Apart From Love (10 page)

The ceiling loomed over my head, and the floor was white and shiny, and a smell rose from it, a pungent smell of some cleaning detergent. Me, I looked around me, and now I could see that the room had several other hospital beds, all of which seemed as shaky, and as high as the one in which I was trapped, on account of being set, somehow, on wheels.
 

I could make out some outlines, white outlines of bodies on white sheets. A few stretched flat on their backs; others, like, curled in the shape of a question mark.
 

Them women, I gathered, they was just like me: having a situation, and letting someone take care of it for them, and trying to forget, and heal from that which, as ma said, had to be done.
 

All of them seemed to be caged, much like me. Their faces was washed out, their expressions—numb. They was just knocked, like, out of their senses.
 

Looking at them I became kinda curious. I asked myself, who was the one screaming, ‘cause they all seemed to be so sleepy, so eerily quiet, even though from time to time you could see a head turning, or a hand lifting or falling.
 

And me, I even became angry, madly angry at that unseen woman, whose voice pierced me. She roared, arousing something in my heart which was so annoying, so alarming, so crazed even—until at last I thought, Enough! Just shut the hell up! Why isn’t nothing being done here, I mean like, anything to silence her! Slap the madwoman! Restrain her! Strap her in a straightjacket! This is a clinic, after all! Tie her up, so she can’t stir up trouble no more!
 

And on that note, all of a sudden it came to me: somehow I knew, right then, that she was no other—no one else but me.

And still unable to stop myself from wailing, I began to listen, I mean, really listen to my own voice. I tried to take apart the different notes flying—with such force, such anguish—out of my throat.
 

I could hear different breaths, different speech sounds. Some was like, open, some—partially blocked. Finally I made a complete sense of it all. It was then that at last, I got it.
 

“Ma,” I heard me raving, on and on and on, “Ma, take me, take me from here, take me, ma, please! Take me before it is too late!”
 

Little by little I regained control over myself. And the voice—my voice—which by now was like, hoarse from shouting, became softer and softer still, until, at last, it faded away.
 

I laid there exhausted, trying to catch my breath, asking myself, When would she come? When would she take me back, take me home?
 

And I knew right then that I won’t never be quite the same. This was the day that changed me. From now on, my life would be measured not by a stretch of years, my fourteen years—but by the depth of this pain, this sorrow.
 

So I asked myself, What could I bring back, what would I remember out of it?
 

With some effort I recalled being led into the operation room, trembling a little in that skimpy paper gown, being told to mount the bed, and like, feeling them fingers—so cold on my outstretched arm—as the nurse had tried, several times, to find my vein.
 

But then, after that I couldn’t recall nothing, nothing but that screaming, that goddam earsplitting screaming in my head. Thank God that was over.

I went back in my head, searching for an earlier moment, the moment I’d stopped in front of the entrance door, shedding tears, even kicking the stairs and pounding the wall with my fist, refusing to go into that clinic. I recalled arguing with ma, pleading with her to let me go, let me turn back, ‘cause it was a school day, and I shouldn’t miss it, really.
 

But she insisted that what I shouldn’t miss was my future, because it was no good for me to repeat her mistakes, and if I did better in school, and scored better grades, especially in math, and learned, at long last, how to subtract my age from hers, I would know just exactly what she meant.
 

At any rate, keeping the baby was out of the question, ‘cause it would, like, screw up my entire life. After all, she said, I was still a little girl myself, and despite thinking myself a woman I knew nothing, really, absolutely not a thing about parenting. And what’s more, I didn’t have no partner, no man with whom I could share the burden.
 

And by
burden
she meant, raising a child; which made me feel awkward, and like a burden myself.
 

At last I found myself having to obey her, because like, part of me reckoned she meant well, and she was right, too. And anyway, as everyone says, ma knows best—even though she went on dating Johnny for a whole month after that.
 

But the other part of me recoiled in fear at the thought, the mere thought of entering that door. I didn’t want no procedure, ‘cause I wanted so bad to hold on to the baby. In spite of everything ma had just said, I believed I was, like, destined to have him. Me, I could see, yes, I could just picture what lied ahead.

My little one would gurgle and coo right here, in my arms. I would be brushing my lips over his scalp—ever so gentle—careful not to touch nowhere close to the tender spot, right there at the top. I could almost feel the fine fuzz of his hair, real soft, tickling my cheek.
 

In my head I could kiss, I could almost swallow his tiny fingers. They would wrap around my finger, their nails so pink, so incredibly clear. And the little hands, they would stroke my hair or like, search for my breast.
 

Then I would touch the nipple to my baby’s lips, and watch him latch on and like, suck, suck, swallow, breathe; suck, suck, swallow, breathe.
 

All the while his eyes would be fixed on me, curious to see, to separate my face out of that blurry chaos, that first, misty sight of lights and of shadows. And so I promised myself: I would give him that which I never got. I would become such a good mama, like no mama ever was! I would keep him safe right here, close to my heart.
 

The loss of this hope, that was the thing that was so painful. I couldn’t hold it back, my grief. It came like, rushing, bursting out of me as I was lying there—even before I awoke, before I took full control of my body, or regained my spirit. It came out with every breath, every roar as it blasted off, soaring into the air above me. The roar of a wounded tigress.
 

This was the Anita whose voice I heard, for the first time in my life, that day twelve years ago.
 

Because who the hell cares? Who cares, really, if
there’s still time
, and who cares if
it’s not too late
, when your arms is empty. Who cares about the future, when your destiny is lost, and your promise—aborted, and by God, there’s no way, no way no more to undo the damage.
 

A girl, a wild girl with green, kittenish eyes, that’s how most people see me in their head, how they choose to fancy me. But then, who’re they to decide? Can they hear what’s inside, in my head? Me, I know different. There’s a voice, there’s a roar of a tigress in me, like, a fierce mama tigress, ready to leap into action and do anything, anything to protect her cub.
 

Beware, because this, you see, is the Anita I am today.

As Told by Ben

A
lready she has a blue mark on her arm, and another one on her thigh, maybe more. And it is unclear at this point if these have happened earlier, when she collapsed, or in the last five minutes since my father found her, during which he has been trying, in vain, to lift her by himself. When the fact finally occurred to him that in his condition, he was too clumsy for the task, he made up his mind to call for help and so, here I am.
 

Anita is lying there, legs folded, in the worst possible corner in this corridor, which is poorly lit and even worse, poorly ventilated. I slip one hand under her back, and another one under her knees, and pick her up. I find myself surprised not only that she has fainted all of a sudden, not only that she is now in my arms, untouchable and yet so close, her head bobbing up and down over my shoulder with each step I take—but more than anything, surprised at how light her body is.
 

How can she be pregnant, I ask myself, and immediately answer by asking, What do I know. Her heart must be working harder now, working for two, really. No wonder she is lightheaded. Anita, I guess, is off-balance because for her, this must be a time of change.

Once inside their bedroom I lay her down, roll her knees over to the center of the bed, turning her away from the edge, and place a pillow under her head. Then I rise away from her, to throw the windows open.
 

Hearing the squeak of his wheelchair behind me, I turn to my father. I look at him as if to say, Well, what now? And he returns a look with an equal measure of confusion, as if to ask, Look, Ben, can you tell, is she breathing?

I snatch a small, hand-held mirror from the dresser by her side and feeling important—at least as important as a TV brain surgeon—I hold it to her mouth. “Yes,” I report, because in no time, the glass has become clouded. “So? Now what? Shouldn’t you call someone, or take her to an obstetrician? I mean, just to make sure—”

“I’ll call aunt Hadassa,” he says. “For sure, she will know what to do.”

I can hear the wheels turning on his way back to the hall, then, a dial tone, and his voice. “Listen, there’s a problem,” he says, in an urgent tone. “Yes. No, this time it's not me. It’s Anita.”

There is a brief pause, after which he goes on to say, “Well... I wish I knew. No. I have no idea what happened, exactly. She was making breakfast, fussing over it in her own, excessive way. And she was just fine. I mean, she was fine one moment and then, the next moment she is lying there, flat on the floor. Just like that. So, can you come? I need you here. Who said you are not welcome? Why, now what gave you that idea?”

He pauses to listen and then, in a reassuring tone of voice, he promises, “Really, you are. Yes, you are welcome here. Always. And Frida. Yes, of course. And Fruma too,” he says, sounding as if all three of these women have just descended, with a heavy thud, right on top of his shoulders. “Absolutely. Listen, this is no time for games. Well, seriously now, when will you be here?”

The conversation drags on in the background. Meanwhile, I bend over Anita to check her pulse. I place a wet towel over her feverish forehead, and unbutton her shirt, to make sure she can breathe with no obstructions.
 

I try to avoid looking at her body—but still, I can see the ticklish point under her chin, and the long line of her neck, which is plunging into the collar, and the jugular vein fluttering there, and the nipple, half of which is peeking out from the shadow, down there under the opening of the shirt.
 

Her ribcage starts flaring up now with rapid, disorderly breathing, as if to escape a nightmare. This, I figure, is something she must face alone. And so I turn away from her and take a searching look around the room.

For the most part, it looks familiar: the same freestanding, oval mirror, tilted there, in the corner. The same four poster bed, which as I recall, was delivered in boxes from a manufacturer in North Carolina, and which took my parents two days to assemble, because the instructions were, unfortunately, less than clear, and so they nearly gave up.
 

Still, there are a number of changes here. First, I miss seeing their wedding portrait which, years ago, used to be displayed quite prominently, in a thick, richly decorated frame, suspended from a nail right there, above the headboard. All that remains of it now is some plaster, smeared in a rough, hasty manner, in a sloppy attempt to fill in the hole of the nail; also, a rectangular outline up on the wall, where the frame used to hang, and where the paint still retains its dark, nearly original tone; while around the edges, the paint has faded a long time ago.

And second, I miss seeing the pure white silk sheets, which used to wrap so neatly, so tightly over this bed. They were embroidered in the corner with an elegant monogram, designed, of course, by my mother. It was an overlay, I think, interlacing two glyphs: a slanted, longhand N, combining some of its decorative strokes with an L: Natasha over Leonard.