Woman's Cry

by Vanessa Martir

  Ideas soared through my mind. I picked up the laptop, placed it on my lap and stared at the hauntingly blank screen. “Fuck!” I muttered in frustration. I found it impossible to make sense of the jumble of thoughts that inundated my skull.

  “India,” interrupted my mother. “Ven a comer, m’ija. I made your favorite. Sopa de frijoles with boiled green bananas and white rice.”

  My mouth salivated. I put the laptop down roughly. “Maybe some food will help me focus.” I ambled to the house slowly, deeply inhaling the crisp, unpolluted air as I walked. I stopped to sniff the roses in Professor Daines’s garden, hissing when I pricked myself on a thorn.

  “I wonder where he is now,” I pondered grudgingly.

  Sitting at the table, I watched my mother move around the kitchen methodically. She hasn’t changed at all, I thought as she poured a large bowl of soup thick with vegetables and meat. Mom hadn’t let me do anything since we’d arrived. She woke early to prepare breakfast for everyone and when the clock struck noon, she stopped whatever she was doing to prepare lunch ensuring that each meal consisted of one of my favorite recipes. She spent the day cleaning, cooking and tending to my healing, dressing my wounds and giving me my prescribed medications.

  Pangs of guilt smarted me as I gazed at my mother’s plump figure approaching me with a tray of food. I stared into my mother’s eyes, looking for any signs of resentment or rancor and found none.

  Mom kissed my healing face and instructed, “Te comes todo, sabés.” She caressed me lovingly, “Your bruises have healed nicely. Look, you can open your eye again and your morados are fading.”

  She blinked back tears and turned away quickly. She walked to the sink and started to wash dishes. I saw that my mother’s shoulders were quivering slightly. She was crying again. On several occasions, I’d overheard my mother’s muffled sobs through the door to her room but whenever I tried to enter to console her, I found the door locked. When Mom came to the door, her eyes were puffy.

  “Estas loca. My eyes are red because I was napping. Estoy vieja ya. I need more sleep these days,” she’d say with a contrived chuckle.

  I rose from my chair, walked over and put my arms around my mother’s broad waist. I put my face on her shoulder and drew in a deep breath. I recognized the scent that soothed me when I was just a child, a surprisingly compatible combination of rich Latin spices and Oscar De La Renta, Mom’s favorite perfume.

  “Que pasa, m’ija?” Mom asked as she soaped the dishes with quaking hands.

  “You’re crying again.” My voice cracked.

  “Estoy bien. Go eat. You need the nutrients. It will help you get strong.” She shrugged her shoulders and nudged me away.

  I walked back to the table and stared at the steaming bowl of soup. It smelled delicious but I couldn’t get myself to taste a morsel. I bit my lip, fighting the tears gathering in the corners of my eyes.

  I thought back to my childhood and the many times my mother had prepared this very meal. Whenever I was sick or feeling down, Mom toiled away in the kitchen cooking her soup, knowing that it would rid me of whatever illness was plaguing me. It was my elixir, a seemingly mystical potion with the power to heat my insides and obliterate all pains and sorrows.

  “¿Que te pasa?” Mom asked putting her hand on my head. “Why haven’t you tasted the soup? Don’t you want it?”

  “I don’t deserve this, Ma,” I said. I buried my face in my hands shamefully.

  “Don’t be silly, m’ija. You deserve that and more.”

  I stared at my mother with incredulity. “How can you say that after how I’ve treated you? I turned my back on you for a mierda of a man. You tried to tell me, to show me that he was basura but I wouldn’t listen.”

  “¿De que hablas? You still stuck on the past?” Mom kneeled beside me. “You are a different person now. I didn’t know you then. You didn’t even know yourself. I’ve forgiven you, hija. Now you have to forgive yourself. Only then will you be able to move on.” She hugged me, stood up, grabbed the spoonful of broth and shoved it into my mouth.

  I giggled playfully and savored the food. “Mmmmm, sopita.” I opened my mouth for another spoon. Mom fed me as she had when I was just a toddler. After several spoonfuls, I took the spoon from her mother’s hand. “Okay, Ma, ya! I feel like I’m two again,” I said laughing and put a piece of green banana in my mouth.

  Consuelo snickered. “Buen provecho.” She walked back to the sink and continued to clean.

  Only a mother loves so unconditionally, I thought as I feasted on my favorite dish.

  31

  I walked around Professor Daines’s house hunting for James. I peered into each of the six bedrooms, the three bathrooms and the basement turned playroom but came up empty. I checked the front and back gardens, was greeted by the chirping of crickets, hooting of owls and the lulling sounds of other nocturnal creatures, but found no James. Where can he be?

  I made my way to the edge of the lake and sat at my usual spot. I stared at the reflection of the crescent moon on the water and shivered as a breeze went up the back of my t-shirt. I jumped when I heard a ruffle of leaves and stood up readying to defend myself if need be. Professor Daines’s waifish figure came through the bushes. She had her hands up as if in surrender.

  “Relax. It’s just me, India.”

  I sighed. “I hate this, Professor Daines. I can’t hear a branch crack without getting frightened.”

  “It’ll be over soon,” Professor Daines said reassuringly. “And, please do me a favor, call me Joanna. We’re not in the classroom and have developed a deeper relationship than that of professor and student.” We both smiled and looked out at the water.

  “It’s beautiful here. I hope to have a house like this one day.”

  “This is my little escape. When I need to get away from the hustle and bustle of city life, I come here, disconnect my phone and bond with nature. It’s quite refreshing.” She looked at me and with twinkling eyes said, “And I’m certain you will have this and more.”

  “I hope so,” I responded, a hint of envy in my voice.

  “So, I sent all of your final exams and papers to your professors. They’re all happy to hear you’re getting better and are safe. Professor Thurman, your Indo-Tibetan Buddhism professor, says he misses you. He informed me that you are quite the Buddhist in training.” She laughed and jabbed me in the ribs playfully. “Sorry!” she cried apologetically when I winced.

  “It’s okay. They don’t hurt as bad anymore. I can actually get out of bed without wanting to scream in pain.”

  “I couldn’t help but notice that you have just one final left to complete. Mine.” Joanna looked at me inquisitively.

  I grinned guiltily at my mentor. “It’s not that I haven’t tried, I just… I guess I have writer’s block. My other assignments were different. They didn’t require imagination. Yours does and I just haven’t managed to get my juices churning.”

  “India, stop thinking about it so much. Just do it. Just write. Don’t over-analyze it. Act like you’re writing in your journal. Let it be a flow of consciousness but with a specific subject matter in mind.” Joanna arched her eyebrows, winked at me and started walking up to the house.

  “Hey, professor,” I called. “Have you seen James?”

  “He went for a walk, I think. He has a lot on his plate too, you know.”

  I watched Joanna’s thin frame disappear into the house. I thought of James and how he must be feeling. He was in love with me while I was suffering from a broken heart and battered soul. I couldn’t think about him and his needs while all he could think about was me and my needs.

  “I’d still rather be him than me right now,” I mused.

  It was well past two in the morning but I still hadn’t managed to drift off to sleep. I tossed and turned in the bed until, frustrated, I decided to get up. As I passed the living room, I saw James sprawled on the couch. I walked toward his sleeping figure and was overcome by the reeking odor of alcohol, Hen
nessy to be exact.

  “Ugh,” I moaned. I shook my head and turned to walk away but stopped when I looked down and saw something peeking out of James’s jacket. I reached down and was elated to find it was a tightly rolled joint. “Heaven! I’m in heaven,” I sang.

  I grabbed a sweater from my room then walked to my chair by the lake’s edge. I lit the joint, took deep drags of the fetid smelling grass and giggled at how quickly the euphoric effects hit me. “Damn, it’s been a minute, huh?” I had to turn the joint off after smoking only half because I was so high. I stared out at the twinkle of lights in the houses across the lake. I shifted my attention to the laptop still sitting on the table beside me. Hmmmm, I thought. I should take a stab at Professor D’s final now that I’m high. Some of my best shit was written under the influence. Fuck it, why not?!

  I picked up the laptop, turned it on and tapped my chipped nails on the keys as I waited for it to load. I opened Microsoft Word and looked apprehensively at the blank page. Don’t think, just write! I ignored the ache in my wrist as I started typing.

  My name is Anais Rodriguez. A moment ago I learned that I am this year’s winner of the coveted National Book Award for Fiction for my latest novel, In the Wake of the Storm. In addition, several days ago I was asked to speak at my Alma Mater’s commencement and am astonished at my good fortune. Two years ago, I won the National Book Award for Non Fiction for my memoir, Soul of the Bumblebee. This was my first published work and I never in my life imagined that it would receive such accolades. And, now, my novel has received national acclaim as well …

  “My cup runneth over.” Those were my exact words when the reporters asked for my reaction at hearing of my second award. I made it a point to thank my husband Ruben for his unwavering support and daughter Aria for her unrelenting inspiration.

  My daughter is a miracle child. After four miscarriages, I had resigned myself to the possibility that I’d never bear fruit from my womb. The doctors told me that I had “an inhospitable uterus,” whatever that means. Ruben and I thought of adopting but I became so depressed at the thought that we decided to put off the idea for a while. It’s not that I never wanted to adopt. I just always thought I’d do so after having a child of my own. During a routine “woman check-up” my doctor asked me if I thought I might be pregnant. Naturally, I told her there was absolutely no way. She gave me a pregnancy test regardless and to my surprise, I was with child.

  My husband and I were cautiously ecstatic. It may seem like an oxymoron but it’s the truth. We were overjoyed at the possibility of finally having a child but were wary not to get too excited since we’d already experienced the heart wrenching tragedy of losing a number of babies. I was put on immediate bed rest. It was during those months that I wrote my first novel. Thank God, both my child and my book brightened my world several months later.

  I never imagined I could be a stay-at-home mom but when Aria came into the world, I could not fathom leaving her. Perhaps it was the fact that I’d tried so many times before but just the thought of leaving her in the care of someone else sent me into hysterical crying fits. My husband was hesitant at first, after all we had a mortgage to pay and other mounting bills. I convinced him that this was the best thing for both Aria and me, and told him that perhaps now I could actually concentrate on my dream of becoming a writer.

  Watching Aria grow, going from breastfeeding to bottle feeding, sleeping through the night for the first time, taking her first steps and finally becoming potty trained after several breakdowns on my part and fits of rage on hers, inspired me to write the first of what I hope to be a pentagonía of memoirs.

  I must also thank my mother for her inspiration in the form of stories about her motherland, Honduras, and the obstacles she overcame to give us a better life. My mother constantly reminded me that life is nothing if one does not follow one’s calling. From her I learned that one’s past is one’s foundation but should never be one’s demise for while it is a part of us and makes us who we are, it does not determine our destiny nor who we will eventually become.

  Without my daughter, my mother and my husband, I don’t believe I would be who I am. I wouldn’t have followed my heart’s desire and become the award-winning writer that I now am ... They are the subject of my commencement speech.

  I was shocked at how much had come out of me. “Damn, Professor D was right. I just had to write and not think about it.” I put the laptop down and walked back to the house. I finally felt like I could get some sleep.

  32

  I was snatched from my slumber by my mother and Joanna jumping on my bed like small children.

  “What the hell is wrong with you people?” I yelled half annoyed and half amused. James walked in the room with a tray of breakfast.

  “Someone deserves breakfast in bed,” he said with a Kool-Aid smile pasted on his hung over looking face.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, looking at everyone suspiciously.

  “We wanted to give you the news together over a nice breakfast of bagels and coffee,” Professor Daines teased, grabbing a cinnamon raisin bagel and taking a huge bite of it.

  “What news? What are you guys scheming?”

  “No one is scheming anything, m’ija,” said Mom, shaking her head and pursing her lips playfully.

  “You guys are killing me! What’s going on?” I demanded anxiously.

  “Well…” Mom looked at her two conspirators giggling. “The cops found Fabian hiding out in DR. He’s being extradited back to the U.S. as we speak!”

  “Shut up!” I exclaimed. I lurched out of bed in one leap and stared at my mother, James and Joanna. “Y’all are shitting me! This is some serious shit, y’all! You can’t play with me like this. Tell me you’re not joking!”

  “We wouldn’t play with your emotions like that, India,” James said beaming.

  I threw my arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his lips. Then I jumped on the bed and started jumping up and down. I felt like I was ten again and had just found out that Mom had bought me the popular Strawberry Shortcake bike.

  “¡Gracias a Dios!” I screamed at the top of my lungs and threw my arms around my mother, almost knocking her down. I then turned and embraced my mentor, knocking the wind out of her. Suddenly I stopped and fell onto the bed in sobs. “I know I shouldn’t be crying. I should be happy but… I feel like I’m finally free and…”

  “Esta bien, m’ija, we understand,” soothed my mother, holding me close and crying with me. “We’re all free now.”

  Professor D kneeled in front of me. “So, commencement is in a couple of days. Looks like you’re going to have your dream after all.”

  “I hadn’t even thought about that. We’re going to commencement? We’re going to commencement!” I sang as I skipped around James. “I told you that you wouldn’t get the best of me,” I mused, overjoyed at the latest development of my saga.

  33

  I walked out into the warm morning air, took a long, deep breath and whispered, “This is the beginning of your new life India.” I walked down the path towards the lake and stopped dead when I saw Professor D absorbed intently at something she was reading on my laptop.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” I asked lightheartedly.

  “Just reading something a student of mine wrote,” Joanna hovered over the laptop chuckling.

  “You’re reading what I wrote? Professor Deeeeeee,” I whined. “That’s the first draft. You’re not supposed to read it yet. Let me get that.” I tried to snatch the computer.

  “No, no, no! You’re done writing. I don’t need you to edit or rewrite or anything. This is exactly what I wanted from you, a flow of consciousness. I’m giving you an A on your final and for the semester.” She extended her hand for me to shake. “Congratulations, you are now officially a graduate of Columbia University.”

  I let go of Joanna’s hand and embraced her tightly. “If it wasn’t for you …”

  “Save it, India! I know how grateful you are. The
truth is that you are the daughter I never had. We’re both blessed to have each other.” She smiled at me devotedly. “Now, tell me, what were your inspirations? I’m dying of curiosity.”

  Joanna passed me the laptop. I quickly read what I’d typed the night before while in my marijuana induced stupor. I was astonished by the names I’d unconsciously given the characters. What ever happened to Anais, I wondered. And Ruben? How odd I gave that name to the husband in my story.

  “Well, I guess Anais is who I wish I was. Who I hope to become-a resilient, accomplished, driven woman. Ruben is the perfect husband I hope to find, supportive, loving, understanding. And my mother, well, that’s self-explanatory. You see how she is with me in spite of what I’ve put her through. Aria is the daughter I hope to have one day.”

  “Then you know where to start. This is the first day of your life. Get to work. You have a novel and your memoirs to write!” Joanna made a silly face and laughed.

  I sat down, put the computer on my lap and started typing away. If not now, when? I reflected as my fingers danced across the keyboard.

  34

  I beamed as I stared at myself in the mirror. “I make this cap and gown look good.” I giggled and turned to model for my mother.

  Mom’s eyes moistened. “See m’ija, when you have faith, things work themselves out.” She kissed me and adjusted my cap.

  I walked into the living room of James’s suite and struck a pose. “You really do make that ugly thing look good.” He laughed. We then impatiently took a million and one pictures for our families.

  “C’mon, let’s go, please,” I insisted with a tinge of annoyance. We walked together towards the South Lawn.

  “Damn, James, four years flew by fast, huh?”

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it? Our college careers are officially over.”