The Day of the Moon

by Graciela Limón

  “Where are we going?”

  Without thinking, her panicked hands lunged at the door. No matter how many times she pushed the handle up, down, it would not open; it had been locked from the outside.

  She began to flail her legs wildly in the air. When her bare feet did not land on the padded back of the seat, several of the blows found a mark. One landed squarely in the driver’s right ear. He hunched over the steering wheel and grunted with pain. The next barrage grazed her father’s cheek, but then he twisted around in his seat and was able to grasp both her ankles in a tight grip. His fists gripped her so tightly that she let out a moan. The car halted abruptly.

  As the driver waited before iron doors for the arrival of a gatekeeper, there was silence except for the whirr of the car engine and the heavy breathing of its three passengers.

  Isadora stopped struggling, and Don Flavio let go of her legs. She pressed her face against the car window to read the words inscribed on the wall that loomed above them. Sanatorio de San Juan. Zapopan, Jalisco. Through the front windshield, as her eyes distended in fright, she saw the curving façade of the asylum.

  No, it was a convent. Perhaps even a church.

  But as the car approached the building, Isadora began to hear a woman shrieking in the distance. She tilted her head and turned her ears in the direction of the screaming. Brígida had described such a place to her once, a place where men hid away disobedient women. At first, the insane screaming seemed to be far off. It began to draw closer until it was almost on top of her.

  Then she knew. Isadora’s hands jerked up to find her mouth wide open with terror. She tried to clasp her hands over that wailing, gaping hole, but she had lost control over her body.

  The large front doors of the sanitarium were yanked open and four men ran down the steep stairway. Isadora caught sight of their uniforms as the rear door of the car was unlocked. She lunged in the opposite direction, trying to avoid their groping hands. She pounded at the closed window with her fists, and when the glass shattered, she did not mind the shards as they penetrated her wrists and forearms.

  She had been wearing a nightgown and thin robe, and these ripped apart as she was dragged from the car, but she was oblivious to her nakedness and to the pain inflicted on her breasts, shoulders, and abdomen by those pulling and wrenching hands. She continued to jerk her arms and legs violently as she screamed. With a strength that caught her restrainers by surprise, she wiggled and contorted her body until she pulled herself from their grip. Feeling herself free, she raced, stumbling and tripping, up the stairway and deep into the inner courtyard of the asylum.

  The columns of the cloister loomed in front of her. Its potted ferns and geraniums glistened like black monsters in that hour before dawn. She ran around the plants, stubbing her toes and cutting her bare feet against the sharp tiled floor. She crashed into a top-heavy planter that blocked her way, sending it smashing to the floor; dirt and fronds lashed up at her. After circling the courtyard frantically several times, panting and out of breath, she ran headlong and fell into a fountain that she had not seen.

  The men finally yanked her, gasping and stupefied, from the cold water and held on to her. Isadora heard one man breathing hard through his mouth as he grasped her left arm and plunged a needle into it, unloading the contents of a syringe. Her last sensations before drifting into unconsciousness were of water streaming out of her nose and of tile cutting into her knees.

  She could hear voices, but her body was paralyzed and she could not speak. She was lying on a hard surface and covered by something that felt like a sheet. Although her eyes were shut, the light of an overhanging lamp filtered in; whirling white and black spheres drifted by in the void beneath her eyelids.

  “Señor Betancourt, we’ll have to put your daughter through a series of tests before any conclusions can be reached.”

  Isadora’s ears strained to hear a response, but there was only silence.

  “What I mean, Don Flavio, is that we can’t just keep her here without the strongest evidence that she is, indeed, demented. Remember, please, that this sanitarium is only for the most extreme cases. If your daughter has been showing signs of melancholy, or any other symptoms, this doesn’t mean that she has lost her mind.”

  Isadora struggled to move but she could not—not a finger, or a toe, or an elbow. She wondered why it was that she could hear and yet not move. After several minutes, she detected her father’s heavy breathing.

  “Doctor Alférez, she is demented; she tried to kill me. I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word for it. She inherited it from her mother, believe me. She, too, lost her mind, but God was good to her. He took her to Him.”

  Her father’s lies began to steady Isadora. She remembered what had happened. She had learned of Jerónimo’s murder. She was glad that she had tried to kill her father.

  “But—”

  “This stranger is no longer my daughter. She died some time ago, I tell you. In her place we have this woman who has shown her demented condition in acts of depravity and violence.”

  Jerónimo’s face penetrated the darkness. She thought of Alondra. Then she stopped being afraid. Isadora felt a finger peeling the eyelid from her left eye. A pinpointed shaft of light inundated the pupil, and then the lid clamped back in place as the finger moved away. She heard a deep sigh.

  “Still, Don Flavio—forgive me, for there is no offense intended— but I cannot take only your word. We are obliged to—”

  The voice halted abruptly and there was rustling or shuffling of what sounded like paper. There was movement in the room. A window opened, and she felt a gust of air against her face.

  “You will get this on a monthly basis, doctor. It will increase with each year of her life. I see also that you are in need of new equipment; this table should be replaced by a more modern one. Be assured that we will guarantee the improvement of your institution.”

  There was more silence, then the click of an opening and shutting door. Fear shot through her again, compelling her to scream, but the howl echoed only in her mind; her mouth was frozen shut.

  Isadora understood that she was abandoned. She realized that she would be isolated for the rest of her life and that it had been her father who had condemned her.

  Chapter 10

  Isadora Bentacourt’s earliest recollection was of being curious about Tía Brígida. After that, it was Jerónimo Santiago who filled almost every moment of her childhood. Even when she was with her father, even when they ate together or rode out to the llano, her mind was usually filled with thoughts of her aunt or the Rarámuri boy.

  One night, when Isadora was twelve years old, she heard someone singing, or maybe it was sighing. Although she had been in a deep sleep, the lilting sound awoke her. She slipped out of bed and crept slowly down the corridor. As she moved, she looked around, then up. The shadows that clung to the vaulted ceilings like giant black birds scared her, as did the elongated windows along one side of the hallway. They seemed to be pointed eyes that followed her. All of this frightened her, but she wanted to discover what it was that she was hearing.

  “¡Ay, Dios!”

  Isadora was so close to Tía Brígida’s room now that she could make out words that seeped from underneath the door. She stopped for a moment, undecided, wanting to run back to the safety of her room, but curiosity held her back. Then she heard more. This time it was a name.

  “Velia Carmelita!”

  Brígida’s voice was soft. Isadora thought it sounded almost like the beginning of a song, and she felt her fear melting away. She moved as close to the door as she could and pressed an ear to the carved panel.

  “Velia Carmelita!”

  There it was again! Isadora had not been mistaken: her aunt was calling out her mother’s name. Brígida’s voice was so beautiful that the girl could not help herself when she put her hand on the bronze handle and turned it. The door opened almost without a push; the vast bedroom loomed in front of her. A pale light flooded the pla
ce, and Isadora saw Brígida sitting on the edge of her bed. Now she heard her voice clearly, but she still could not make out whether Brígida was singing or crying.

  The girl hesitated for a few seconds, then began to inch toward her aunt. Brígida suddenly became quiet and the faint swish of Isadora’s bare feet filled the room. Brígida jerked around. This frightened the girl so much that she ran out of the room. In her white nightgown, Isadora’s flight formed a streak of light in the gloom until she disappeared from sight.

  When she reached her room, she was breathing heavily from the strain of running and from fright. She jumped back into bed and covered her head with the blanket, giggling and crying at the same time. She felt sorry that she had run; she wished that she had stayed to hear her aunt’s song. As sleep overcame her, Isadora thought that she would have liked for Tía Brígida to hold her in her arms.

  Early next morning, Isadora rode out with her father, as they did nearly every day. That morning, however, she made up her mind that she would not listen to her father’s parables, nor about the rules and barriers that governed women.

  “Papá, why does Tía Brígida act funny?”

  Flavio abruptly halted his horse, taking the bridle of her mount at the same time.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she sighs a lot, and she sings. Don’t you hear her? I think it happens nearly every night.”

  He sucked air through his teeth. Now Brígida was affecting his daughter. He knew now that he could no longer put off the subject.

  “Because she’s crazy.”

  “Crazy? How?”

  Isadora was puzzled. She frowned because she did not see the connection. Trying to be patient, Flavio pursed his lips, but he could not help the scowl that made him look angry. He did not want to speak about his sister, even if it concerned Isadora.

  “When someone has everything—food, clothing, a fine house, servants, anything she wants in the world—and still passes her days and nights acting like a fool, that’s a crazy woman. Don’t you think it’s time for our cup of chocolate?” He pressed his spurs into his horse and galloped away.

  Isadora stayed behind a few moments, considering what her father had said, then she followed him. While they were eating, they chatted, but although Brígida was not part of their talk, both were thinking of her.

  Isadora would not be put off. After breakfast she went to the kitchen to look for Ursula. She finally found her outside, at the rear of the house, where she was ordering flour, rice, wine, and other things from a traveling merchant. The girl waited until Ursula was finished.

  “Ursula, why does Tía Brígida act like she does?”

  The older woman looked at Isadora. For ten years she had watched her grow from a child of three, and during that time she had come to love her. Ursula had not married; she had taken Isadora as her daughter. Now one of the questions that she had known would be asked one day had been asked. She turned away as she poured water into a jug. “How do you mean?”

  “At night she sings and hums and walks through the corridors.”

  “That’s not so strange.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No. She sleeps during the day.”

  Isadora wrinkled her forehead and put her hand on Ursula’s shoulder. She wanted her attention.

  “Why does she call out my mother’s name?”

  Ursula put down the jug, wiped her hands on her apron and looked at the girl. She was like her father. Her eyes, her hair, her face, her developing body. This, Ursula told herself, makes her like Brígida as well. But as she looked hard at Isadora, she saw what she had seen in her since she was a child. Somewhere around the edges of her forehead, the corners of her lips, the slope of her cheeks— there, if anyone looked and remembered, was Velia Carmelita. Ursula knew, because she remembered Don Flavio’s wife, even if she was yet very young when the woman died. She wrapped her hands in the apron and tilted her head. Her eyes squinted in the morning sun.

  “Well, niña, I’m not sure, but I think it’s because she loved your mother very much.”

  “But …”

  “When you love someone and that person dies, a part of your spirit goes with her. It is a sadness that comes to take the place of what used to be yours.”

  When Ursula heard her own words, she realized that she was speaking without really knowing of what she spoke. She had as yet not lost someone she loved, someone like Isadora.

  “But she sings, Ursula. People sing when they’re happy, not sad.”

  “Sometimes we sing when we’re sad. We do this especially in our dreams.”

  Having said this, Ursula freed her hands from the apron, patted down a few strands of hair that had come loose in the breeze, and returned to the kitchen. She left Isadora alone, but when she looked back, she saw that the girl was still standing where she had left her.

  That day, Isadora decided to face her Tía Brígida. She did not wait until nighttime because she was afraid of losing her nerve; darkness frightened her. So she waited until after the meal, when almost everyone in the hacienda was taking a siesta and there would be no one watching, not even her father.

  Making an effort to be brave, Isadora headed for Brígida’s bedroom. She even took off her shoes, so that there would not be any noise. This time, as she walked through the corridor, everything seemed different. The windows weren’t elongated, peeping eyes; they just let in the afternoon sun. The high ceilings did not conceal ugly birds, but seemed to give shelter, protection.

  When she reached Brígida’s door, Isadora knocked softly. There was no response, so she rapped again, louder this time. As she pressed an ear to the panel, she was startled when the door opened unexpectedly. Brígida stood facing the girl; she was dressed in a full-length black dress with a collar that reached to her chin; and the sleeves were so long, only her white, tapered hands showed.

  “Tía …”

  Isadora was near her aunt nearly every evening at dinner. This was, however, the first time that she had ever faced her alone, in her room, away from her father and the servants. Isadora knew intuitively that if her father were to find out, she would be punished.

  As she stared up at her aunt, she realized for the first time that Brígida’s dress was old-fashioned, that she was tall and very thin. She also noticed that her face was not hard, as it usually was at table. It was not like the plaster that covered the walls, after all, and although Brígida said nothing with her lips, Isadora saw that she was speaking with her eyes.

  “Come in, Isadora.”

  The girl walked past her aunt, timidly at first, then with more confidence as she neared the center of the chamber. She looked around and saw photographs, some so small that she could not make out who was in them. Others were yellowed or even covered with a purple tint. What most caught Isadora’s attention was that there were pictures everywhere: on shelves, walls, chests, tables, even scattered on the floor.

  “Tía, that was me last night.” Isadora blurted out the first thing that entered her mind. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. Forgive me, please.”

  “I know that it was you. Come, sit here by the window with me.”

  She pointed at a low bench beneath the window. As they sat, Isadora saw that her aunt was looking at her intently. After a few moments, Brígida took Isadora’s chin in her hands and moved the young face slowly from one side to the other, looking, scrutinizing. Isadora was surprised to feel the warmth of Brígida’s hands; she had imagined that they would be cold, like the ice that clogged up on puddles sometimes during winter.

  Then Brígida folded her hands in her lap without speaking. Isadora was remembering why she had come to her aunt in the first place, but she was afraid of asking the question. She fumbled with a fold in her skirt, pretending to smooth it out, only to crumple it again. Several minutes went by, still Brígida said nothing; she merely gazed at Isadora, who finally decided to speak. Her face took on a serious expression.

  “Tía, do people sing when they’re sa
d?”

  Inwardly Isadora scolded herself; this was not the question she wanted to ask! But it was too late.

  “Yes.”

  The girl smiled weakly, breathed in hard, and tried again. “Ursula says that you loved my mother. Did you?”

  Isadora did not take her eyes from Brígida’s. She thought that her aunt’s look was soft, serene.

  “Yes. I loved her. I still love her above all things.”

  The girl was taken aback for a moment. Her aunt’s response was simple, yet there was something about it that bewildered Isadora. She flashed a smile, wrinkling her nose and forehead. She felt happy that she had asked the question, although she would not understand the answer until years later, until she had loved and lost Jerónimo Santiago. But for the moment, Isadora felt at ease with Brígida. She decided that her aunt was not crazy, after all. Isadora wiggled on the seat, edging closer.

  “What were you like when you were a little girl?”

  Brígida shrugged her shoulders and moved her head from side to side. She shifted in the seat, thinking.

  “Well, I looked like you.”

  “Did you have a mother and a father?”

  “Of course. Everyone does.”

  “I mean … what were they like?”

  “Well, my father was from Spain. He had a grocery.”

  “Where?”

  “He owned a grocery store in Arandas.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Far from here.”

  Isadora saw that her hurried questions were annoying her aunt, so she decided to keep quiet for a few minutes. If Brígida asked her to leave, she would; if not, Isadora had more questions. After a while, she felt confident enough to ask for more information.

  “What about your mother?”

  Brígida cocked her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. She appeared to be remembering, summoning images and places.