understand what Abuela Gabriela was whispering about with the midwife, but I knew something
dreadful had happened. I saw Abuela and the maids carrying Mother to bed, then scurrying about to change the bloodstained sheets and take them to the laundry house in the garden. Then I heard Abuela say to Mother that she mustn’t worry, that something at least four moons old had fallen into the toilet bowl, and how relieved she should feel. A little later the doctor was smuggled into the house through the back door, so the neighbors wouldn’t see him. When Father came back from his workshop that evening, the crisis was over and Mother was lying neatly in bed, simply getting over a bad headache.
I remember feeling both excited and afraid. I was part of an adult plot, a secret female conspiracy which Abuela Gabriela said would be of benefit to me when I grew up, so I did my best to say nothing to Father. The whole thing would probably have blown over if Mother hadn’t developed a serious infection (the pregnancy was too advanced and complications set in) and was unable to have any more children. This was a hard blow for Father, who never found out about the miscarriage but eventually discovered that Carmita was sterile.
Year after year Father had hoped for a son. Carlos was an orphan, and he felt that not having a father was the saddest thing that could happen to a child. He planned to do many things with his son and teach him to grow up to be a fine young man. Carmita was silent when she heard him talk like that, but she became more and more depressed.
Abby and I talked this over many years later and she told me what had happened. When Abuela arrived from Ponce, she convinced Carmita that every woman had the right to determine what took place in her own body, and that she would be able to take good care of her second child only when the first one—meaning me—was grown enough so that it wouldn’t be a constant worry. Carmita had gone along with the abortion. Then the unexpected had happened.
Carmita suddenly felt guilty; something had been uprooted from her heart that she hadn’t known was there. A mantle of affection had already wrapped itself around the faceless baby in her womb. A deep sadness came over her, and one day Abby discovered that all the knives had disappeared from the kitchen drawer, the scissors from her sewing box, the pruning shears from the gardener’s tool box, and Father’s razor blades from the medicine cabinet. She went looking for Carmita and found her in the sewing room, where she spent her mornings after Father went to work.
Carmita was sitting in front of her black Singer sewing machine, the one decorated with gold miniature roses that Father had given her for her last birthday. She had put the knives and scissors in a row on the table, next to her needles and spools of thread, and was staring at them intently. When Abby came into the room, she looked up at her in a daze. “I know there’s something important I have to do with these knives and scissors, Abby,” she said, “but I can’t remember what.” Abby was terrified; she made a thorough search of the house and put all sharp-edged objects under lock and key until Carmita came out of her depression a few months later.
All of a sudden it was as if Carmita weren’t there anymore. Her eyes grew absent and her black clothes, wet with tears, were always cold when I hugged her. It was as if she lived in a perpetual mist. She wouldn’t let me kiss or embrace her, because I reminded her of the dead baby.
10
Madeleine and Arístides’s Marriage
Q UINTÍN’S GREAT-GRANDFATHER DON Esteban Rosich was Italian by birth. He lived in Boston for many years and was naturalized in 1885. One day—it must have been around 1899—he walked with his seventeen-year-old daughter, Madeleine, into La Traviata, a store in Old San Juan. Spread over several polished mahogany counters were rolls of imported silk from France, lace from Portugal, Belgium, and
dreadful had happened. I saw Abuela and the maids carrying Mother to bed, then scurrying about to change the bloodstained sheets and take them to the laundry house in the garden. Then I heard Abuela say to Mother that she mustn’t worry, that something at least four moons old had fallen into the toilet bowl, and how relieved she should feel. A little later the doctor was smuggled into the house through the back door, so the neighbors wouldn’t see him. When Father came back from his workshop that evening, the crisis was over and Mother was lying neatly in bed, simply getting over a bad headache.
I remember feeling both excited and afraid. I was part of an adult plot, a secret female conspiracy which Abuela Gabriela said would be of benefit to me when I grew up, so I did my best to say nothing to Father. The whole thing would probably have blown over if Mother hadn’t developed a serious infection (the pregnancy was too advanced and complications set in) and was unable to have any more children. This was a hard blow for Father, who never found out about the miscarriage but eventually discovered that Carmita was sterile.
Year after year Father had hoped for a son. Carlos was an orphan, and he felt that not having a father was the saddest thing that could happen to a child. He planned to do many things with his son and teach him to grow up to be a fine young man. Carmita was silent when she heard him talk like that, but she became more and more depressed.
Abby and I talked this over many years later and she told me what had happened. When Abuela arrived from Ponce, she convinced Carmita that every woman had the right to determine what took place in her own body, and that she would be able to take good care of her second child only when the first one—meaning me—was grown enough so that it wouldn’t be a constant worry. Carmita had gone along with the abortion. Then the unexpected had happened.
Carmita suddenly felt guilty; something had been uprooted from her heart that she hadn’t known was there. A mantle of affection had already wrapped itself around the faceless baby in her womb. A deep sadness came over her, and one day Abby discovered that all the knives had disappeared from the kitchen drawer, the scissors from her sewing box, the pruning shears from the gardener’s tool box, and Father’s razor blades from the medicine cabinet. She went looking for Carmita and found her in the sewing room, where she spent her mornings after Father went to work.
Carmita was sitting in front of her black Singer sewing machine, the one decorated with gold miniature roses that Father had given her for her last birthday. She had put the knives and scissors in a row on the table, next to her needles and spools of thread, and was staring at them intently. When Abby came into the room, she looked up at her in a daze. “I know there’s something important I have to do with these knives and scissors, Abby,” she said, “but I can’t remember what.” Abby was terrified; she made a thorough search of the house and put all sharp-edged objects under lock and key until Carmita came out of her depression a few months later.
All of a sudden it was as if Carmita weren’t there anymore. Her eyes grew absent and her black clothes, wet with tears, were always cold when I hugged her. It was as if she lived in a perpetual mist. She wouldn’t let me kiss or embrace her, because I reminded her of the dead baby.
10
Madeleine and Arístides’s Marriage
Q UINTÍN’S GREAT-GRANDFATHER DON Esteban Rosich was Italian by birth. He lived in Boston for many years and was naturalized in 1885. One day—it must have been around 1899—he walked with his seventeen-year-old daughter, Madeleine, into La Traviata, a store in Old San Juan. Spread over several polished mahogany counters were rolls of imported silk from France, lace from Portugal, Belgium, and
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