Undiscovered Country

by Jennifer Gold

  I feel a mosquito buzz lazily at my cheek, the irritating sound amplified by its proximity to my ear. Even with the nets, the beasts are inescapable. I slap at it, and there is a spurt of blood. Rafael notices and reaches forward to wipe my face with the corner of the sheet.

  “You see?” he says, showing me the red stain. “You don’t negotiate with the mosquito. You don’t try to come to a peaceful arrangement. You crush it.” He mimes with his hands.

  “It’s a bit different,” I say, frowning. “People aren’t mosquitoes, Rafael. They—”

  I’m cut off by shouting. It’s Margo, banging her hand against the tent frame.

  “Get your clothes on, Cat. Anna needs you. Valentina is having her baby.”

  “Valentina?” I scramble for my T-shirt. “But she isn’t due for another four weeks.”

  “Well, I guess the baby doesn’t know that.” Margo pokes her head in as I pulled on a pair of leggings. “Come on!”

  Rafael, unconcerned at his nudity, squeezes my hand as I make for the tent flap. “Good luck,” he says, and I see the worry in his eyes. If the delivery doesn’t go well, we may not be able to get Valentina to the hospital in San Pedro in time.

  I rush out of the tent, close on Margo’s heels. “Is she in a lot of pain?” I ask nervously. There are no anesthetics in the infirmary. It’ll be the stick for poor Valentina.

  “Well,” says Margo. “She was shouting at her boyfriend—what’s his name?—that she was going to kill him in his sleep for doing this to her.”

  “Juan,” I say grimly. “He’s so nice, too. Always talking to her belly, kissing it.”

  Margo mimes gagging. We hear a piercing shriek from the direction of the infirmary and pick up the pace.

  “Cat, thank goodness,” says Anna when I arrive, looking immensely relieved. “Valentina is going to have her baby today. She is almost fully dilated.”

  Margo, who is hovering at the door, looks revolted. “Ugh,” she says, shuddering. “I’m out of here. Good luck.”

  “What can I do?” I ask, going to wash my hands. I scrub at them fiercely, attacking my fingernails with soap. Slipping into a makeshift gown, I glance at Valentina, who is pacing the tent. Every few minutes, she stops to howl in pain, grasping at her watermelon-like stomach in agony.

  “Time the contractions for me, please,” says Anna, handing me an old plastic Timex stopwatch. “They started last night after dinner, and have been slowly getting closer together.”

  “Okay,” I say, taking the watch. I pause. “The contractions—that’s when she’s screaming?”

  Anna raises her eyebrows at me. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling silly. “I’ve never seen a baby being born. Not in real life, anyway.” I think of birth scenes in movies, where labor and delivery are edited down to a five-minute montage of dramatic water-breaking and a bit of shouting before a Gerber-type baby emerges. Anna has warned me it isn’t like that in real life. That labor can go on for days, and that newborns are wrinkled, with weirdly shaped heads and covered in goo.

  I dutifully time the contractions, which are now less than two minutes apart. Anna motions for Valentina to climb back on the gurney. Juan hovers nearby, looking frightened.

  Anna pulls on a pair of gloves and examines Valentina, who doesn’t seem to mind that she is spread-eagled on a table for everyone to see. I recall my mother’s words about pain: that it is all-consuming, all-encompassing. That when you are in the throes of it, you lose sight of everything and everyone else.

  “The baby is still posterior,” Anna says grimly to me, in English. For the first time, I notice that she is unnerved. I watch as a bead of sweat trickles down the side of her head, caught in the crease of her slender neck. “I thought it would turn itself, but it hasn’t.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask, trying not to look alarmed. Clearly, Anna doesn’t want Valentina or Juan to know.

  “The baby is upside-down,” she explains. “It is face-up. To come out, it should be face-down. I’m going to have to go in and try to turn it around.” She’s breathing heavily, and I can tell she’s frightened.

  “Go in?” I stare at her blankly. “Go in where?”

  She raises her eyebrows at me again.

  “Oh,” I say, realizing. “Oh. I didn’t…” I don’t complete my thought, which was that I hadn’t ever thought of the vagina as a place, somewhere you can go in and carry out various objectives. I nod faintly at Anna, who is now instructing Valentina in Spanish to prop up her knees.

  I grab some wet rags and my wooden stick for Valentina to bite on, sensing it may prove useful during this exercise. “It’s okay,” I babble at her in a soothing tone. I lay a rag across her forehead, dabbing at her hairline. Her long, dark hair, usually a mass of sleek, dark curls, is matted with sweat. Her eyes, hollow with pain and exhaustion, are shadowed by the dark circles that come from a lack of sleep.

  Anna leans forward, and despite myself, I watch, fascinated, as she maneuvers her hands, a look of steely determination on her face.

  “I helped my mama do this once,” she whispers.

  “And?” I say in a low voice. I replace the cloth on Valentina’s forehead as her body goes rigid with another contraction.

  “It should work.” She grits her teeth, and I notice Valentina’s belly changing shape. Sections that were flat seem rounder, and rounder sections seem flat.

  “I think it’s working!” I say under my breath. Valentina lets out another moan, and I place the stick between her teeth.

  “Bite on this,” I tell her, feeling foolish. “It helps.” Thankfully, she doesn’t throw the stick back at me, though her eyes narrow to slits.

  There is a flood of water then, and I gasp as it soaks the bed, Anna, and the floor.

  “Her waters have broken,” announced Anna, looking pleased. “Things will move faster now.”

  “There’s so much water,” I say stupidly, staring at the growing puddle.

  “Yes,” agrees Anna. “Birth is very messy.”

  I think of my mother’s final days, of the sweat-soaked sheets, the IV bags, and dirty bedpans. Getting into and out of this world, it would seem, is a messy business.

  I look down again and feel my heart seize with fear. “Anna,” I say hoarsely, gesturing. “What is that?”

  Anna glances down, and her eyes widen. “She’s crowning!”

  “What does that mean?” I ask, panicked. I drop one of the used rags to the ground.

  Anna laughs. “That’s the baby’s head!” She claps her hands together and grabs a fresh pair of gloves. “Valentina, Estás lista?”

  Valentina makes a strangled sound in reply.

  “You have to push now,” Anna instructs her in Spanish. “Push!”

  Valentina screams so loudly that it’s all I can do not to jump. My hands shaking, I dab at her head and clutch at the stick, urging her to bite.

  “Push!”

  It takes several tries, but eventually the baby slides out whole, a slippery bundle covered in red and white slime. Anna grabs it and whacks it on the back. Promptly, it begins to cry.

  “It’s a girl,” says Anna softly, placing the baby on Valentina’s chest. “Es una niña.”

  Valentina, laughing now, reaches to grasp her infant. Juan, who has been cowering in a corner with half-closed eyes, beams now, his hand on Valentina’s shoulder.

  “Anna,” he says firmly, motioning toward the baby.

  Valentina smiles and nods, cradling the baby in her arms. “Anna Catalina.”

  I blink, startled. “Me?”

  The couple smile and nod at me. They don’t speak much English, but their meaning is clear. They are naming their baby for me and Anna, to say thank you. I am stunned into silence, marveling at the small perfection of the newborn as she stares into her mother’s eyes.

  Ch
apter 21

  Before

  “Dad?” My voice is hesitant. I’m dressed and ready for school, but my father, who usually leaves at the same time and has been known to give me a ride, is dressed in his boxers and a ratty old Cincinnati Reds T-shirt that I think predates my birth. He’s seated at our breakfast bar, half slumped over a bowl of Lucky Charms. There is no milk in the bowl.

  “What’s up, Cat?” His voice is full of forced cheer as he directs a spoonful of cereal to his mouth.

  “Don’t you have work?” I watch as he chews, waiting for his reaction to the lack of milk. He doesn’t react, and digs back in.

  “Term’s over,” he says quickly. “My assistants are doing the grading.”

  I frown. “You always go in,” I say. “Summer classes? Admin work? Writing?” I don’t know why I’m forcing it, but something doesn’t feel right.

  He avoids my stare. “I’m taking a break,” he says finally.

  “A break?”

  “Time off.” He puts the spoon down. “Stress leave.”

  “Oh.” I sit down hard at one of the kitchen table chairs, wincing as the hard wooden seat raps my tailbone through my skinny jeans. “When did that happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Well, I didn’t want to worry you,” he says, trying to sound casual. He picks his spoon up again, moves the little marshmallows around. “I’m fine, really, but the dean thought it might be best.”

  “The dean?” I narrow my eyebrows. Something is up. My dad is not ordinarily on the dean’s radar.

  “There was an issue, with some papers,” he says lamely. He scoops the marshmallows out and lines them up on the counter. One, two, three, four. He reorganizes them according the to the spectrum of the rainbow.

  “Jesus, Dad.” I bury my face in my hands.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says brusquely. “I’ll be fine.”

  “But—”

  “I have insurance for this. I’m still being paid sixty percent of my salary.”

  Sixty percent? That doesn’t sound like a lot—not when the medical bills are piling up like snow during a February storm. I feel like going over and smacking him. Where is the Dad who blasted my sixth-grade teacher for removing certain books from the classroom library? Who told off the overnight camp director on my behalf? Who spent upwards of four hours with me pouring over The Sound and the Fury when I had dissolved into tears, sure I would fail tenth-grade English?

  “I understand,” I say instead, trying to remain calm. “Are you seeing a doctor?”

  “Me?” He looks blank.

  “For the stress,” I say tightly. “The insurance company will want some kind of proof, I’m sure. Documentation.” So we can get the money, I add silently, gritting my teeth.

  “Oh.” He looks surprised. “I guess I should go over the paperwork.” He gestures somewhere behind him, even though all that’s there is the stove.

  I exhale loudly. “Do you want me to look it over?” I ask.

  “No, no,” he says quickly, at least having the decency to look abashed. “I’ll do it later.”

  “Right,” I say, even though we both know he isn’t going to do it. “Just book the appointment. We can’t afford to lose the benefits.”

  “Okay,” he says. He stares down at his bowl of cereal. “I forgot the milk.”

  “I know,” I say. Even though I am already late for school, I retrieve the milk from the fridge, carefully filling his bowl so that the Lucky Charms bob up and down like little buoys.

  “Thanks, Cat,” he says gratefully. “What would I do without you?”

  He absently pats my back as I leave, my book bag heavier than usual over my shoulder.

  ...

  A memory.

  I am five years old, and my father is driving me to kindergarten. We’re early, and he drives around the side streets and cul-de-sacs near the school, killing time.

  “Want to drive?” he asks me suddenly, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

  “Drive? The car?” Five-year-old me is beside myself with excitement. “The real car?”

  “Well, you’ve already driven the pretend one, so I think you’re ready.” He pulls over and unbuckles me from my booster seat in the back and helps me into the front onto his lap. I am giddy with anticipation. It’s a beautiful day in early fall, and the leaves have just started to change from green to amber and red and gold.

  “I can’t reach the pedals!” I kick my tiny legs in dismay.

  “I’ll do that part,” says Dad, smiling. “You steer.”

  “How?” I ask, suddenly nervous.

  He shows me. Left, right. Hand-over-hand. Ten and two, like a clock. I cannot tell time, but I wear a Cinderella watch, so I know what he means. I beam with importance.

  “Ready?” Dad turns the key in the ignition and the radio comes back on. I remember it clearly: “The Ketchup Song” was on. Big hit back when I was rocking preschool, I guess.

  “Ready!”

  It starts out well. I wobble a bit, left, right, but then I’ve got it. I’m clutching the wheel at ten and two and the car is heading straight. “I’m driving!” I shout, my voice full of glee. “I’m driving.”

  Then my hands slip. I try to recover, but the wheel turns too far to the right, and before I know it, we are up on the curb. There is a tree nearby, a stately old maple.

  My father moves swiftly. He grabs the wheel and quickly rights the vehicle. He stops the car and gives me a rueful glance.

  “We should probably go to school now.”

  My heart is pounding. I stare at the tree. “I almost hit the tree.”

  “No,” says Dad firmly. “I would never let that happen.”

  I bury my head in his shirt. It smells like him, like dry cleaning and Clorets gum. “I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be scared,” he says, kissing the top of my pony-tailed head. “I’ll take care of you, always, I promise. I’ll be there.”

  It was our secret. We never told Mom, not even when she noticed the tire looked damaged.

  Dad, I think silently now, as I sit at the back of my chemistry class, not hearing a word. Where are you now?

  ...

  I’m right, of course: my dad does need to see a physician to maintain the stress-leave benefits, so with my help—in between helping my mom and studying for algebra and geometry class—I arrange for him to see his family doctor.

  “What happened?” I ask as he leaves Dr. Bender’s office clutching a piece of white paper. I have accompanied him to this appointment to ensure he actually goes. I don’t trust him not to end up at a movie theater. Last week, instead of filing the insurance paperwork, he went to see Monsters University.

  “He says I’m depressed,” answers Dad, looking affronted.

  I exhale with relief. “Thank goodness.”

  “I’m not depressed,” he mutters as he clicks the car’s remote keyless entry. “I’m just grieving. My wife has cancer. How should I be? Why do I need to take pills?”

  “Dad,” I said patiently. “Think about the chips. About Monsters U?”

  “I still don’t see what the big deal with Monsters U is,” he grumbles. As if I’m being ridiculous for thinking it’s odd that a grown man would spend his afternoon at a Disney movie.

  I open the driver’s side door and slide in. He frowns. “You’re driving?”

  “Yes,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll stop at the pharmacy.”

  “I can go tomorrow.”

  “No, Dad.” My voice is firm. “I’ll drive. Get in.”

  The doctor has prescribed an antidepressant. “It takes six to eight weeks for it to work,” says the pharmacist. She reels off a list of side effects that include sleepiness and weight gain, two changes my dad doesn’t need. I press them into my father’s hand, praying that his adventure in prescription drugs is
more fruitful than mine. I picture my little blue pills swirling down the toilet, and ask the universe for the meds to work.

  “Did Dr. Bender suggest that you see someone?” I ask him later. Mom is asleep again, and the two of us are picking at a Hawaiian pizza. “A therapist?”

  “He did,” answers Dad, not looking at me. He takes a bite of pizza and chews it with deliberate slowness.

  “And?” I tap my fork against my plate expectantly.

  “And I said no,” he says bluntly.

  “Dad—”

  “You hate that therapist of yours. Why should I go?”

  I pick at a chunk of pineapple. “I don’t hate him.”

  “You do. You said even his beard makes you nauseous. Something about birds hatching.”

  “Yeah, but…” my voice trails off. He’s right, of course—I don’t like seeing Dr. Shapiro. But is it useful? Could it be? Might it be for him? I don’t know.

  I change the subject. We talk about the weather, school, municipal elections. We don’t mention Mom, depression, psychoactive medication, or therapy. At times, I feel like we are reading from the script of a play about a normal family.

  Dad takes another slice, his fifth. I want to tell him to take it easy, that rapid weight gain is only bound to make his problems worse at this point, but I stay silent. I am picking my battles now, and I am not done with therapy, at least not as it pertains to Dad, however hypocritical that may be. What’s one more slice of pizza, anyway, when you’re living on chips and licorice?

  Battle-picking, hypocrisy, fretting over nutrition. I feel like a parent, I realize. I stare at my father and feel a surge of anger. You said you would always take care of me, I want to shout. That you would be there. Frightened and full of despair, I stuff the rest of my slice into my mouth.

  Chapter 22

  After

  My exhilaration over the baby’s delivery is quickly tempered by Rafael’s impassioned speeches about how tiny Anna Catalina deserves to grow up in a free and safe society, not a poverty-stricken village in the jungle. I listen patiently, trying to be objective, still wary of the narcos and the promise of violent rebellion.