by Ruth Behar
When I walk home from school with Danielle, she says, “Ruthie, one day you’re going to be a teacher, you’re so smart.”
But as we pass the sidewalk where we used to play hopscotch, I grow sad.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever play hopscotch again, though.”
“Of course you will, Ruthie!”
“You can play if you want to, Danielle. I won’t mind. Really.”
Danielle shakes her head. “No, chérie. I am your friend and I do not want to play hopscotch until you can play.”
We sit down on a bench in the park next to our buildings, joining the old ladies who go to the beauty parlor once a week and protect their hairdos with hairnets kept in place with bobby pins.
Izzie, Dennis, Lily, and the other kids on our block play tag or toss a ball around. They’ve thrown their jackets and schoolbooks to the ground and are all chirping like little birds with delight.
“Danielle, go play.”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
“I have an idea. Danielle, you go play and I’ll draw a picture of you.”
I have a notepad and some colored pencils in my bag and I start to draw. Danielle is so elegant that her hair stays in place as she runs. She’s fast. The other kids can’t keep up with her. And she’s graceful, like a greyhound, so I draw her face and dark eyes but give her the body of that dog with long sleek legs.
Every couple of minutes, she returns to my side, looking concerned.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to be here with you?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” I assure her. “Go. I can keep drawing.”
She runs off but looks back to make sure I’m drawing.
When she’s done playing, she comes over and I show her my drawing.
“This is for you, Danielle.”
“Très jolie!” she says. “Merci.”
“I hope you won’t ever get tired of being my friend,” I say.
“Of course not, chérie. We are true friends and that is for life.”
The sun seems to shine so brightly as Danielle says those words to me.
you can’t hug the wall forever
I hear Amara arrive. As usual, she has a cafecito first with Mami in the kitchen. Then Amara calls out, “Okay, Ruthie, time to get to work!”
I hop over to greet Amara, proud of how nimbly I amble about on my crutches. She reaches over and snatches the left crutch out of my left hand.
“Okay, you’re done with that. Time to transition to just one crutch.”
“Wait! Why do you always like to surprise me?”
“Because I know you pretty well by now, girl, and unless I catch you off guard, you won’t try anything new.”
“But I’m used to two crutches! It’s not fair!” I wail.
“Girl, listen, all you have to do is balance on your left leg and on the crutch that’s in your right hand. Now take a step forward with your right leg. That leg is healed. It’s stronger than it was before you broke it.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
She darts toward me and grabs hold of my right leg and pulls it forward. In order not to topple over, I end up putting my weight on that leg, the broken leg.
“You did it, girl,” she says. “Bingo!”
For a second I can manage. A second later I get scared. Amara slides a chair under me just in time.
“Why did you make me do that? I wasn’t ready.”
“Don’t be angry at me, Ruthie. You took a step, your very first step. You’re learning to walk all over again. Just like a baby.”
After a week, I get used to being a three-legged creature.
Then Amara comes back the next time and says, “Give me that crutch. You need to start walking on your own.”
“Please, Amara, not yet.”
“You’ll get too used to the crutch and it will be harder to wean you off of it. Let me see . . . Here, I have an idea.” She stretches out her arms toward me. “Hold on. Pretend I’m a rope.”
“I’m scared. I don’t want to break my leg again!”
“Oh, girl! You have so many fears you could make a merry-go-round spin in circles for days. I know you’ve been through a lot. But trust me, you can do this. I won’t let you fall.”
I grab hold of Amara’s strong arms, clinging for dear life with both my hands as she edges herself backward. I go skidding forward like I’m on a sheet of ice.
“Okay, it’s a start. Take a rest and give it another try tomorrow when you wake up. Promise?”
“Sure,” I say.
But next morning I reach for my crutch and don’t let go of it all day. And the same thing happens the next morning and the next and the next.
Amara is disappointed in me again.
“I thought by now you’d have thrown that crutch in the incinerator.”
“Please don’t take it away,” I beg.
“Sometimes you have to dive before you swim. I think you know that by now. Come, let’s go out into the hallway.”
I follow Amara out of the apartment. Suddenly she turns and snatches the crutch from my hand.
“If you want it, come and get it!” she declares and sprints to the other end of the hallway.
“Amara, give me my crutch!”
“Come on, kid, you can do it. Step by step.”
On shaky legs, I inch myself back until I reach the wall. Leaning against the wall, I feel safe. I keep inching sideways until I get to where Amara is standing.
“Good start,” Amara says, “but you can’t lean against the wall forever. Leave the wall and walk over to me.” She steps into the middle of the hallway and spreads out her arms. “Here, come here.”
“Please. Not today.”
“Girl, just try.”
“I can’t! I give up! I don’t care! I want to go back to bed and be an invalid for the rest of my life!!”
I turn to the wall and spread out my arms, trying to hug the wall. Right then a door opens next to me.
It’s Chicho!
“You’re back at last. I’m so happy to see you!”
“Mi cielo, what’s going on here?” he asks. “Looks like you’re walking, how wonderful! Do you two want to come in? It’s a bit of a mess in the apartment. I got back last night and just woke up. I’m still unpacking. I brought back beautiful things from Mexico.”
“Chicho, I was beginning to worry you were gone for good.”
“Ruti, I cried a lot in Mexico, but I decided to leave all my tears there and return to New York. My father left money for me. And I’m going to do what I’ve always wanted—go to art school. I’ll start classes in the fall! Isn’t that exciting? But, Ruti, look at you! No more crutches, right? ¡Qué bueno!”
“Amara just took away my crutches so I’m sort of walking. The thing is I’m afraid to walk on my own. But I can walk if I lean against the wall.”
Chicho smiles and winks at me playfully. “That’s nice of you, mi corazón, to be such good friends with the wall. I’m sure the wall is very grateful for your friendship.”
He makes me laugh when he says that. But I still feel upset at myself. “I need to be able to walk without using the wall. Why can’t I be brave?”
“Everything takes time. When you put a seed in the ground, the flower doesn’t sprout right away. It takes sunshine and rain and many months in the soil for the seedling to turn into a plant and for the plant to blossom. You are about to blossom. I have an idea. Would you come in?” And he turns to Amara. “You too, please.”
Chicho throws open the door and I inch forward, leaning against the walls of his apartment.
“What do you think of my walls, mi amor? I painted them blue and green, like the colors of Veracruz, my hometown, which is next to the ocean.”
“I like them, Chicho!”<
br />
“Now look up. What do you see?”
“Chicho, they’re piñatas!”
“That’s right, mija. I loved piñatas as a child. It was always the best part of all the birthday parties. So I thought why not have piñatas all around me? That way I can look at them all the time. I think they’re works of art too, don’t you?”
“Yes, Chicho, yes! Will you let me have one for my birthday?”
“Of course, of course. Ándale. You can have any piñata you like!”
“Chicho, what’s that in the living room? Don’t you have a sofa?”
“Those are hammocks, mi cielo. I decided sofas were too boring and uncomfortable, so I strung up hammocks. When friends come over, we swing ourselves around, and if we get tired, we can go to sleep as happily as babies.”
He flips on the record player. “Listen to this.”
The music comes on. A man sings in Spanish. He sounds like he’s stuck in the rain and his clothes are soaked and he has nowhere to go and warm his bones.
“That’s Carlos Gardel. Beautiful, isn’t it? Tango.”
“Why is it so sad?” I ask.
“The tango is music for those who are sad. The tango is music to help you cry. So you can let go of your sadness. Then you can be happy again.”
“I don’t want to cry. I want to be brave.”
“I understand, mija. But crying can help sometimes. The tango is also a dance. Women and men embrace each other and they dance all night, as if time didn’t exist.”
He smiles and opens his arms. “Can I show you?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
Amara whispers gently, “Girl, trust me. Your leg is healed.”
“Mi cielo, listen to your nurse. She wants only the best for you. Now, if you’ll give me a hug, I’ll give you a hug, and we can dance the tango,” Chicho says. “You can even close your eyes, if you want. I’ll lead you.”
“Okay.” I take a deep breath and step into Chicho’s arms.
“Just follow,” Chicho says. “When I walk forward, you go backward. And when I walk back, you go forward.”
Somehow, with Chicho holding me, I glide like a swan. Am I dancing? Sleepwalking? I close my eyes, swaying to the rhythm of that sad music. Tears are slipping down my cheeks, tears that are a river, a river flowing into the sea that surrounds Cuba, and I’m a little girl again in the streets of Havana, lifted by the breeze into the air. The dark, dusty world departs beneath me; and I look down and see my body cast, gleaming white from my waist to my toes, the way it did when they first put it on me. But now the cast is my feathery bird’s tail and I am using it to soar higher and higher.
The music plays, and I listen to the words in Spanish and translate them to English in my head, such sad words:
El día que me quieras . . .
Florecerá la vida
No existirá el dolor.
The day you love me . . .
Life will flower again
There will be no pain.
I don’t notice when the song ends. I’m still floating in my dreams. I hear Chicho saying, “Niña linda, I’m going to let go of you, okay? All you have to do is pretend you have an invisible partner holding you up, and you’ll see, you’ll be able to walk by yourself.”
Chicho lets go and I extend my arms and touch the empty space around me, imagining him still there. Slowly I move forward, I don’t know how I do it, but my legs take me to the center of the room. Then I stop and look around, breathless, grateful, relieved, not holding on to anything, standing tall.
“Yay, Ruthie, yay!” Amara says, brushing away tears.
“Amara, don’t cry! You’re too tough to cry.”
“You’re right, girl, you’re right. But even tough girls cry sometimes. Like Chicho says, we cry to get stronger.”
Chicho cheers, “Bravo! I think this calls for a piñata right now. Why wait until your birthday? Here, mija, break this one.”
He runs to the kitchen and comes back with a broom. I reach up and hit the piñata. It’s a rainbow in the shape of an eight-pointed star. I hit it with the force of my whole body and break it on the first try.
I’m expecting candy to fall from the piñata, but no, it’s something light, like snow, except all different colors. Snowflakes like bits and pieces of rainbows fall quietly on our heads. It’s so pretty!
“What do you think, Ruti? I filled the piñata with confetti! Isn’t it nice?”
“Yes, Chicho! You’re covered with the confetti! And you too, Amara!”
Amara laughs. “Girl, look at yourself in the mirror. You’ve got enough confetti to last you a year.”
I turn to look at myself in the mirror that’s hanging over the dining table and that’s when I notice Chicho’s altar. In the center of the altar is the picture I made of little Avik, now in a wooden frame. There’s a candle glowing brightly next to the picture and a stick of sandalwood incense in the burner waiting to be lit.
I think Avik was looking out for me just now. Little Avik watched me take my first steps on my own.
I remember I’m wearing the necklace Ramu gave me. I never take it off. I rub it for a second and, under my breath, I say, “Gracias, Shiva, the dancing god, gracias.”
the broken girl says thank you
Walk back and forth,” Dr. Friendlich tells me. “I need to observe your gait.”
It’s embarrassing to be watched while I walk back and forth.
“Hmm,” he says as he peers at me over his glasses, his eyes showing concern. “Ruthie, I’m sending you to physical therapy to help you get over your limp. Three times a week. Sometimes that last quarter mile is the toughest. You see the finish line but you don’t know how you’re going to get there. But you’ve come a long way, Ruthie. I know you’ll make it to the finish line.”
“Thank you, Dr. Friendlich. I hope you’re right. I didn’t think so at first, but you’ve turned out to be the nicest doctor.”
“Thank you, Ruthie,” he says, smiling. “And I hope I’m right too. I did what I could to fix your leg. Now you have to believe it’s fixed.”
Can thoughts travel and reach even those who are far across the ocean? Dr. Friendlich told me I had to believe, and Ramu told me to try to have faith. So I am thinking of Ramu when a letter arrives from India in our mailbox in Queens.
Dear Ruthie,
How are you? Have you recovered yet from your broken leg? I hope so. Maybe by now you are playing hopscotch again?
I won’t pretend. The last few months have not been easy. We miss Avik. But we were able to bring his ashes to the Ganges and so we know his spirit is at rest.
Here in India we believe in reincarnation. That means Avik isn’t gone. He lives among us, in the air, the trees, the stones, the red earth.
I have a lot of family in India, more than a hundred cousins. I have lots of other children to play with.
My mother doesn’t watch over me here as she did in America. She trusts that someone will always look out for me, wherever I am. Maybe she has also realized that even if she guards over me like a hawk, terrible things can still happen, so she has loosened her grip and let me be free.
If you have a little time and feel like writing to an old school chum, send me a letter, please. I would just like to know that you are well. Write and say “I am well” and that will be enough.
Your friend,
Ramu
P.S. Every time I eat guava fruit here in India, I remember your mother’s guava pastry that you gave me to taste once in the cafeteria. Guavas are so common here. But in Queens they seemed so rare—like water in the desert.
Dear Ramu,
It’s funny, I was thinking a lot about you and Avik, and your letter came. Brain waves? Magic? I don’t know. But I’m so happy you wrote to me. I’ve been wondering about you.
There’s a ver
y nice man from Mexico living in your old apartment. His name is Chicho. He has an altar where he keeps a candle for Avik and a picture of Avik that I painted. While I was in the cast, I started making pictures. When I grow up, I want to be an artist. The first picture I made was of Avik. I’ll always remember his sweet face.
I also have started to write down stories and hope maybe I can be a writer too. My mother says I have big dreams. But I think if your dreams are small they can get lost, like trying to find a needle in a haystack. (I just learned this funny American expression!) When a dream is big, you can see it better and hold on to it.
I’ve almost recovered. I can finally walk on both legs. But I can’t jump or run so I can’t play hopscotch. I have a terrible limp. I seesaw as I walk. Like the old ladies in the park!
The doctor says the limp should go away, but it might take a long time. Or maybe I’ll always limp. Until I stop limping, we won’t know for sure if putting the cast on both my legs was worth it or not.
I’ve learned I’m a terrible scaredy-cat, Ramu. Everything has been hard for me—getting out of bed, learning to use crutches, going down the stairs, walking again.
Your friend,
Ruthie
P.S. I still wear the necklace you gave me. I pray to Shiva, and also to the god of my forefathers, and to Frida Kahlo, who is the guardian saint of wounded artists. Some people don’t think you should pray to more than one god, but I wonder how many people who say that have spent a year of their lives in a body cast and then tried to get up and walk again? Not many, I bet. So I don’t worry too much about what other people think. I am free to be me.
Dear God, Dear Shiva, and Dear Frida,
I am reaching out to all of you, first of all, to say thank you for listening to all my prayers and also to the prayers that others have made on my behalf.
You helped me survive a terrible experience. I know that all of you helped me to get through it.
And I am so lucky to have my family, my friends, and everyone who has cared for me.
I’m happy to be able to walk again. Even with my limp and ugly shoes.