But they weren’t with us. I looked across the street at the hospital, at the window where I’d seen Mami. It was tiny and far away.
A few days later, after breakfast, Tía Angélica said, “Sylvia, tomorrow is Mami’s birthday. Will you help me make a cake for her?”
I hadn’t known we could have a birthday celebration with Laura still in the hospital. “Let’s make a strawberry cake,” I said. “That’s Mami’s favorite.” And Mami would have to come home to eat it, I thought.
Tía Angélica told me that Mami wouldn’t leave Laura, even on her birthday. But Papá could take the cake to her as a surprise.
The next day was Saturday, so Papá didn’t go to work. Right after breakfast, my aunt and I baked a strawberry cake with pink frosting and strawberries on top. It was the first cake I had ever made, and I was very proud. By the time Papá got up, the cake was ready.
“Your mother will like it,” he told me. Instead of taking the entire cake to Mami at the hospital, he suggested taking her a big slice. But didn’t he know that one slice wouldn’t be enough?
“You have to take two pieces, one for Mami and one for Laura,” I reminded him. My father only nodded, and I didn’t understand why his eyes were filled with tears.
While my father ate his breakfast, Tía Angélica cut two big slices of cake. She put them on a plate and covered them with aluminum foil. The sticky frosting clung to the foil.
After he ate, my father got ready to leave for the hospital, but he forgot to take the cake with him. Luckily, I noticed before he had pulled out of the driveway. When he saw me running out the front door, he stopped the car. I gave him the plate with the cake, and he placed it carefully beside him on the passenger’s seat. “Tell Mami I said Feliz cumpleaños, happy birthday,” I told him, and he nodded.
As Papá drove away from the house, I sat on the front step and cried. I missed my mother so much, and now I wouldn’t even see her eat her birthday cake. My aunt came outside and sat down next to me. She hugged me close as we watched my father turn the corner and drive out of sight. Laura was still sick, and Mami was with her, and there was nothing else we could do.
Tía Angélica
Mami
Chapter 4
She’s Not the Same
I didn’t see Mami at all on her birthday. That night, Papá came home from the hospital and told me how much she liked her cake. Tía Angélica served us big slices after dinner, and it was delicious. “Did Laura like it?” I asked Papá. But he didn’t answer me, leaving the table instead.
I started to go after Papá, but Tía Angélica shook her head. “Laura’s still too sick to eat,” she said.
I thought about Mami eating her birthday cake while Laura lay in bed, not even hungry.
During the three long weeks that Laura was in the hospital, I saw my mother only a few times, when she came home to change her clothes. I thought the hospital rule that said Mario and I were too young to visit was stupid. My aunt sometimes took me to the hospital during the day, but I had to stay in the waiting area while she visited Mami and Laura. My aunt was always sad when she came back, but she would tell me that Laura was a little better.
Mami refused to leave my sister alone at the hospital, so if she wanted to make a visit home, someone else, usually Hermana Díaz, had to stay with Laura. Papá would pick up Hermana Díaz at the church, drive her to the hospital, then drive Mami home.
Mami always hugged Mario and me when she arrived for these brief visits, but she seemed so sad and worried. She would retreat to her bedroom to shower and change clothes, and I would hear her crying behind the closed door. I wanted to help, the way I’d helped to look after Laura before she was sick, but what could I do? I didn’t even dare open the bedroom door.
Like my mother, my father was worried and upset, but he still had to go to his job, and every evening after work he would visit Mami and Laura in the hospital. During those long weeks, Tía Angélica kept us fed and clothed.
One Sunday while Laura was in the hospital, my Abuelito Mario came to visit us. It had been a long time since we’d seen our grandfather at his home in El Paso. Now he was coming to our house. Before he arrived, my father was waiting outside, looking up and down the street, checking his watch every few minutes. I had never seen him so nervous and apprehensive.
Finally, a car pulled up, and my grandfather and another man got out. My abuelito didn’t like to drive, so a friend had brought him to our house. Papá invited Abuelito Mario and his friend inside, but his father shook his head. He was snappily dressed, and he even was wearing a fedora.
Tía Angélica had made the living room look festive, with pretty lace doilies on the backs of the sofa and chairs. When my grandfather wouldn’t come into the house, she brought cookies, coffee, and a fruit drink outside on a tray, and Mario and I helped ourselves to the cookies.
Usually when we had visitors, they stayed for a long time, talking with the grownups, eating and telling stories. My brother and I had been eager to show our grandfather our bedrooms and the yard, but after just a few minutes, Abuelito said it was time to visit my mother and Laura at the hospital.
Before he left, Abuelito Mario gruffly reminded my brother, his namesake, to do well in school. I was a little scared of him, but I hugged him goodbye, and like a flash, he was gone, taking my father with him.
Mario and I helped my aunt carry the dishes back to the kitchen. “I wanted to show him my model planes,” Mario said.
“Why was Abuelito’s visit so short?” I asked my aunt.
“He wanted to see Laura and Mami, and maybe he was in a hurry to get back to El Paso,” said Tía Angélica. Later, she said he might have been worried that he would get sick like Laura did, but if that were true, then why did he visit her in the hospital?
I was sorry that my grandfather hadn’t stayed longer and disappointed that he had not spent more time with Mario and me. It was clear that my father idolized his father, and Abuelito Mario was a smart man and usually seemed to care for us when we were around him. But unlike my grandmothers, who were part of our extended family, my grandfather remained more like a visitor. That single trip was the only time he ever traveled the forty-five miles to Las Cruces to see his oldest son or daughter and their families. After that, if we wanted to see him, we had to visit him in El Paso.
One evening, several days after my abuelito’s visit, my father announced, “Mami and Laura will be home tomorrow.”
“Is Laura all well again?” I asked.
Papá didn’t answer me for a minute. “She’s starting to get better,” he finally said. “You and Mario will have to help her.”
Word spread up and down Griggs Street, and a few people arrived with food for our family. Mami had given away Laura’s crib several months earlier, but when the neighbor who had it heard that Laura was coming home, she returned it. I made sure that Cucá was waiting in the crib.
The next day was Saturday. After breakfast, my father drove to the hospital and brought our mother and little sister home. He carried Laura into the house and laid her in her crib while my mother drew the shades in every room. She hung towels over the shades in our bedroom to make sure that no light came in. At first, Laura was asleep, but even when she woke up, she didn’t seem to notice us.
The hospital had given Laura a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses to protect her eyes. “Laura,” I called softly, trying to see behind the glasses. “Laura-ca-louda, Laura-ca-louda.” But she looked straight past me as if I weren’t there, the way she had on the day she’d gotten sick. Still, I thought, at least she wasn’t burning hot now like she had been then.
In a sad voice, Mami explained that Laura’s vision had been affected by the illness.
“Will she get better?” I asked her.
Mami said she didn’t know. It was too soon to tell if Laura would ever see again.
Now the shades were always drawn, and our joyful home was dark and somber. Our mother no longer sang, no longer twirled us around the kitch
en to the music on the radio. She was too sad to play with me or chatter while she cooked or cleaned. After Mario went to school in the mornings, I didn’t know what to do. The house was too quiet, and after one attempt, I had stopped going to Hermana Díaz for lessons while my sister was in the hospital.
I didn’t realize then that some of my mother’s friends refused to visit us because they were afraid of catching Laura’s illness. We’d see them at church, but they wouldn’t come over to say hello. When Mami told Papá after church that not everyone would speak to us, he’d just shake his head.
Before Laura got sick, it was my job to look after her while Mami washed the dishes and cleaned the house. Now, my mother was ever vigilant, moving Laura’s crib to whatever room she was in, never letting her out of her sight.
I’d peer over the side of the crib and talk to Laura, but she wasn’t interested in me or in the things we used to do. I couldn’t even see her eyes behind her dark glasses. Many times, Mami would leave the room in tears because her daughter didn’t seem to recognize her. She did that only if Tía Angélica was there, though. Mami did not leave Laura alone with me, the way she had before.
I knew Laura couldn’t see, but I had trouble imagining what that was like. I would walk around with my eyes closed, but I’d always bump into a wall or chair. My eyes would pop open, and right away, I could see again. Laura didn’t seem to notice if I came into the room, didn’t look at me until I said her name. And even when I spoke, she didn’t always notice.
One day, Mami said, “Laura” as she fed her a spoonful of mashed bananas, and Laura looked at her, her eyes wide.
“Laura,” I repeated, and my sister turned her head in my direction. Could she see me, or was she just responding to my voice? It was hard to tell, but I thought she met my eyes.
It took a little time before we were sure, but soon I could hold a doll out to Laura without saying anything, and she would reach for it. Now we knew she wasn’t blind.
Even after Laura could see again, she was still so quiet. She would clutch her doll and stare at me without saying anything. She had stopped chattering in English and Spanish, stopped running after Mario and me. My little sister couldn’t even walk anymore. Instead, she’d sit on the floor in her diaper and slowly pull herself forward with her legs and ankles.
Every day in the living room, Mami and Tía Angélica would spend hours singing and talking to Laura as they moved her arms and legs, hoping this would help her do the things she had done before she was sick.
Whenever Mami left the room, Tía Angélica stepped right in, crouching behind Laura and gently lifting her to her feet, encouraging her to walk. My aunt would turn on the radio and sing to Laura as they circled the wooden floor, Tía Angélica holding Laura upright and moving her little legs. “Sing and don’t cry, lovely sky.” Tía Angélica would sing her love songs, such as “Cielito lindo,” and sometimes I’d sing too.
Over many long months, Laura began to walk and talk again, but she had changed. She still loved being around people, but she struggled to connect with them, to understand what they were saying. During these early months, she would hold Cucá tightly and stare at us, as if trying to figure out what was wrong. Mario and I would dance and sing in front of Laura’s crib, hoping to get her to respond. Before she was sick, she loved to stand up, holding the side rail, watching us and laughing. Now, no matter what we did, she just lay quietly.
With Laura home from the hospital, my father returned to his routines: his job and his visits to the library, to his sister and mother across town, and to his father in El Paso. As far as he was concerned, his little girl had survived a terrible sickness and was on her way to recovery.
But Papá no longer went to church. Before Laura got sick, Papá had been a lay minister and leader of our church choir. After Laura’s illness, he felt betrayed that so many members of the congregation, instead of rallying around our family, stayed away from our home for fear of catching meningitis. He never really explained why he quit going to church, but he never went back. Even later, when I was older, I never knew if it was because he’d been bothered by the behavior of other members of our church, or if his faith itself was shaken by Laura’s illness. He simply never talked about such things.
One friend who visited faithfully was Hermana Díaz. During her recovery, Laura had to take a lot of medicine, and she would cry and resist every time. When no one else could get her to eat and swallow her medicine, Hermana Díaz was able to coax her with a blend of kindness and firmness. For the first time, I saw how my teacher’s strictness—and her generous heart—could be helpful. After several weeks, I was relieved when Mami let me resume my lessons with her. With all that had happened, my mother had forgotten for a time that Hermana Díaz was teaching me. I was so happy to be once again learning my letters and numbers in English in the little classroom inside the church.
Though our family and most of our friends wished to make things easier for us, my mother remained very sad for a long time. She blamed herself for Laura’s illness and in some ways felt it was a form of God’s punishment, even though she knew that others had gotten sick too and that the illness was caused by a microscopic organism. She knew those things, but she still couldn’t help blaming herself.
Laura had been the one of us whose personality most resembled my mother’s. Over time, it became clear that her illness had permanently affected her brain. The little girl who loved to learn, to dance, to run after the neighborhood children, to read books and chatter endlessly, was different now.
Mami was the first to realize that Laura would not fully recover, and she was frustrated that my father didn’t seem to understand. “No entiendes. Ella está cambiada,” she would tell Papá. You don’t get it. She is changed. As far as Mami was concerned, she had lost her youngest child, almost as if Laura had died from her illness. In the Mexican way of not wanting bad news to be true, she treated Laura as normally as possible, but Mami was inconsolable.
As for my father, he just kept going to work. With a family to support, what else could he do?
Even while she remained grief stricken, my mother began to take action. She reasoned that if she had been able to drive on the day Laura became ill, she could have gotten to the hospital more quickly.
Earlier, my father had resisted letting my mother learn how to drive and become more independent. At the time, it was unusual for women in our community to drive, and as the head of our household, Papá felt that it was natural that he would be the only driver in our family.
One night after dinner, with steel in her voice, Mami informed Papá that she would be taking lessons to get her driver’s license. “Then, I will be using the car during the day when you are at work,” she said.
I had never heard my mother speak in such a tone. My father protested, but Mami had thought of every possible objection. Since we had only one car, she told my father that she would get up early and drive him to the bus that took employees to the missile range. She would use the family car during the day and pick him up in the evening.
In the end, Papá didn’t forbid Mami to take driving lessons. “Driving is harder than it looks,” he warned her. My mother didn’t answer him—but we all knew she didn’t have to. Mami had gotten what she wanted, and now it was up to her to show Papá that she could learn to drive the car.
My mother had hired someone to teach her how to drive while my father was at work. The next day after lunch, a car arrived at our home, and as Tía Angélica, Laura, and I watched, the driving teacher moved to the passenger’s seat, and Mami climbed behind the wheel. Slowly and carefully, she drove away, returning an hour later looking tired but triumphant.
Soon Mami passed the test and came home with her driver’s license. She was still sad about Laura, so she didn’t celebrate the achievement with her former exuberance. She acted like this was something she had to do, so she did it.
I think my father had not believed she would really go through with it. But early the next morning
, Mami was ready to drive Papá to the checkpoint where he could catch the bus to the White Sands Missile Range. She made sure he was up early, too.
Even as a child I could see that things had changed between my parents. Instead of their former playful small talk, there was awkward silence. They were both sad, but they didn’t seem to know how to be sad together. I wanted them to be happy again, to laugh and joke with each other—and with us. I wouldn’t understand for a long time that Laura’s illness had altered my parents’ relationship, and things never would go back to the way they had been before.
My mother looked around at the dirt streets surrounding our home, at the tiny, rundown houses, at the cramped yards and the feral dogs. She knew that the meningitis outbreak had been confined to our neighborhood. If there was another epidemic, she was certain it would begin here too. And while the city did little to protect the people who lived on Griggs Street, she would protect her family. Even though she loved our community, Mami made up her mind: it might take her some time to find us a new home, but we would have to live somewhere else.
Laura, age three, after she recovered her sight
Chapter 5
A Head Start and a Library Card
In the long months after Laura came home from the hospital, my mother continued to be very sad. I would hold Laura and help take care of her, but she didn’t play the way she had before. Even though she wasn’t sick anymore, she spent most of her time sitting quietly, holding her doll. She watched me and Mario, but she didn’t try to play with us, didn’t imitate everything we did. She wouldn’t repeat the words I said or try to sing along with Mami. Worse than that was the way Mami acted—distracted and uninterested in me, in our community, in other people.
Path to the Stars Page 4