by Ava Zavora
I wish I could spend the next four months asleep or hidden in a warm, watery world like my baby. I know I'm not alive. I only wake to eat and rarely venture from this house. I have let myself go. But I don't care at all.
I remember the night I drove home from LA and stopped by the beach next to the highway. I sat looking out into the sea, Alex’s betrayal playing over and over in my head. I should have walked straight to the water that night as I intended. It was dark, no one would have seen me. No one would have known for it was stormy that night. I and my unborn daughter would have perished quickly, swept out to the far sea. Perhaps fate would have taken pity on us and delivered us to some paradise afterworld.
I remember the girl I used to be. Why have I turned out to be this way? How?
Where has the day gone? Nighttime already? Alone time already? Where has my life gone?
May 26, 1987
I felt her move today! A strong kick to jolt me temporarily out of my sadness. Here, I am, she seemed to say. I’m a fighter, she was telling her mother. A mother. In less than four months I'll be a mother. Me, a child herself.
Mama and I started poring over baby name books after dinner, saying out loud each potential name to see how it will sound with Vasquez. She laughed at my long list of names, saying how I have months to choose. It has been the first time in a long time she's laughed. Even Papa seemed lighter, happier tonight. They don’t say so but I think they are getting excited with the prospect of a baby in the house. Their grandchild.
Whoever she is, she is the brightest and happiest thing in this house and she hasn’t even appeared yet.
June 17, 1987
The baby moves so much nowadays, so active and full of life, much more than I. For this I am glad. Not one word from Alex.
I suppose it’s obvious he wants no part of us, Serafina and me. We're on our own. I can accept the fact that it's over between us but not even to wonder.
What shall I tell my daughter when she starts asking questions? Will Sera blame me?
Serafina, my bright and burning angel. I write to you as if you are already here, as if you will someday read my words and understand. Whatever happens, I loved your father and he loved me, once.
June 23, 1987
Ma said it was all right for me to start buying things for the baby. So we went to the store. I never spent a more wonderful time buying things. I bought little shirts and jammies and booties and towels, a blanket, a little bonnet and cap... Oh it was so wonderful thinking that soon, in a few months, my baby will be wearing them. It's weird, anticipating a person to be.
However while waiting in line by myself, I was oohing and ahhing over my purchases when I look up and there's Alex's mom standing right in front of me. I opened my mouth to say hello but she turned around again. I knew she didn't want me to say hello to her, would have been happy if she and her friend had never seen me, seen my large belly, the baby clothes, all the evidence of her son’s refusal to accept responsibility.
I could have confronted her. Were I my old self, my defiant self, I would have. Instead I was imprisoned by my meekness, my silence. I haven’t any pride for accusations.
June 26, 1987
Last night, Alex's parents and my parents talked at their request, without me. Their purpose was to suggest the option of putting the baby up for adoption. Debbie had even found a couple among her friends who had desperately been trying to have a child and would be willing to adopt my baby.
My parents told them repeatedly that it was my decision and that although the circumstances of my pregnancy are unfortunate, they will welcome their grandchild when she arrives.
Debbie, Ma told me, seemed intent on finding a sign that this baby was unwanted. Both of them were silent when Ma firmly said that they and Alex were very much welcome to be a part of the baby's life.
It shouldn't have devastated me to find out that Alex’s parents don't want to be a part of the baby's life. They're so eager to give away this child. They look at me and the baby as just a stupid mistake on their son's part, a disgrace, as two insignificant details to be eradicated. I cry for Serafina, because I do want her, I do love her.
Does he know what his parents are proposing? Does he even care? I already know the answer, but still, in spite of everything, I hope.
If he only felt you growing inside of him, felt you moving, he wouldn't for a minute seriously consider giving you up.
They gave a letter to my parents, a letter from their friends, to give to me. There's a picture of a white couple attached. They looked nice and rich, with their expensive knitted matching sweaters and open smiles. The letter said that they’ve been trying for a child for years, that they were educated and would be able to provide a wonderful life for my child, lavish love and care. He’s a doctor and she's a homemaker who loves to bake chocolate chip cookies and banana bread. I stopped reading and murmured to Mama in a low voice-But I too bake chocolate chip cookies and banana bread and let the letter fall to the ground.
I know I should be angry that they've already made plans to give my child away and didn’t even have the courtesy to consult me, but again I'm too weak for anger.
July 2, 1987
I'm walking down the bank of the creek. It's eerily quiet except for my footsteps. It's twilight, the end of a very long day. There are only the tall weeds by the water, the leaves and overhanging branches to witness my farewell. I walk to the edge and peer down to the dim image on the surface. From the edge, I slowly walk to the center and wait until the ripples die out. I feel you moving inside me, my unborn daughter, and wonder what it would be like to just disappear.
I have thoughts of walking to the water, often. I would not want anyone to know.
Yesterday, Debbie told me stop calling their house, to stop harassing them. I just want to talk to Alex, I told her. I’m not going to let you ruin his life, she said.
What could I say to that? That such a thing was the last thing I would want, that all I wish is to hear his voice? I couldn’t even say to her, just tell him that I still love him, that I’ll wait for him. She told me that he won’t be home for the summer because he was in Connecticut with Natalie, his girlfriend.
No clever retorts from me, no witty comebacks, no fire, no spirit, just defeat. And stay away from Daniel, was the last thing she said to me before hanging up. I laughed at that, but she didn't hear me. I would have told her if she had stayed on, that there was no danger of that. Had she been there the day when Daniel came up to me and called me a whore and other hurtful names. I didn’t think he could be that cruel, but I deserved it, I guess. I loved you so much, Stella, he said, screaming at me with tears running down his face. I hated myself more once I saw how much I had hurt him. I'm poison to everyone.
July 26, 1987
I was looking back at old diary entries. How different my life was last year, my future so bright. All that I had ever wanted was so near that I could taste it---studying and living in New York, a career in the theater, dancing and singing and acting, traveling the world---every dream of mine glittering in front of me for the taking. It was not just my imagination.
None of my entries say that I was Ophelia in Hamlet last winter, that Mrs. O’Connell talked to Mama and Papa and said that I was born to perform and if I was so inclined, I could be a success in any art I chose to pursue. She even told me that the Shakespeare troupe wanted me again for this summer. No, I had so much but threw it all away for what I thought was true love.
Now I have nothing. New York is so far away that it might as well be in another universe. How can I go to school now when I’m about to have a baby? Esme and Kay are probably getting ready to go away to college. I wouldn’t know, neither have called. Everyone would rather forget that I exist.
I'm grotesque, obscene, swelling larger and larger every day. I can’t sleep well at all and I’m so tired all the time.
August 17, 1987
For my 18th birthday, I had the pleasure of having lunch with Debbie today. She didn’t k
now, of course, that it was my birthday, but how kind of her to take me out. I did take some effort to look presentable—I guess I'm not as down as I thought I was if I still care about my appearance.
I had hoped that she had come to talk about Alex, the baby. She wanted to talk about the baby, alright, but only to convince me to give it up for adoption. She kept saying “it” the whole time, even after I told her that “it” was going to be a girl and that her name will be Serafina. All the while smiling that stupid smile of the righteous and the ignorant. Did she think that she could persuade me over sandwiches and ice tea to give Alex’s daughter away?
It’s amazing to me how someone so seemingly “nice” can say such hurtful things, like when she told me that Alex doesn’t want this baby and that he shouldn’t be held accountable for my mistake—basically saying that I lured him and tried to trap him by becoming pregnant and even strongly hinting that I would be a terrible mother.
I had no defenses because I have to agree—I was supremely stupid in ever believing any promises that Alex made. How could I have believed it when he said he loved me?
She said everything she could to discourage me from keeping you, Serafina, even saying that Alex was such a difficult infant that she had cursed any child he would have.
I sat in shock, while she said this to me with a laugh, as if she was sharing an innocent joke. I covered my belly with my hands as soon as she said it and walked to the church afterwards, praying that you will be okay. Perhaps I was being paranoid, but I felt such waves of hatred from her and there was nothing I could do.
What can I do? I barely have enough strength to hang on to you, Sera. More than anything now I want to keep you, my baby girl. I may be messed up, I may be too young and stupid and have no future, but of this I’m sure. You’re the only thing that’s keeping me alive.
September 1, 1987
Two more weeks until my due date. It's so hot and I am so uncomfortable. On the one hand I am so ready to give birth. I’m heavy and sluggish—I feel like a beached whale. But on the other hand, I am petrified of what’s going to happen next. Debbie is right---I'm not prepared and I have no idea what I’m going to do. I’m no good and I bring pain to everyone who’s ever truly cared for me, but I want so badly to do this one thing right, to be a good mother.
When I'm by myself or Papa is sleeping, I close the door to my room and start singing to you, my angel. I sing of every sorrow, every regret, every dream I’ve ever had to you, so that you will know, someone will know. A strange peace comes over me when I sing to you and only you.
Lately, I’ve been playing “Landslide” over and over again. It's such a very sad song, but it has struck a chord in me—it speaks of lost love and trying to find the strength when one is drowning in sorrow and self-doubt.
September 15, 1987
Well, nothing yet. Will this heat wave ever cool down?
September 22, 1987
I'm writing my prayer to you, God, please, please, please, I promise I will do everything in my power to be good, just please help my baby to get better. Please don’t punish her for her mother’s sins. I know I’ve been full of pride in the past, that I’ve been selfish and cruel, but she is innocent. She’s so small and helpless, lying here in front of me in the incubator, with the blue lights on her. She has been under the lights for two days now and still her bilirubin levels are high.
I remember when I first saw you, Serafina, how beautiful you were to me, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, all pink and white after such a long and agonizing labor. The pain I had felt when I had been ripped in two was all worth it and I would go through it a hundred more times if it meant you would be okay.
Tired as I was that first night, I couldn’t sleep—all I could do was stare at your perfect little face, all bundled up and snug in your blanket. How you clung to my breast and drank my milk, how your little hand grasped my finger so tightly. Your soft skin that smelled, I thought, of pure love. There will never be a more perfect creature than you.
I knew I would be punished somehow, but I didn’t think you would end up sick with jaundice. The doctor didn’t even believe me at first, saying how all Asian babies are yellow. But I insisted that you didn’t look like that when you were born—you were white, white as your father. But he believed me soon enough when he got the blood tests back. He said that you had a level of 27, which I don’t even understand, but the way he said it made my stomach drop.
So now we are here in this hospital when we should be home. All I do is watch you under the blue rays, encased in glass and lethargic, not even crying like a proper baby. I’ve never felt this pain before, being separated from you, unable to hold you except once every other hour to feed you. All I can do is watch helplessly while you lie encased in glass, like some cursed princess in a fairy tale. As long as I live I will never forget this fear or what the doctor told me this afternoon, that if your levels don’t go down, you might have brain damage or even die. You’re not even a week old.
I don’t know how long I sat there, just dazed. I remember feeling my breasts fill up and harden with milk and it hurt to not be able to feed you, to have to wait until you were ready to be taken out. And while I sat there, who should come in but Bill and Debbie Wood, acting all concerned and worried. It was then that I found my voice.
“You evil woman!” I screamed. “Are you satisfied now that your curse has come true?” Are you?” I advanced on her as she backed away, horrified. “Don’t you ever come back here! We don’t want you!” And with that I threw them both out. I’m sure that the doctor could explain the medical reason why Serafina is ill, but deep in my heart, I know that hateful woman should never be around her again.
Mama and Papa are at the church, lighting candles for you and saying rosaries for your recovery. We all want to take you home, Sera, so please, please don’t give up, please fight this with everything you have.
September 30, 1987
A curve of small, pink fist, the pucker of your lips, your wide brown eyes staring straight into mine, your tiny feet and your plump arms and legs—every part of you so breathtakingly beautiful that I'm in constant awe that anything so wonderful could have ever come out of me. Only you and I exist in this world, you in the crook of my arm, the sounds of you suckling at my breast pure music, the smell of powder and milk like the way heaven should smell.
October 7, 1987
I'm so tired—haven’t had any sleep. Serafina won’t stop crying and I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m not cut out for this. I love you so much, but I'm so afraid that I will do something wrong. I'm a child myself—not a mother. There are times when only Mama can calm you down. I feel like I’ve failed again.
Mama tells me that it takes time and patience and that I will be a good mother. I will have to do this for the rest of my life. Everywhere I go, you go. If you can’t sleep I can’t sleep. I have to feed you before I can feed myself. I didn’t think it would be as hard as this.
October 23, 1987
I tried, Serafina. I thought once he saw you for himself, he would love you, would remember how much he once loved me.
“She’s white like you,” I said as I held you up to him, but he wouldn’t even hold you.
Wouldn't touch me, didn't want me, even though I lost all the weight, even though I wore the red dress he loved. Didn't love me anymore or perhaps he never did. All this time, I held the tiniest hope that maybe it would all turn out all right. I dreamed, too, and kept that dream to myself, that all three of us would be a family. It's all dead now.
What will I do, now that I have nothing? I will never be in theater. I will never leave this backward, no name town. I will never see the world. I will grow old and die a nobody, another silly girl who gave up all her dreams and ruined her life because of some boy.
I should have walked into the sea that night. No one would have known what became of you and me, and we would have been swept into some dark and watery world safe from any more pain and disappointment. I
t would have been better for everyone. Your father doesn't want either of us in his life-we might as well not exist. I guess I was never good enough for him. If I had been he would have let everyone know about us, would have stood up to his family, would now be by our side.
Men lie---they can't help it, Serafina. Remember this. Men lie and then they leave.
October 25, 1987
God forgive me for what I'm about to do. Serafina, my sweet angel, perhaps someday you'll understand. I look at you now sleeping peacefully in your crib, not knowing any of the storms that surround you. I hope you'll never know this pain. It's better this way. I would only ruin your life as I have ruined mine. I have no choice but to do what needs to be done.
Chapter 19
Sera stood shivering under the great stone arch at the entrance of the Cypress Lawn Cemetery. The morning fog had not quite lifted and hovered above the rolling hills of graves beyond. She was alone by the great gate. Once again, she took out her notes for the Craigslist ad she had found two weeks ago.
Wedged in between solicitations for egg donors and personal ads (which she and Allison would read out loud to each other in sexy voices when they were bored) had been an intriguing notice: "Join other cemetery buffs for monthly, informative walks down quiet pathways of the dead.”
She had almost missed it, as she found the personal ad below particularly amusing, “Blonde reading The Great Gatsby in the park by the rose garden 4 pm this Sunday. You smiled at me as I walked by.”
Freaks and weirdos, she had once told Allison, call out to each other in Craigslist. "Who grows 10 pythons then suddenly needs to get rid of them?" They would ask each other and also wonder out loud, why a married WM looking for a discreet relationship would advertise that fact. Wouldn't that be defeating his purpose? Who answers these things?