheets.
She doesn’t come back for a long time. I am thirsty. I want water. I am lonely. But I know better than to ask Mami for anything when she’s tired of me. I promise myself I won’t call her even if I have to wait hours and hours.
I open up the book of Hans Christian Andersen stories and read the words I know by heart: “Far out in the ocean, where the water is as blue as the prettiest cornflower, and as clear as crystal, it is very, very deep . . .” Oh, if only I could swim in the ocean like the little mermaid, then I wouldn’t mind my cast so much.
It’s late in the day when Mami comes back to my room, bringing me lunch on a tray—an open-faced grilled cheese sandwich, with just one slice of bread, an apple cut in wedges, and a glass of water.
She has taken a shower and is wearing a satiny blouse the color of sea coral and a tight skirt, lipstick as red as hibiscus flowers, and high heels with open toes, as if she were going someplace fancy, not stuck at home with a daughter who can’t get out of bed.
“Gracias, Mami,” I say in my sweetest voice. “You look beautiful.”
She just barely nods.
“Mami, do you still love me?”
“Of course I still love you,” she snaps. She looks sadder than ever.
I know Mami has to love me. I’m her daughter. And I wish she didn’t have to be shut up in the house with me all day too.
I want her to go out. I want the world to look at her. She’s too pretty to be trapped in a cage. The only problem is, if Mami leaves me, I’ll die, and I don’t want to die. I want to grow up. I want to travel the world and wander in sand dunes and climb to the top of snowcapped mountains. I’ll visit cities that have beautiful names like Ipanema and Kyoto. I’ll do so much.
Someday . . .
In the meantime, I’m just a girl going nowhere.
they come to see the little piggy in the barn
Instead of going out for a picnic in the park or a roller coaster ride in Coney Island on the weekends, the whole family comes to visit me now. So do all of Mami and Papi’s old friends from Cuba. Mami leads them into the bedroom. And Izzie buzzes around, saying, “Can I show them? Let me show them!”
They come to see the little piggy in the barn. Oink, oink, I want to say as they enter. They smile for half a second. Then their faces get droopy when they have a look at me. “How are you, Ruti?” they ask, concern in their eyes.
I try to smile and act like I don’t mind being stuck in bed. “I feel great,” I tell them. “I’m getting to read lots of books! And I’m a whiz at crossword puzzles now!”
“Very nice, Ruti.”
No one knows what else to say.
The men put their arms around the women’s shoulders and edge them toward the door. They don’t look back. They are relieved when they leave the icky barn where the little piggy girl lives.
I can tell Baba is the one who suffers the most when she sees me. She is still taking a pill every night to be able to sleep. If not, she has terrible nightmares and screams, “Help, help!” and wakes up Zeide.
She worries that my broken leg is all her fault because I was asleep on her lap when the accident happened. She’s convinced if she’d only held on to me tighter I might not have gotten hurt.
“Shayna maideleh, shayna maideleh,” Baba says over and over, brushing away tears as she enters the room. I like hearing her call me “beautiful girl,” but I don’t like to see her cry.
I tell Baba it’s not her fault. Whenever she comes, I ask her to sing to me so we can forget the bad things that have tried to rob us of our happiness.
My favorite song is a Cuban lullaby, and I love the way Baba sings it with a whisper of a Yiddish accent.
Esta niña linda
que nació de día
quiere que la lleven
a la dulcería.
This pretty little girl
who was born by day
wants to get taken
to the candy store.
“Baba, please tell me the story of how you got from Poland to Cuba.”
“But you’ve heard that story many times,” she says.
“I know, but I want to hear it again.”
Baba pushes the chair closer to my bed. She takes my hand and begins telling me the story, “Ay, ay, ay,
shayna maideleh, what a time that was. If you can imagine, I was only eighteen. It was 1925 when I said good-bye to my family and took a train from Warsaw to Rotterdam. Then I boarded a big ship.”
“What was it like, Baba, to travel all by yourself? Were you very scared?”
“I was scared, of course. I had never traveled before, on either a train or a ship! The train was crowded with lots of sweaty people, but I thought for sure it would be romantic to be on a ship at sea. But no, that ship carried cows and sheep and goats and a few people. It was like Noah’s ark.”
“Did the trip seem very long to you?”
“Days and days at sea—I thought we’d never arrive. I missed my family and didn’t know if I’d ever see them again. I was going to a strange land where I didn’t know anyone. There was the ocean on all sides, endless, and the smell of salt and brine was so strong all the food tasted like a sour pickle.
“Then one day a seagull flapped its wings near us. We were close to land, and soon we reached the shores of the beautiful island of Cuba. I began a new life. I tasted fruits I never knew existed, like mango and papaya. The sweetness of pineapples seemed a gift from heaven. And the people were kind. No one said a bad word to me because I was Jewish. I met your zeide, and together we worked and brought my mamá and papá and my brothers and sisters from Poland to Cuba. We were so happy.”
Baba is quiet for some time. Then she rubs her eyes, holding back the tears, not able to let go of all the sadness she carries with her.
“If we hadn’t gone to Cuba, we would not be here talking today,” Baba tells me. “Cuba saved us from Hitler and the war. When you were born, our first grandchild, you were a gift of hope. We thought our home would always be in Cuba . . . and then we had to leave Cuba and come here to New York. I have been a refugee not once but twice. But somehow we found the strength to start from nothing a second time.”
“And now we’re happy, aren’t we, Baba? Like Papi says, we’re in a free country.”
“Oh, shayna maideleh, I tell you, we are—but I won’t be at peace until you are out of this cast and able to walk.”