¿Donde esta el bebe?
Violeta was breathing but she was still under water as if she had grown gills overnight. She could hear the shuffling of feet; the hush of secrets being pushed into dark corners. Everything was muffled. She tried opening her eyes but they were stuck together. She knew she was not supposed to see or hear or know. She clearly didn’t know - anything. She was still under water, caught in a wave that lasted for two days but now the water was calm. Everything and everyone had finally left her alone.
Violeta’s young adolescent body was curled into a tight ‘G’. “Heh” she sounded out the letter softly: A, BEH, SEH, DEH, E, EFE, HEH[1]…. She realized she had been repeating the alphabet to herself over and over. How long had she been doing that? Wailing sounds and searing pain memories seeped into her consciousness, as she held tight as the letter ‘G’. Maybe if she didn’t move…. but it was too late. She was remembering it all now. It began with the stream of water that sprang from between her legs as she was feeding the chickens. The sight of her peeing on herself sent her into gales of laughter as the pail of chicken feed fell and her hand went to her oversized belly. And then the pain of a hot knife and the howl of every mother in labor surged through and out of every pore in her body.
For two days Violeta’s 15 year-old-body worked hard to birth a child while her spirit hovered above watching. Doña Emilia and Elena, trying to keep the dignity of the family intact, handled the labor themselves while Violeta’s mournful shrieks lifted the roof off the house as if to announce a horrible crime. Violeta was not interested in keeping any secrets. A screaming, wet thing eventually made its way out of her body, finally giving her a peace she would have willingly died for. She was so relieved. With the problem finally out of her, she fell into a deep, sticky sleep where she continued to be caught in a wave of confusion and torment, but no pain. Deliciously, no pain.
A year ago, she was a carefree coquette who held her small world of Quisqueya in the Dominican Republic, by the tail. Her beauty charmed the old and young and her wisecracking wit melted hearts with her carefree laughter. Unrestrained by any boundaries in her heart and mind she had a voice that sang sweet and strong with her convictions and her love for all things natural. Violeta had a keen appreciation of beauty in all its forms and a joie de vivre that was infectious. Every eligible bachelor had his hopeful eye on her.
¡Ay Violeta!! She was the middle child of Emilia, a proud and careworn seamstress from the small island of St. Kitts. Elena was the oldest daughter and Sylvina, the baby, was special; she needed extra care. Each child was born of a different father, each representing a dream of an easier life. Elena, the big sister, was shy and obedient to Violeta’s bossy and mischievous manner. The family doted on docile Silvina who never quite grew up, but did, in the end, have a family of her own. Doña Emilia was an independent woman, tall and elegant in stature with long tapered and knowing fingers. She provided for her girls with the money she made from the advice she offered her customers by reading the hills and valleys left behind by drips of coffee in their coffee cup and the men’s suits she fashioned sitting at her old Singer sewing machine, day and night. The clack-clack of the machine pedal, usually a comforting metronome to the buzzing female household, was silent while Emilia tended to her daughter.
“Ah, beh, seh, deh, e, efe, heh…” Violeta was famished. She had had a baby. How long had she been sleeping? Why was it so quiet? She forced her eyes open. Lace curtains rippled gently in the hot breeze of the open window. She was changed. The visit to the watery underground had changed everything. She could hear a quiet murmuring, the soft scraping of a chair against the floor and the smell of coffee on the stove; familiar sounds and smells that no longer soothed. She wanted to get up but her legs rebelled so instead she slipped back into her watery world. She wanted to stay there forever now, if she could only breathe.
The sun was making its way down through the branches of the Manzanilla tree, momentarily setting the house on fire. Doña Emilia tiptoed into the room with a bowl of Violeta’s favorite soup. She sat down on the bed and gazed at her daughter. Every mother makes the same mistake: thinking they can protect their children from the evils of the world, keeping them innocent. How do you explain that the minute you are born, you begin to die? Doña Emilia put her hand on her daughter’s, leaned in and kissed her.
Violeta’s eyes opened to her mother’s wise and knowing face. Two women now gazing at each other. Doña Emilia was struck by the years suddenly etched on her once naive middle child’s face. She offered her the soup. No words were exchanged. Violeta pushed herself up with an elbow, ate gratefully and asked for water. She was so thirsty. She missed her watery world where the colors were muted and the sounds were muffled and nothing could get to her. But that world was receding fast as the void of silence roared in her ears. Why was it so quiet?
She had been in homes where babies had just been born; joyous homes filled with happiness and cheers and brindes.1[2] This house was cold and silent. Where was the baby? My baby! Doña Emilia shuffled around the room picking up this and moving that, swaying like a specter in the night. Violeta put her soup spoon down noiselessly in the bowl studying her mother.
“Mamita”
“Yes”
“Donde esta el bebe?”
“Mija” Doña Emilia slowly turned to her daughter.
“Where’s the baby!”
Doña Emilia walked over to the bed where her daughter sat, immobile.
“Mija…”
“Where. Is. The. baby?”
Doña Emilia began to sob. Elena came rushing into the room, wringing a dish towel.
“El bebe, Viola mia, el bebe murió” (the baby died) Elena said in a wet whisper, tears streaming down her face. Violeta didn’t understand. She went back under water. The sounds were muted, the colors streamed together. “Ah, beh, seh, deh, e, efe, heh….”
Violeta descended one more time into the heaven of sleep. It was too exhausting to make sense of all the work and nothing to show for it. Meanwhile, Elena and Doña Emelia moved through the tiny house wordlessly; sweeping, stirring pots on the stove and folding clothes, making neat work of a difficult secret. Sylvina, sucking on a strand of hair and Coquito, the foot-pecking rooster, watched silently from under the kitchen sink.