Hungry Woman in Paris (32 page)

I stared at the ceiling after Armando was sleeping. Could it be that I’d just needed time to explore the world, play around,
“sow my oats,” and come back to finally be a responsible married woman?

No one had heard from my father in two days, so I asked Armando to take me to my parents’ house. I inspected the house and
put together the pieces of his disappearance. He had taken enough clothes and all the money under the mattress and all my
mother’s jewels. I didn’t want to assume the worst—that he had taken off to Mexico with his mistress—so I pretended my father
just needed time to think. Perhaps, like me, he needed time to live life before returning to commit himself to being my mother’s
full-time nurse. How could my father leave her after all she’d put up with to be with him?

I suppose I should say more about my father; otherwise you’ll assume he was an insensitive macho jerk who only made sexist
comments. He was obviously more than that and actually had good qualities too. Like many immigrant men he came to the United
States without papers and was deported many times until he was able to get a green card and bring his family here. He could
have been a real macho jerk and abandoned my mother in Mexico with their ten kids and never returned, but he did return for
her and even sent money. He was an extraordinary worker and had many heartbreaks, like my mother, but this isn’t his story.

As I closed the drawers in my parents’ room I came across a white envelope with my name on it. It was written in Luna’s handwriting
and I could tell by her lines she’d been shaking when she’d attempted to scribble my name. She’d probably penned it just as
her body was starting to go into shock. I could not pick up the letter. I thought I was strong enough and ready, but a tiny
voice still screamed from within, “She’s gone forever.” I was frozen for a few minutes until Armando approached me cautiously,
as if he were treating a shock victim.

“What is that?” Armando asked when he saw me staring at the letter, unable to pick it up.

“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head and myself back to reality and left the room.

“¿Canela, eres tú?” my mother called out to me as soon as I walked in. After three days of being in the hospital I was her
only full-time visitor and she could tell it was me by the sound of my footsteps.

“Si, Mama, soy yo.” Yes, Mom, it’s me, I replied in Spanish.

“So did he leave me?” my mother asked. My mother always got to the point and could see through everyone. It might be the only
trait we shared. I hesitated to answer her and was about to make up a lie when she turned to me. Blind or not, she looked
at my soul and I could not hide.

“Did he take off with his mistress?” she asked matter-of-factly.

“Yes,” I replied, not wanting to bullshit her.

She cursed, said every possible obscenity in Spanish, and when she was done she took a minute to reflect.

“Hmm, donde el va, yo ya vine.” Where he is going I’ve already been was my mother’s way of saying she had already planned
for betrayal.

“Why did you let it get this bad?” I asked her.

“Because he would have left me sooner. I already knew about the latest one, and when I refused to go back to Mexico after
he retired I could tell he was itching for something different. I never told anyone about this so no one would worry and get
all emotionally traumatized like you…”

“I’m not traumatized!” I lied.

“Yes, you are! That’s how come you never trust men. You’d rather control them, manipulate them to be the jerks you don’t want,
than surrender to love.” She said it like a wise woman on the mountain. I wanted to respond to her but instead I stayed silent
for a few minutes, letting her words sink in. I remember being naked and blindfolded and Henry on top, kissing me. I had surrendered
to love and that’s why “I love you” had slipped out of me. I thought about Henry at the airport and it was clear for the first
time that we did share love. It started out as sex, but I did love him.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m blind now, but I can see everything,” she said proudly. “Did you sleep with Armando last night?”
she asked, her voice telling me she already knew the answer.

“Why do you care so much about Armando?” I whined.

“So am I right?”

“None of your business…” I took a deep breath and changed the subject. “You were so mean to withhold the letter from
me… but thank you for not opening it.”

“I wanted to, but I was scared Luna’s ghost would show up and haunt me. You know how those tortured spirits can be, tu sabes.
So what does it say?” my mother asked casually, as though she were requesting the plot of last night’s telenovela.

“I haven’t read it,” I said, cutting off that inquiry.

“¡No te creo!” She shook her head incredulously. “Why haven’t you opened the letter?”

“I can’t get myself to do it. What if she blames me?” I confessed.

“Don’t be a pendeja. She would never do that. You did nothing,” my mother said, trying to console me with her tough talk.

“I know… I did nothing,” I said, studying the worn tiles on the floor. I took a deep breath and looked out the window,
trying to think of something else to talk about.

“So what are we going to do now?” my mother asked, also taking a deep breath.

“What do you mean we?” I asked.

“Pues, we. You’re not getting married; I’m not getting any younger or prettier… It looks like our destinies are tied
together.” I started laughing when she made that assumption.

“So? This isn’t
Like Water for Chocolate
. I don’t have to take care of you; I’m not the oldest or the youngest. That’s what convalescent homes are for,” I said jokingly.
My mother burst out crying and I felt ashamed for making that joke. I hugged her and told her I was only teasing and of course
I would take care of her. I held her in my arms like the child I would never have.

Later that day Armando and I went to the cemetery and I placed a basket of different tamales on Luna’s grave, including ones
with raisins, and her favorite desserts. I apologized to her for not coming to visit her sooner, but since she’d visited me
so often in Paris I knew she didn’t mind. I also apologized for not having the strength to read the letter yet. I felt like
such a coward. I looked over at Armando playing along with me and thought, What a wonderful man—how could I have left him
like I did? Now I could understand how Rosemary must have felt when her mother died and her ex-boyfriend was there. Having
someone next to you at your most painful time can make you fall in love with him again.

A
rmando and I pushed my mother’s wheelchair into his Mercedes and we took her back to her house. He folded up her wheelchair
while I escorted her by the hand up the stairs and through the front door. We walked through the living room and flashes of
the past appeared. I saw my parents arguing in the doorway. My mother accused my father of cheating and wanted to open the
door so she could walk over to her neighbor’s house and go kick the shit out of his mistress. My father blocked the door so
she wouldn’t go make a scene and embarrass his mistress in front of her children. My mother slapped him and pushed him furiously
and he cowered and took it, trying to hold her hands down. She threw thunder and lightning at a man who had no umbrella.

We continued walking into the kitchen and I saw more flashes of my past. While my parents argued about the affair, I stuffed
myself with corn drowned in butter and wished his mistress would die, but not her daughter, who was my best friend. My mother
stopped walking and placed her hand on the counter. Another flash in the kitchen, where I saw my mother telling me, “If you
are not going to do it with love, then don’t do it at all.” Then she kicked me out of the kitchen and banned me from coming
in. This time I found it funny and laughed out loud.

“Why are you laughing?” my mother asked.

“You kicked me out of the kitchen,” I told her.

“No, I didn’t,” she snapped, embarrassed to be outed this way in front of her potential son-in-law.

“Yes, you did,” I told her and reminded her of all the details. She remembered the incident and apologized to me for all the
bad she had ever done to me. I felt embarrassed finally getting her to admit it. I felt like an ungrateful daughter and was
ashamed to hear my mother humiliate herself on my behalf.

“Stop. I know you always meant well. Like they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

“Yes, I was a devil to you; but I just thought in the end you would appreciate what I was doing. Tell me, did I do wrong getting
you and Armando back together? It’s just a matter of time before he proposes,” she said, loud enough so he could hear. I shook
my head, knowing my mother would not change. What did I do to her in my past life to deserve this? I thought to myself.

After we placed my mother in bed, Armando showed me how to give my mother insulin shots and explained to me how to read her
numbers on the meter. I didn’t want him to go, but I was her nurse, not him.

The next morning I dressed my mother and saw her naked for the first time since I was five. On her body were so many stretch
marks, like a road map of her life, displaying all the ways she’d tried to stretch and mold herself for everyone else, trying
to be all things to all people.

“It’s good your father left me,” my mother said to me when I was brushing her hair. “I was turning into a bitter old woman.
Who would want to be married to me?” she confided, feeling sorry for herself. I tried not to agree or disagree with her and
just listened compassionately.

“I gave your papa everything,” she said in Spanish. She began to cry, recalling her life of pure sacrifice. “I never did anything
for myself. Never gave myself pleasure… That’s why I began to hate him so much. He never sacrificed himself for me the
way I did for him. I don’t blame him for his affairs. I should have had one too, but like a dummy I thought I would go to
hell. Hell is living the life your mother and the Catholic Church tell you to live,” she said, practically spitting.

I was at the Louis Vuitton store with Henry, dressed all in black. The store was closed, but somehow through a back door we
had managed to break in without setting off the alarm. We quickly made our way to the second floor. With flashlights we searched
for the burgundy crocodile bag on the second floor. I grabbed the purse and ran to the section with the suitcases. Henry ran
alongside me and kissed me ferociously on top of the suitcases. The smell of leather and crocodile made my nipples erect.
Henry tore off my blouse and licked my hard nipples. We continued to take off our clothes and played around naked on top of
the suitcases. Henry took the burgndry crocodile purse and stimulated my clitoris with it. The sight of the purse between
my legs made me even wetter. I closed my eyes while Henry continued where the purse left off. When I opened my eyes to look
for Henry, he was gone. I searched around the store naked, holding my flashlight. I saw some leather coats moving and knew
he was hiding in the leather coats. I dug in and caught an ankle. I fell on top of him and started kissing his legs and worked
my way to his face. On my way to his face his body had transformed into a woman’s body and I found myself French-kissing a
woman. I stopped, pulled away, and saw myself naked on the floor. I looked at my hands and at my body and wondered what was
going on. The shock was too much and I yelled.

“What’s wrong?” Armando said, next to me in bed. I awoke from my wet dream to find Armando shaking me to wake up. I stared
at him blankly, wondering what had happened to the burgundy crocodile bag, before I realized it was a dream.

“What were you dreaming? You had a nightmare,” he informed me as he studied my pupils.

“I had a… I was having a dream that I was making love to a… woman,” I divulged. Armando’s eyes lit up with excitement.

“Tell me more,” he urged.

“Well, it started out being an androgynous body and then it became a woman and then it was me. I was making love to myself.”
I didn’t want to reveal that before it was a woman it was Henry. “What do you think it means?” Armando thought about it for
a few seconds and smiled playfully.

“It could be that you have lesbian tendencies… or that you want to have more intimacy with yourself,” he concluded. “So
which do you think?”

“It’s probably that I’ve never really loved myself—that’s why the thought of making love to myself was so frightening,” I
confessed.

“I make love to you and it’s beautiful; you’re beautiful,” he added and put his arm around me to comfort me. We fell back
on the bed with my head buried in his armpit like a little kid hiding from La Llorona. Armando turned off the lights and I
was still frightened, shaking in my soul, wondering what it really meant.

Armando was too perfect; his only flaw was that he loved me too much. When he proposed I pretended to be surprised and took
back the original ring he had bought me for his first proposal. The news quickly spread and a date not too far into the future
was set. Armando had arranged for my mother to have a nurse who would do most of the injections and spare me that painful
duty. One night while we were cuddling he said he would go crazy if he ever lost me again. I shared with him my suicide attempt
and he convinced me that I needed to talk to someone about that. He had a psychiatrist friend who owed him a favor and that
doctor was able to fit me in.