by Alli Curran
“Which part?” asks Grace.
“Everything. That it’s 1999. That this is happening here, in Brazil. I mean, we’re not in the jungles of Africa. Brazil is supposed to be a modern country—part of the Western world, right?”
Grace looks at me doubtfully.
“Well, it’s sort of modern,” I continue. “I can’t believe that a woman still can’t legally get an abortion here.”
“We’re lucky to live in the States,” says Grace.
“You’re right.”
And for the first time since I got here, perhaps for the first time in a decade, I feel a pang of homesickness, a longing to be in my mother’s kitchen, getting a hug and a bowl of chicken soup. Thinking of my mother this way, a terrible sadness creeps into my heart. Though it’s painful to face it, the truth is that the two of us used to be very close…and I miss her. As a kid, whenever I got into trouble—which was frequently—she was there for me. When I was three, for example, a neighborhood bully threw my favorite stuffed animal (a bedraggled baby leopard named “Tiger”) into a backyard swamp. If the president had been watching what followed, he probably would’ve made my mother an international diplomat. Minutes after my mom discussed the situation with the bully’s mother, the brat was knee deep in pungent pond water, retrieving Tiger from the algae-covered muck.
Over the years, my mom helped me cope with everything a growing girl has to deal with—spiteful peers, demanding teachers, broken bones (I had a lot of those), puberty, acne, my first romantic heartbreak. Everything.
That includes the one and only time I got pregnant, when I was a senior in high school. Without asking how or why it happened (I suppose that part was obvious), my mother calmly offered a solution.
“Don’t worry.” she said. “Your life’s not over. I’ll make an appointment for an abortion.”
Her words came as such a relief.
On the day of the procedure, my mother drove the car with her left hand, holding mine with her right. When we got to the clinic, the exam room was clean, and the medical staff were competent. No fear. No screaming. Just a routine medical procedure. The whole time I was in there, my mother stood by me.
Poor Paula. If only she’d had someone like my mom watching over her, instead of Luciano. If only she hadn’t gotten pregnant in this God-forsaken place, where abortion is still illegal. If only she’d paid more attention to the dancing condom.
Grace and I continue talking as the sky turns orange, pink, and dusky purple. When the stars begin to appear, the two of us collapse into our beds, physically and emotionally exhausted. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, just before sunrise, I open my eyes to find Paula standing over me. From a physical standpoint, she appears to be quite healthy.
“Obrigada, Emma,” she says, and I just smile.
Looking at her rosy checks, I can’t help thinking that maybe I’m not going to be a complete failure as a doctor, after all.
When she turns to leave the room, perhaps to go home, I jump out of bed, shouting, “Wait!”
Since Grace is still comatose, I use a little Portuguese and my best body language to give Paula her instructions for taking the remaining antibiotics.
Drugs in hand, Paula says “tchauzinho” before walking out the door. For a change, I understand this word, which means “little goodbye.” Ironically, I can already sense that this is the last time I’ll ever see Paula’s unforgettable face.
Chapter Seven
Turnabout
Following Paula’s departure I’m unable to sleep. Itching with restlessness, I climb out of bed and start pacing around the living room. Memories of my accidental pregnancy, and the support I received from my mom, are racing through my mind. After perseverating for what seems like hours, I come to a realization: I want to go home, and not just to New York. For the first time in nearly 10 years, I’m desperate to reconnect with my family in Connecticut. But how to reconcile with my mother, who’s been angry with me for so long? Retracing my steps between the kitchen and the living room over and over again, no obvious solution comes to mind. Even the shadow of a viable plan eludes me. Thus abandoned by the creativity muse, the path to reconciliation remains unclear.
Yet I am sure about one thing. It’s time to get the hell out of this country. So help me, I refuse to stay another day in a place that horribly mistreats women. And if things don’t work out with my mom in the aftermath, so be it. A friend to miscreants of all kinds, open-minded New York City surely won’t reject me.
As soon as Grace awakens, I reveal my new plan.
“Oh, no,” she says. “You’re not leaving me here, now…with Alvin?”
“I’d be leaving in another month anyway. Why don’t you go home early, too?”
“No,” she shakes her head, “it’s much too soon for me to leave. I need to finish my project. You could stay and help me.”
“You know how I feel about the mice,” I say.
“What about the leptospirosis project?”
“My portion is completely finished. There’s nothing left for me to do. Plus I don’t want to deal with Luciano. If I never saw that man again it would be too soon.”
“So, that’s it?” she says. “You’re just going to hop on a plane and fly home?”
“Yup,” I smile. “I cleared it with Walter a couple hours ago, while you were sleeping.”
Thinking about returning to New York, the center of my universe, fills me with energy and fortifies my resolve. For the rest of the morning, I dance around the apartment, shoving my belongings into my suitcase, while Grace watches me despondently.
Once I’m packed, Grace and I head to the lab, where I exchange farewells with Peter and Soelia, a duo whom I will sorely miss. While I’m tempted to speak to Luciano, who’s currently hiding out in his office, I’m afraid that any attempt at dialogue will quickly degenerate into a one-way tirade, consisting mainly of four-letter words that I’ll later regret. Instead of confronting him, I decide to stick with the silent treatment. Perhaps later, from a transcontinental distance, I’ll express my feelings via e-mail. Ah, yes…e-mail. You gotta love this form of communication—quick, easy, and editable—at least until you hit “send.”
Next we find Alvin, who’s busy packing up a bunch of Fed-Ex boxes in his office.
“You’re going back to New York…right now?” Alvin asks. “Isn’t it too early?”
“Yes, but my travel plans have changed. Walter OK’d it.”
While he initially looks surprised, Alvin soon recovers.
“This is a bit unexpected, Emma, though perhaps fortuitous. Could you do me a favor?”
“What is it?”
“I’m currently in the process of mailing Joan Riley duplicates of all the materials we used in Grace’s project.”
“Everything?” I ask.
“Everything except the mice,” says Alvin.
That’s because you killed them all, you jerk, I think to myself.
Alvin continues, “Just now, when I was organizing the fungal samples, I started worrying they’d dry out in transit.”
He looks at me hopefully.
“But if you could deliver them to Dr. Riley by hand, periodically watering them….”
I recognize Joan Riley’s name. An acclaimed oncologist and researcher at Memorial Sloane-Kettering, she’s someone I’d love to meet in person.
“I’d be happy to,” I say, and Alvin hands me a parcel containing the samples.
“Thank you,” says Alvin. “Hopefully we’ll get the ball rolling on the next phase of the project ASAP.”
“No problem,” I say, and then my big mouth leaps ahead of my brain. “Alvin, can I ask you a favor?”
“Go ahead.”
Ignoring the fact that Grace is standing right next to me, I blurt out, “When I’m gone, can you keep an eye Grace? I think she’s homesick.”
Alvin appears taken aback by my comment and unsure of what to say next. Plunging ahead, I repeat myself like a fool.
“Y
eah, she’s definitely homesick. Lately, she’s been acting really depressed.”
Before Alvin recovers the power of speech, I’m out the door. When I peek at Grace, who’s taking great strides to keep up with me, she’s clearly mortified.
“My goodness, Emma. Why on earth did you say that?”
“I’m sorry, Grace, but to tell you the truth, I couldn’t think of a more diplomatic way of asking him to be nice to you.”
Unlike my mother, I’ve never been a competent diplomat, especially not when it comes to dealing with complex social situations.
When we get back to the apartment, Grace is still acting disgruntled, but I don’t try to placate her. Instead, I call a taxi service and arrange transportation to the airport.
“Grace,” I say after hanging up the phone, “before I leave, would you take one last walk with me through the neighborhood? I’d like to make a couple of stops, and I’m sure I could use your help.”
“Will you be discussing my mental health problems with anyone else?” she asks.
“What mental health problems?” I say.
Fortunately she cracks a smile, and the two of us share a brief laugh.
When we exit the building, I’m delighted to find Lucineige stationed at her cart across the street. As the elderly Baiana prepares my last serving of abara, I say goodbye and attempt to explain that she saved me from starvation. Though it’s unclear whether she fully understands me, Lucineige blushes and refuses to accept any money for the food.
“Next stop…ice cream shop,” I say.
Upon entering the most important store in Brotas, I order five cups of dulce de leche.
“Hungry?” asks Grace.
“Just a little. Here, help me hold some of them,” I say, passing two cups to Grace.
“What do you intend to do with all of these?” she asks.
“You’ll see. Follow me.”
One block away, Grace and I find our three favorite street urchins, looking more ragged than ever, hanging out in their usual spot with the sugar cane man. Though initially hesitant to accept my gift, the boys soon realize that this is a sweet deal: free ice cream with no strings attached. In record time, they devour their portions.
“Wow,” says Grace. “That’s unexpected.”
“What is?” I ask.
“For a change, Emma, you weren’t the first one to finish eating.”
“It was close, though,” I say, scooping up my last, delicious spoonful of heaven in a Dixie cup.
Giving me a sheepish smile, the littlest boy reaches into his pocket and pulls out Grace’s flashlight.
“What have we here?” I ask, as he hands it over.
Bending down to the boy’s level, I attempt, unsuccessfully, to turn on the light.
“Dead batteries, ay?”
I stand upright.
“Grace, it looks like we’ll need to make one more stop.”
Then I take off like a shot toward the hardware store.
“Hey, wait up,” she calls after me.
As quickly as possible, we purchase several new battery packs, plus a couple of extra flashlights. Tearing open the packages, we install the batteries and jog back to the boys.
“Here you go,” I say, catching my breath while handing out the goods. “I’m sure you guys need this stuff more than we do.”
When Grace translates, we’re rewarded with enormous, toothy smiles all around.
Checking my watch, I shout, “Oh, my goodness. I really need to get moving.”
Sprinting back toward our building, I shout over my shoulder at Grace, who’s doing her best to keep pace with me, “I wish there was more that we could do for them.”
“Me, too. But would you slow down, Emma? I can barely breathe.”
“Sorry. I don’t want to miss my flight. Look! The taxi’s already here!”
“I’ll hold off the driver while you get your stuff,” says Grace.
Less than five minutes later I’m bounding off the elevator with my suitcase, headed for the street. Racing toward the curb, my sneaker catches on a crack in the sidewalk. As I pitch forward, my suitcase flies skyward, like a high, pop fly into midfield. The driver, who’s been patiently waiting behind the cab, rushes backward into the road, raising his arms toward the heavens. A second later, as the suitcase plummets to earth, he makes the catch! Lucineige and Grace cheer like the home team has just won the World Series. Though he hasn’t yet started the car, the driver has already earned himself a very nice tip.
“Hooray! Grande captura!” shouts Grace.
“Ouch!” I say from pavement.
“Are you okay, Emma?” asks Grace, rushing to my side.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a scraped knee. No biggee.”
After pulling me off the ground, Grace says, “I’m going to miss you, Emma.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Really.”
“I’m going to miss you, too,” I say.
For a moment the two of us embrace.
“I’m sorry for being such a pain in the neck,” I say.
“When were you a pain?” she asks.
“Um, ever since I got here.”
Grace looks at me questioningly.
“Like in the beginning, when I wouldn’t kill the cockroaches.”
She shrugs.
“And then, when you had to extricate me from the lab late at night, and the kids mugged us. Not to mention when I spilled the beans about BJ. Plus today, when I embarrassed you in front of Alvin.”
“Oh, yeah,” Grace laughs. “You were a pain in the neck. I’d almost forgotten, but I’m going to miss you anyway. Now get into the cab before you miss your flight! And don’t forget my can opener, okay?”
“Okay, I won’t.”
Then it’s time to go home.
Part Two
New York
Chapter Eight
Broken Resolutions
As my plane soars through the atmosphere between Rio and New York, it occurs to me that spending time in a foreign place can sharpen one’s perspective and improve self-awareness. This phenomenon has already redirected my outlook. Prior to traveling to South America, my future plans were vague and uncertain, but no longer. While I reflect upon the past month in Salvador, my immediate and long-term goals crystallize like ice on the wings of a jet plane, solidifying into six “New York” resolutions.
Listed in order of perceived difficulty (from least to most), upon returning home I vow to do the following:
1. Eat and enjoy fresh produce every day.
2. Appreciate access to decent health care.
3. Finish medical school.
4. Stand up to abusive colleagues and/or significant others (leave Thomas).
5. Reestablish and maintain close relationships with family members (work things out with Mom).
6. Become a competent dancer.
After landing at La Guardia, I grab my suitcase from baggage claim and walk, with trepidation, to the next required stop. Entering customs, I try to appear nonchalant, but internally I’m sweating. God forbid the fungus stowed in my backpack sets off drug trafficking alarms or causes scary-looking dogs to start foaming at the mouth. I don’t want to be detained, or worse yet, mauled by some crazy Cujo. In case I am stopped, Alvin has written a letter of medical necessity for the customs officials, but I hope it doesn’t come to that. Even with the letter, I’m pretty sure that Brazilian foliage covered in strange-looking mushrooms will cause a stir if investigated.
Arriving at the counter, I’m happy to find that only humans are working.
Please, Mr. Customs man, ignore me. I’m not dangerous. I’m insignificant. I’m….
“Next!” shouts the overweight, bald, bored-looking processor.
Briefly glancing at my passport and customs declaration, the man—who bears a strong resemblance to the Pillsbury Doughboy—is apparently half-asleep.
“Next!” he yells again, without even raising an eyelash.
What an idiot. What
a relief!
Arriving at the taxi stand several minutes later, I’m still shaking my head and chuckling to myself. Though I probably look like a schizophrenic, an Indian driver wearing a white turban similar to Lucineige’s is kind enough to offer me a ride. After he throws my suitcase into the trunk, the two of us zoom off toward the city.
Like other cab drivers with whom I’ve had the pleasure to ride, this one—“Mohammed Zumabi,” according to his name plate—treats the New York highways like the Indy 500, flooring the gas pedal and weaving around cars like a complete maniac.
“Hey, Mohammed, I’m really in no rush,” I shout from the back, digging my white-knuckled, sweaty hands into the vinyl seats.
I hope my fingernails won’t rip through the material.
“No problem,” says Mohammed, who ignores me and continues driving like he’s outrunning a tornado.
When we finally arrive on the Upper East Side, I’m thrilled to be alive, stationary, and back on solid asphalt. After taking a few deep breaths and giving my stomach a moment to settle, I swing by the deli next to my building. Sticking with resolution number one, I sink my teeth into a perfect red apple, savoring the juicy sweetness of every bite. One final elevator ride to the twenty-fifth floor of Laydon Hall, and I’m home.
Upon entering my apartment, I find Helen, my beautiful, dark-haired roommate, sitting at the kitchen table, flipping through a fashion magazine.
“Oh, you’re home early,” she says, looking over her shoulder. “Too bad. I was hoping you’d stay in Brazil…permanently.”
I try not to take this too personally. Other than my parents, no one knows me better than Helen. My closest friend since childhood, Helen and I have been roommates since college—longer still if you count high school. A few months before I left home to live with my aunt, Helen actually moved in with my family. I’ll never forget the day she showed up, looking for help.
“Emma,” my mom called from the kitchen. “Is someone at the door? I thought I heard knocking.”
“Can you get it?” I shouted from my room. “I’m busy with my trig homework.”