Margarita Wednesdays

by Deborah Rodriguez

  “Ask him if he knows anything about my house,” I urged Analisa, praying that I wouldn’t uncover a grisly past to keep me up at night.

  Jorge pointed to the street. Analisa translated. “Did you know that the Carnival parade used to start right here, outside your door? It went from here, down to the water. And the Carnival queens, many of them came from this street.”

  I had to smile, thinking of how I had been unwittingly following in the footsteps of bygone beauty queens every time I set out on those daily strolls during my first few weeks in Mazatlán. I was just about to chime in with some stories of my own when Analisa’s phone rang, for about the fifth time since she had arrived. This time she excused herself and went into the kitchen to talk. An awkward silence filled the room as I refilled cups and passed around more cake. I was tempted to try out my Spanish, but how can you trust a language where potato, pope, and father are all the same word, where penis and comb are easily confused, and fart and dog sound suspiciously alike? I waited and hoped (the same verb, in Spanish) for Analisa to hang up and join us again soon.

  “Ask Pepe what he knows about Carnaval Street,” I asked when she did return.

  “He says it is a good street. He lives here his whole life. He is ninety-three.”

  “Wow.”

  “He remembers a furniture store, and a shoe store where you drive up a ramp to get in. If you have no car, you had to use a ladder.”

  The irony of Pepe’s early life didn’t seem to have escaped him. Forced to quit school at fifteen after his mother became ill, he went to work to help pay the electric bills. His first employer? The power company, who had him climbing the poles to disconnect those who didn’t pay. Mazatlán was pretty wild back then. But Pepe’s mother, he told us, taught him to be respectful and honest, to stay away from trouble. “I had an invisible umbilical cord to her,” Analisa translated with a smile.

  “WHAT IS IT WITH MEXICAN mothers and their sons?” I asked Analisa later, while we were cleaning up in the kitchen. Her phone rang again. “And who keeps calling you? You have a new sugar daddy or something?”

  “It’s my son, Debbie. He just wants to know when I am coming home.”

  “Aha! See what I mean?”

  “What? He takes care of me. He worries about me.”

  “He worries about his next meal. You spoil him, Ana.”

  “No. He is a good boy, Debbie.”

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t good. But he’s already eighteen years old, and I’m just saying you shouldn’t be a slave to him.”

  “I am not a slave to anybody! So what if I cook for him and wash his clothes?”

  “And come running whenever he calls.” I knew better than to pick a fight with Analisa, and I honestly had no business criticizing her parenting skills. But I had been battling with my own problems in that area recently and was feeling pretty raw. My son Noah, who, following our escape from Afghanistan, had left Northern Cyprus for the States after a couple of months with his brother, was struggling. Always a party boy, he was now a full-grown man with a serious drinking problem, a severe lack of funds, and the distinct possibility of homelessness staring him in the face. A series of bad choices had sent my son into a devastating downward spiral. My heart was breaking.

  Noah had never been an easy child. His strong will and boundless energy always kept things lively, to say the least. Focus, when it came to schoolwork, was not a part of his vocabulary. He was a good boy, but suffered from the grass-is-always-greener syndrome to the point of resentment. That was the challenge of bringing up kids in a working-class family smack in the middle of a fairly upscale community. We weren’t poor. I’d seen what poor was from my travels in India, digging wells with a humanitarian group, and I was determined to teach my kids to appreciate what they had. I worked hard to make sure we always had a nice home and a car and gifts under the Christmas tree, but we just couldn’t afford the extras, like ski club or vacations in Florida. Noah wanted what he thought of as normal, but with a nontraditional mother living in a highly traditional community, he didn’t stand a chance. Things just didn’t fit in with his Hallmark image of how life was supposed to be. Zach, being younger, was more willing to go along for the ride. Case in point, our stint in the Bahamas. Zach embraced it as a wonderful adventure. I think Noah still resents me for it, to this day.

  Things only got worse after Noah decided he didn’t want to live by the house rules his father and I had set down in our respective homes. My mother took him in, let him run wild, and then bailed him out of every bad situation he managed to slide his way into. It was the worst mistake we ever made.

  By the time I left for Afghanistan, Noah was already twenty-one, an age when most kids prefer that their parents live thousands of miles away. I really thought he’d come into his own. I had dealt with Noah and his drama for his entire life and was confident that he’d eventually find his way. But now, after years of him struggling and me joining in on the enabling, since I had naïvely come around to the idea that a little financial support might help him move forward, he seemed close to hitting rock bottom instead. As difficult as it might be, it was clear that my only alternative was the tough love route. Unfortunately Noah never had any minutes left on his phone, so our communication was limited to e-mail, and accusations had been flying back and forth between Chicago and Mazatlán for weeks.

  NOAH: Mom, I need to ask a favor. Can you wire me $200? I know that’s a lot, but it would really help. I don’t ask for much these days.

  ME: I just sent you $250 a week ago. Do you not have a job anymore? No lies, Noah. Tell me what’s going on.

  NOAH: Nothing really. Just need a little money. You know I hate asking shit like this.

  ME: Giving you money doesn’t seem to help you. There will never be enough money to keep you on your feet. You need more than money. As soon as you have money you spend it like it is the last day of your life.

  NOAH: I just need a little help with the bills.

  ME: I love you, Noah, but I am not going to rescue you every time you are unable to pay your bills. It’s clear you don’t think you have a problem, and that’s fine. Because you are the only one who can help you.

  NOAH: When someone has a problem you don’t turn away.

  ME: Noah, it’s time you make the right choices. You can’t guilt me into shit like you did when you were a kid.

  NOAH: So we are done. I didn’t ask you for anything, just to be a mother, and you can’t even do that. If you don’t want to be part of my life, then don’t. I don’t need you.

  ME: I am being a mother, but what you want is a bank account. Giving you money is not a mom’s job. Making life easy for you is not a mom’s job. It is my job just to love you. I do love you with all my heart and that’s why I am going to be hard on you now. I am sorry about how this is going to feel for you. I may not have been the perfect mom but I do have a mother’s heart, and I won’t let you manipulate me.

  NOAH: I don’t want your money, don’t need your help. Someday you will look back and never forget this. You have no idea how I feel. All I wanted was a family. I will leave you guys alone.

  ME: You have a family that loves you, try not to forget that.

  NOAH: I’m trying, and I’m just asking for some help. I can’t do this by myself. We both know that. You’ve done everything you could have done to help me, I just seem to fuck things up no matter where I am . . .

  ME: Noah, you are a wonderful human being and a good person.

  NOAH: I’m truly sorry about everything, I’m disgusted with the way my life has turned out. And know that I have no one to blame but myself. I just want to get out of here.

  ME: Go back to Michigan and try to find some sort of work.

  NOAH: Can’t I just come to Mexico with you and never come back . . . get away from all this shit?

  ME: If you can’t make it in the States, why would you think you can make it in Mexico?

  NOAH: I don’t understand why you won’t take me in. I’m your son! Yo
u would rather me be on the streets? I’m asking for help. This is not what people do to each other. God, Mom. This is going to end badly, I can already feel it. Please don’t do this to me. I will end up in the gutter facedown, and you will end up with a phone call from the hospital.

  ME: I refuse to play games with you, Noah. Nobody put you in this place. You put yourself there. It’s time you take responsibility for your actions. I know it’s hard. It’s hard for me, too.

  Part of me, the part that made my entire insides ache when I pictured Noah’s impish smile, wanted to hop on a plane and rush to the rescue. But I knew that bringing Noah to Mexico was probably the worst idea of all. I’d seen sober people turn into drunks practically overnight in this town, a place where beer is cheaper than water. And the fallout from the violence surrounding the drug cartels was making jobs harder to find for everyone, let alone someone who didn’t speak a word of Spanish. No, there were plenty of safety nets for Noah in the States. I just prayed he’d fall, gently, into one of them soon.

  AS SOON AS I HEARD a healer was coming to town, I knew I had to go. El Maestro Constantino would be here for five days, and between my own issues and my anxiety about Noah, I felt I could use all the help I could get. I called everyone I knew to invite them along. Most of them thought I was nuts, but I didn’t care.

  Now, though I consider myself to be a somewhat spiritual person, I wouldn’t call myself a spiritual person in the way that people toss that term around these days. I know I’d never be able to keep quiet long enough to meditate—I don’t have a whole lot of sit in me—and I’m really not the chanting type. Scrubbing floors in a cold monastery on my bare knees? Not a chance. Enlightenment is probably going to have to fall into my lap, preferably while I’m shopping or something, and my spiritual leader will probably be someone I meet while he’s having a beer at the bar. But I don’t close doors, because I do believe that anything is possible. If nothing else, I’m observant. Celebrations, ceremonies, rituals, and rites have always held a particular fascination for me. I’m pulled to them, whether it’s Hindu body piercing in India, Shinto naked gatherings in Japan, or the Hungry Ghost Festival in China. They make me want to know more. What are these people seeing? What are they feeling? Personally, I do believe there is some bigger force, some higher being out there. And I’m not about to rule anything out. In that way, I have a lot in common with the Mexicans, at least the ones I have met.

  But six o’clock in the morning is not my favorite time of day. The line outside the dance hall was already snaking around the block when I met up with Bonnie and Cheryl, my only two friends to live up to their promise to join me. We had just settled into our folding chairs when I heard Sharon’s voice, yelling down from the terrace of Casa de Leyendas. “Ya healed yet, Deb?”

  Very funny, I thought to myself. She’ll be sorry she chose not to join me.

  “Hungry, guys?” she shouted.

  “Yeah!” I yelled up, just then realizing how hungry I was.

  Fifteen minutes later Sharon was at our side with a trio of juicy sausage sandwiches and three steaming cups of coffee. I had just unwrapped mine and was starting to wrap my lips around it when a loud “Noooo!” rang out from behind. I turned to see a short, dark-haired man shaking his finger in my face. “Muy horrible. No puede comer eso!” He was staring at my sandwich.

  A hefty woman behind him stepped out of the line. “You can’t eat that. And no coffee. No caffeine, no meat, no eggs. That is what El Maestro believes. This is a spiritual healing, and you’re polluting your body before you even begin?” She shook her head in disgust and went back to her spot. Bonnie and Cheryl sheepishly rewrapped their sandwiches and stuffed them into their purses, and I reluctantly followed their lead.

  “Have fun,” Sharon said, as she turned and left us there to starve.

  But the four hours we had left to go in that line, which was now snaking its way down the street and around the corner, were proving to be more than my willpower could take.

  “Save my place, guys. I’ve gotta pee. Be right back.” I could feel my friends’ suspicious eyes following me as I trotted off around the corner toward the privacy of my friend Sonja’s kitchen, clutching my purse under my arm and my coffee cup in my hand. And when I came back half an hour later with crumbs on my shirt, they were barely speaking to me.

  We were finally herded into the hall, everyone abuzz, excitedly anticipating the arrival of this powerful man. There must have been more than two hundred people there. Palms up, open your hearts, and breathe in, we were instructed. So we did.

  Suddenly the room fell silent. In walked a teeny bearded guy in white robes and combat boots. As he got closer I could see rings on every finger and a beanie covering his head. A white scarf tied around his mouth and nose made him look like a bank robber. Trailing behind Constantino were three women in long, flowy white skirts, all of them waving incense in the air. We stood as they formed a little circle in front of a makeshift altar watched over by images of saints and the Virgin and Jesus himself. Constantino and his women bowed their heads in prayer. Then he began to approach his eager followers. Over and over I could hear him ask the question, “Qué te pasa?” They would lock eyes, the healee would share whatever ailment they were seeking relief from, and then Constantino would poke them. Really? I thought. He’s healing with a poke? And I’m not talking just a little nudge, I’m talking a full-force jab, one that had some people reeling so hard that those standing behind had to catch them to keep them from falling.

  I braced myself as my turn approached. What should I say? What wasn’t wrong? How could I describe it? My own wounds weren’t visible to the outside world, at least not usually. There was no way to explain it all in one sentence, or even two. All I knew was that sometimes I felt like I was two people, and was living in constant fear that the functioning one could fall off a cliff at any moment and become the other one, the one who was needy, scared, and an emotional mess.

  Then, before I knew it, the little guy was right in front of me. “Cuál es tu problema?” The room seemed to fall silent again.

  One of the women in white repeated in English, “What is your problem?”

  I could feel the entire crowd, including my friends, lean in around me. “My mind needs to be healed,” I whispered.

  “Mande?” Constantino barked.

  “It’s my head,” I answered, a little louder this time. “I’m suffering from things that happened. I want to be cleansed of my past. I need to get strong enough to deal with the present. You see, I was in a war zone, I’m not sure—”

  His two fingers were on my chest. “Look into his eyes,” instructed the flowy-skirted woman.

  And when I did, electricity shot through my body as if I had stuck my wet finger in a socket. I heard myself let out a wail like a cow in heat. It was as if everything I had been hiding inside since I arrived in Mexico had come rushing to the surface and was spewing out into the dance hall through the tears that poured from my eyes. The anguish of loss, the guilt about my girls, the shame of failure—all my grief about leaving Afghanistan seemed to come gushing out all at once. But Constantino didn’t budge. He just stood there and pressed. Just when I started to think I’d faint, he pushed me into a chair and said, “It’s finished. Your pain is finished.”

  I RETREATED TO MACAWS A little shaky. The whole healing thing had not been what I expected. I wasn’t sure what being healed was supposed to feel like, and I certainly wasn’t convinced that all my problems had disappeared in a poof. But I did sense that something inside me had shifted, as if the channel had been changed on my internal TV.

  I checked my phone while I waited for Analisa to bring me a cup of coffee. Three more messages from Noah. I couldn’t even bring myself to read them.

  “What is the matter, Debbie? You don’t look so good.”

  “Nothing. I’m just tired.” I knew that Analisa was the last person with whom I could discuss my problems with Noah. She’d throw herself across a track smack in fron
t of a speeding train if her son asked her to. She shrugged her shoulders and left me alone to stress. But it wasn’t long before Sharon plopped herself down in the chair next to mine.

  “Healed?”

  “We’ll see.” I didn’t quite know how to explain to Sharon what I had gone through. “But it was quite an experience.”

  “You do look kind of wiped.”

  “You go to the healer, Debbie?” Analisa asked from across the patio. “My aunt, she was there. Cancer.” She looked down at the ground and shook her head.

  “Does she believe in this stuff ?” I asked, rubbing the spot on my shoulder that had been poked.

  “Why not? You don’t?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought with everyone being so Catholic down here . . .”

  “Catholic, Mormon, what is the difference? If someone is healing, you must go get healed. Especially if it cost nothing.”

  I couldn’t argue. But it did worry me that there were so many desperate-looking people in that hall asking for help, people who were in all probability, I now understood, lacking the resources to pay a doctor. The whole thing felt so sad. My phone vibrated with a little hop across the table. I was scared to look. What I should have asked Constantino for was a healing by proxy for my son, I thought. “Be glad your kids are the four-legged kind,” I sighed to Sharon, reaching down with one hand to pet her wiggly Shelties.