Hungry Woman in Paris

by Josefina López

  “Are you sure she’s blind? Maybe it’s temporary?” my father asked, almost angry at the doctor for delivering the bad news.

  “No. It’s permanent.”

  My brothers and sisters started crying. My father just got up and left. We figured he needed time to process it by himself, so no one chased after him. I couldn’t stop crying. I felt so angry no one had told me she was a diabetic. I felt so angry with myself for not speaking to her for almost a year. Talk about guilt; I felt terrible serving her a chocolate soufflé! I’d never felt like a bad daughter until that moment. Armando handed me a tissue for my tears, but I buried myself in his chest. He hugged me and I smelled his beautiful scent. He was such a good guy; why had I left him? The hours passed and my brothers and sisters said good-bye because they had to get up early for work. I had no place to go so I stayed until visiting hours were over. I kissed my mother on her forehead as she slept.

  Armando offered to give me a ride back to Rosie’s place or continue talking to me if I needed to talk. Aside from his long hours as a doctor and his annoying mother, Armando was a catch, but by now he was sure to have a girlfriend. Probably a nurse who was always by his side. I sat in his Mercedes crying and he invited me over to his apartment and offered to make me a root beer float or an ice cream cone. I was so touched by his gesture, but I warned him that I might need to cry the whole night.

  His apartment had not changed much since I’d broken off the engagement. I carefully surveyed the living room, waiting to find a photo of his new girlfriend. I even excused myself so I could go to the bathroom and inspect his medicine cabinet for signs of a new woman. I closed the mirror and caught myself snooping. So what if he has a girlfriend, I don’t care, I told myself. None of my business, I scolded myself.

  Armando made me a bowl of ice cream with whipped cream on top and I felt so joyous to be with him again. Maybe my mother was right; maybe he was too good to pass up.

  “So how are you?” I asked.

  “Busy as usual. More responsibilities, but happy overall.”

  I took this to mean that he was happy about our breakup. I looked at my watch and saw it was two in the morning.

  “I better go back to Rosie’s place; I don’t want to get there much later because her door is squeaky.”

  “Why don’t you stay here?” he suggested.

  “Armando, I don’t deserve your kindness. I know you want to be supportive, but I did not treat you right.”

  “Neither did I. I should have defended you better. My mother should not have interfered, but I allowed her.”

  I cried, realizing how much I’d missed him, and we embraced until we could both hear each other’s hearts beating at the same time.

  “How is your mother?” I asked, trying to be nice.

  “She nags me about having kids and sets me up on bad blind dates that I have to cancel. She’s all right.”

  “So none of the blind dates worked out?”

  “No. I am not interested in anyone else but you.”

  “So this last nine months you didn’t date and you waited for me?”

  “No, I didn’t say that. I went out with some women for a few weeks here and there, but they were more interested in marrying a doctor than actually getting to know me… Canela, I know you, so don’t tell me what you did in Paris. I don’t need to know.”

  “Aren’t you at all curious about my life in Paris?” I teased him.

  “Only if it doesn’t include men,” he said.

  He made his bed on the couch and told me to take his bed. I insisted that he let me sleep on the sofa and pretty soon a pillow fight ensued that led to both of us in the same bed, making wild and passionate makeup sex. If only wars could be resolved the same way.

  I stared at the ceiling after Armando was sleeping. Could it be that I’d just needed time to explore the world, play around, “sow my oats,” and come back to finally be a responsible married woman?

  No one had heard from my father in two days, so I asked Armando to take me to my parents’ house. I inspected the house and put together the pieces of his disappearance. He had taken enough clothes and all the money under the mattress and all my mother’s jewels. I didn’t want to assume the worst—that he had taken off to Mexico with his mistress—so I pretended my father just needed time to think. Perhaps, like me, he needed time to live life before returning to commit himself to being my mother’s full-time nurse. How could my father leave her after all she’d put up with to be with him?

  I suppose I should say more about my father; otherwise you’ll assume he was an insensitive macho jerk who only made sexist comments. He was obviously more than that and actually had good qualities too. Like many immigrant men he came to the United States without papers and was deported many times until he was able to get a green card and bring his family here. He could have been a real macho jerk and abandoned my mother in Mexico with their ten kids and never returned, but he did return for her and even sent money. He was an extraordinary worker and had many heartbreaks, like my mother, but this isn’t his story.

  As I closed the drawers in my parents’ room I came across a white envelope with my name on it. It was written in Luna’s handwriting and I could tell by her lines she’d been shaking when she’d attempted to scribble my name. She’d probably penned it just as her body was starting to go into shock. I could not pick up the letter. I thought I was strong enough and ready, but a tiny voice still screamed from within, “She’s gone forever.” I was frozen for a few minutes until Armando approached me cautiously, as if he were treating a shock victim.

  “What is that?” Armando asked when he saw me staring at the letter, unable to pick it up.

  “Nothing,” I said, shaking my head and myself back to reality and left the room.

  “¿Canela, eres tú?” my mother called out to me as soon as I walked in. After three days of being in the hospital I was her only full-time visitor and she could tell it was me by the sound of my footsteps.

  “Si, Mama, soy yo.” Yes, Mom, it’s me, I replied in Spanish.

  “So did he leave me?” my mother asked. My mother always got to the point and could see through everyone. It might be the only trait we shared. I hesitated to answer her and was about to make up a lie when she turned to me. Blind or not, she looked at my soul and I could not hide.

  “Did he take off with his mistress?” she asked matter-of-factly.

  “Yes,” I replied, not wanting to bullshit her.

  She cursed, said every possible obscenity in Spanish, and when she was done she took a minute to reflect.

  “Hmm, donde el va, yo ya vine.” Where he is going I’ve already been was my mother’s way of saying she had already planned for betrayal.

  “Why did you let it get this bad?” I asked her.

  “Because he would have left me sooner. I already knew about the latest one, and when I refused to go back to Mexico after he retired I could tell he was itching for something different. I never told anyone about this so no one would worry and get all emotionally traumatized like you…”

  “I’m not traumatized!” I lied.

  “Yes, you are! That’s how come you never trust men. You’d rather control them, manipulate them to be the jerks you don’t want, than surrender to love.” She said it like a wise woman on the mountain. I wanted to respond to her but instead I stayed silent for a few minutes, letting her words sink in. I remember being naked and blindfolded and Henry on top, kissing me. I had surrendered to love and that’s why “I love you” had slipped out of me. I thought about Henry at the airport and it was clear for the first time that we did share love. It started out as sex, but I did love him.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m blind now, but I can see everything,” she said proudly. “Did you sleep with Armando last night?” she asked, her voice telling me she already knew the answer.

  “Why do you care so much about Armando?” I whined.

  “So am I right?”

  “None of your business…”
I took a deep breath and changed the subject. “You were so mean to withhold the letter from me… but thank you for not opening it.”

  “I wanted to, but I was scared Luna’s ghost would show up and haunt me. You know how those tortured spirits can be, tu sabes. So what does it say?” my mother asked casually, as though she were requesting the plot of last night’s telenovela.

  “I haven’t read it,” I said, cutting off that inquiry.

  “¡No te creo!” She shook her head incredulously. “Why haven’t you opened the letter?”

  “I can’t get myself to do it. What if she blames me?” I confessed.

  “Don’t be a pendeja. She would never do that. You did nothing,” my mother said, trying to console me with her tough talk.

  “I know… I did nothing,” I said, studying the worn tiles on the floor. I took a deep breath and looked out the window, trying to think of something else to talk about.

  “So what are we going to do now?” my mother asked, also taking a deep breath.

  “What do you mean we?” I asked.

  “Pues, we. You’re not getting married; I’m not getting any younger or prettier… It looks like our destinies are tied together.” I started laughing when she made that assumption.

  “So? This isn’t Like Water for Chocolate. I don’t have to take care of you; I’m not the oldest or the youngest. That’s what convalescent homes are for,” I said jokingly. My mother burst out crying and I felt ashamed for making that joke. I hugged her and told her I was only teasing and of course I would take care of her. I held her in my arms like the child I would never have.

  Later that day Armando and I went to the cemetery and I placed a basket of different tamales on Luna’s grave, including ones with raisins, and her favorite desserts. I apologized to her for not coming to visit her sooner, but since she’d visited me so often in Paris I knew she didn’t mind. I also apologized for not having the strength to read the letter yet. I felt like such a coward. I looked over at Armando playing along with me and thought, What a wonderful man—how could I have left him like I did? Now I could understand how Rosemary must have felt when her mother died and her ex-boyfriend was there. Having someone next to you at your most painful time can make you fall in love with him again.

  CHAPTER 22

  Cinnamon Souls

  Armando and I pushed my mother’s wheelchair into his Mercedes and we took her back to her house. He folded up her wheelchair while I escorted her by the hand up the stairs and through the front door. We walked through the living room and flashes of the past appeared. I saw my parents arguing in the doorway. My mother accused my father of cheating and wanted to open the door so she could walk over to her neighbor’s house and go kick the shit out of his mistress. My father blocked the door so she wouldn’t go make a scene and embarrass his mistress in front of her children. My mother slapped him and pushed him furiously and he cowered and took it, trying to hold her hands down. She threw thunder and lightning at a man who had no umbrella.

  We continued walking into the kitchen and I saw more flashes of my past. While my parents argued about the affair, I stuffed myself with corn drowned in butter and wished his mistress would die, but not her daughter, who was my best friend. My mother stopped walking and placed her hand on the counter. Another flash in the kitchen, where I saw my mother telling me, “If you are not going to do it with love, then don’t do it at all.” Then she kicked me out of the kitchen and banned me from coming in. This time I found it funny and laughed out loud.

  “Why are you laughing?” my mother asked.

  “You kicked me out of the kitchen,” I told her.

  “No, I didn’t,” she snapped, embarrassed to be outed this way in front of her potential son-in-law.

  “Yes, you did,” I told her and reminded her of all the details. She remembered the incident and apologized to me for all the bad she had ever done to me. I felt embarrassed finally getting her to admit it. I felt like an ungrateful daughter and was ashamed to hear my mother humiliate herself on my behalf.

  “Stop. I know you always meant well. Like they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

  “Yes, I was a devil to you; but I just thought in the end you would appreciate what I was doing. Tell me, did I do wrong getting you and Armando back together? It’s just a matter of time before he proposes,” she said, loud enough so he could hear. I shook my head, knowing my mother would not change. What did I do to her in my past life to deserve this? I thought to myself.

  After we placed my mother in bed, Armando showed me how to give my mother insulin shots and explained to me how to read her numbers on the meter. I didn’t want him to go, but I was her nurse, not him.

  The next morning I dressed my mother and saw her naked for the first time since I was five. On her body were so many stretch marks, like a road map of her life, displaying all the ways she’d tried to stretch and mold herself for everyone else, trying to be all things to all people.

  “It’s good your father left me,” my mother said to me when I was brushing her hair. “I was turning into a bitter old woman. Who would want to be married to me?” she confided, feeling sorry for herself. I tried not to agree or disagree with her and just listened compassionately.

  “I gave your papa everything,” she said in Spanish. She began to cry, recalling her life of pure sacrifice. “I never did anything for myself. Never gave myself pleasure… That’s why I began to hate him so much. He never sacrificed himself for me the way I did for him. I don’t blame him for his affairs. I should have had one too, but like a dummy I thought I would go to hell. Hell is living the life your mother and the Catholic Church tell you to live,” she said, practically spitting.

  I was at the Louis Vuitton store with Henry, dressed all in black. The store was closed, but somehow through a back door we had managed to break in without setting off the alarm. We quickly made our way to the second floor. With flashlights we searched for the burgundy crocodile bag on the second floor. I grabbed the purse and ran to the section with the suitcases. Henry ran alongside me and kissed me ferociously on top of the suitcases. The smell of leather and crocodile made my nipples erect. Henry tore off my blouse and licked my hard nipples. We continued to take off our clothes and played around naked on top of the suitcases. Henry took the burgndry crocodile purse and stimulated my clitoris with it. The sight of the purse between my legs made me even wetter. I closed my eyes while Henry continued where the purse left off. When I opened my eyes to look for Henry, he was gone. I searched around the store naked, holding my flashlight. I saw some leather coats moving and knew he was hiding in the leather coats. I dug in and caught an ankle. I fell on top of him and started kissing his legs and worked my way to his face. On my way to his face his body had transformed into a woman’s body and I found myself French-kissing a woman. I stopped, pulled away, and saw myself naked on the floor. I looked at my hands and at my body and wondered what was going on. The shock was too much and I yelled.

  “What’s wrong?” Armando said, next to me in bed. I awoke from my wet dream to find Armando shaking me to wake up. I stared at him blankly, wondering what had happened to the burgundy crocodile bag, before I realized it was a dream.

  “What were you dreaming? You had a nightmare,” he informed me as he studied my pupils.

  “I had a… I was having a dream that I was making love to a… woman,” I divulged. Armando’s eyes lit up with excitement.

  “Tell me more,” he urged.

  “Well, it started out being an androgynous body and then it became a woman and then it was me. I was making love to myself.” I didn’t want to reveal that before it was a woman it was Henry. “What do you think it means?” Armando thought about it for a few seconds and smiled playfully.

  “It could be that you have lesbian tendencies… or that you want to have more intimacy with yourself,” he concluded. “So which do you think?”

  “It’s probably that I’ve never really loved myself—that’s why the
thought of making love to myself was so frightening,” I confessed.

  “I make love to you and it’s beautiful; you’re beautiful,” he added and put his arm around me to comfort me. We fell back on the bed with my head buried in his armpit like a little kid hiding from La Llorona. Armando turned off the lights and I was still frightened, shaking in my soul, wondering what it really meant.

  Armando was too perfect; his only flaw was that he loved me too much. When he proposed I pretended to be surprised and took back the original ring he had bought me for his first proposal. The news quickly spread and a date not too far into the future was set. Armando had arranged for my mother to have a nurse who would do most of the injections and spare me that painful duty. One night while we were cuddling he said he would go crazy if he ever lost me again. I shared with him my suicide attempt and he convinced me that I needed to talk to someone about that. He had a psychiatrist friend who owed him a favor and that doctor was able to fit me in.

  “So how often do these thoughts come to you?” the psychiatrist asked.

  “I’ve had them ever since I can remember. When I eat, especially something creamy and sweet, they tend to go away… temporarily,” I admitted.

  “So you’ve had this chemical imbalance since birth?” he asked.

  “A chemical imbalance? That’s what it is?” I asked. He told me that wanting to die was not normal, not even when you’ve lost hope of ever getting justice for women, the poor, immigrants, the exploited, and oppressed. Not even when you’ve lost your cousin and best friend.

  “It definitely sounds like depression with some hyperactivity,” he said, writing down a prescription. At the end of the session he said he was confident the medication would make all those depressing thoughts fade away. I would be the first person in my family to take antidepressants. Before that, generations of women in my family had eaten their way out of their depression.

  Two weeks later, after taking the medication, I found that the world was finally not miserable. I could see how people could live in the suburbs with their SUVs and their 2.5 kids in a house with a white picket fence. I felt numb. I’ve no doubt this was someone else’s version of happiness, but I just felt numb and apathetic. Why should I let other people’s misery get in the way of my happiness? was my mantra. Even Armando’s mother didn’t annoy me. When she found out through the grapevine that I was on medication she wanted Armando to break off the engagement, claiming she was concerned that her future grandchildren were going to end up retarded. Armando told her to stay out of his personal life and said that if his kids ended up retarded he would love them just as much.