Last year, I set up the account but didn't feel like rushing my way through a novel; it seemed fragmented and not fun, but for some reason, it seems like a great way to detach from writing as a calling - this approach is akin to mopping a kitchen floor after a spill. I am removing the sinewy sticky alien creature tentacles of my ego from the writing process. Here is the novel I've decided to write in 30 days and knowing me, I will probably finish it sooner. No editing and lots of fast writing with no worries about tense or whether to make narrative anything in particular. Linear, nonlinear, fantastic, or plain brown bag writing. Here is four days of writing. Enjoy or not.
the edge of the river
by Odilia Rivera-Santos
The sun came in through the window so bright that it reminded me
of where I was. The tropics again to go to another funeral again and sort
through mildewed family albums and sip coffee in a living room where I seemed
to be the only one sweating profusely -- no longer accustomed to the heat and
lethargy of a small country town. The usual gang showed up: curious neighbors
who rarely talked beyond a simple greeting on the day of my arrival and the
chitchat reserved to speak of the dead. They always had the same wistful
delivery and the same focus on what the dead had left undone and what they had
wanted to accomplish. There were plates of food on every counter and we all did
our best to please the hostess by nibbling away the afternoon. I ate salty
crackers with fresh butter and took another sip of milky espresso with too much
sugar because they were on the table farthest away from my father’s corpse. I
could never stand the sight of a corpse -- prepped after death to look alive to
then be buried and face the same decay as an unvarnished corpse. I kept tapping
my foot to a nonexistent tune, nervous about conversations to come and praying
everyone would just shut up and pray.
A Puerto
Rican wake is not as much fun as an Irish wake -- the Irish celebrate, tell stories
and avoid the whole death issue; they mourn without admitting it.
No one was dancing. And I alone attempted to stem the tide of
misery welled up with every word. Every time someone offered condolences, I
offered evidence that he’d lived long enough. But he was seventy! And had I
been brave enough, I might have mentioned he’d done enough damage. This was
part of Darwin’s plan: rid the earth of those who slow evolution or divert good
intentions. He is deceased, I thought to myself, and he no longer suffers or
dreams or wants, and isn't it a shame only death can bring such bliss? Why
couldn't God empty us of all those desires that twist our lives in knots?
I stood in a crowded living room among people who couldn’t see
me, because they focused on how I had lost my way with a move to the mainland,
getting a divorce and staying away from the family. I had also accidentally
packed red shoes instead of black, and a pair of black sneakers, so I wore the
sneakers. It was a lose-lose situation. My aunt, whose religiosity I admired
but never thought to emulate, eyed me from across the room and I prepared
myself for her admonishment.
María, you take after your mother. Beautiful and
defiant.
She pointed to my shoes.
Is that what you wear to a wake?
It wasn’t intentional.
It never is with you; you have to consider other people and
how this looks to the family. I can’t remember one time you showed up at church
in a decent outfit.
I only went to church three times.
That’s the problem. How could your mother be so careful about
so many things and ignore the Lord.
She didn’t ignore the Lord; I . . .
Not going to the Lord’s house is ignoring the Lord! You don’t
know anything, girl.
Well, Titi, I’m not a girl anymore. But, you’re right. I
don’t know anything.
She loved me even though she couldn’t understand what the hell
my life in New York City was about. Titi always asked what I did with all my
spare time, because, to her, not having kids and a husband meant a lot of free
time to daydream, climb trees and do other imbecilic things. And some of that
was true. Had I settled into marriage and motherhood, my life may not have been
a series of thrashing like an alligator from one context to the next. I was
still trying to build a foundation from the scraps handed to me from my
parents. Still learning to be part of this family at my age was an
embarrassment and one of the excuses I used to avoid having kids.
The idea of family was nebulous; we were three sisters who had
never been in the same room at the same time. The three Marías had made some
people laugh uncomfortably, since we were the product of a philanderer and
three unsuspecting women. Why he wanted his daughters to all be named María was
a mystery and I couldn’t stop hoping we could be friends if not sisters.
The familial ties had eroded enough, so the funeral alone would
not have brought me to the vortex of family. I only showed up in the hopes of
meeting the third María, because there was nothing of me in this tribe anymore.
I was the oldest and I had met the María number 2, but the baby María was
elusive. I had traveled to meet her and nothing else. If one could say it is
possible to outgrow a family, I could definitely have said it with eyes closed,
falling back while playing the trust game with the universe. And the universe
would have answered my call more logically than blood relatives. No more guava
slices or white cheese or salty crackers. The heat was starting to get to me
and here it was only eight hours since my arrival. I'd only had time to shower,
take a short nightmare-laced nap and awake again to shower with the metal slats
of the window open to the backyard and the chickens' squawk and curious eyes of
the cow from next door. It was a kind of home, but not mine. The third María
was the one who we always waited for at these gatherings and who never showed
up. I was convinced, sitting there in my plain black dress and black New
Balance running sneakers and somber facial expression, that she would show --
it was only fair for at least two of the three Marías to show up at their
father's funeral. But it felt somehow as if it were my wake, standing
instead of lying down and answering all the commentary. People I hadn’t seen
since childhood walked up to pay their respects in their own way.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Prisila -- a girl my cousins
and I had bullied as kids. She was grinning as she sidled up to me, a ham and
cheese sandwich pinched between her index finger and thumb as if she had just
wrestled it from a wild dog.
I wondered if
she had forgiven us for being such assholes to her. They were poorer than us
and we teased her for having only two dresses and for not having running water.
I cringed at the memory and hoped we hadn’t caused psychic damage. Prisila and
her family had always been prone to showing up wherever free food was
available. We could never quite figure out what the problem was since they were
a family of six working adults living rent-free. They were squatters, but they
seemed content.
María? Is that you?
Yes, it is.
We exchanged light kisses and she smelled of warm mayonnaise.
She was a middle-aged woman whose face never grew up even as her body grew old
-- the chubby little shy girl was there, staring at me and asking uncomfortable
questions.
And your sister? Is she coming?
I don't know. I hope so. She may not have gotten my
letter.
Why didn’t you call her?
Her number wasn’t working. I guess I got the wrong number
from my mother.
I lied, feeling suddenly competitive with Prisila because her
family was intact and mine wasn’t. I couldn’t admit no one had my sister’s
number.
Well, what can you do? You did your best to contact her with
what you had.
Yes.
So, you’re the divorced one, right?
Yes, I guess I’m the one.
Are there three of you or ... I mean, that
you know of?
Ok, Prisila hadn’t gotten over the bullying,
and I let her dig in and get her revenge.
Yeah, you’re right. He was a dog.
Oh, no . . . nothing like that. But you’re
divorced?
Yes, still divorced.
I’m sure you’ll get married again; you’re
still young. I mean nowadays, even older women get married.
Yeah, right. I’m gonna get my walker and
go to some speed-dating events.
You’re still funny, María! You’re young.
You look young.
How’s the sandwich?
Prisila took that as a sign to smooth down
her dress and pat her round belly.
Your mother’s a great cook.
Prisila looked over her shoulder as if she
had somewhere to go, and I stood still -- my eyes staring straight ahead. I let
the conversation drop, and with it, any further comments deemed appropriate
only here in our Bermuda Triangle of boundaries. Priscila kept squeezing the
sandwich between her thumb and index finger and taking little bites and I
quietly exited.
There was nothing to do but find another way
to connect with María. Disappointed again after another attempt to bring my
family together, I wondered what to do next. Her no-show was something I took
as a personal affront. I had never met her but looking at her picture, I
studied her features and she looked like a lighter shade of me with finer
features and a shy smile. I kept the picture in my wallet and looked at it
often as if it could yield more information through my careful study. Suddenly,
the air felt stale, my chest began to burn and my heart raced. I could feel an
anxiety attack coming on and headed to the bathroom. There was a line for the
bathroom. I leaned against the wall with a hand on my forehead to avoid talking
to anyone, and mercifully, no one spoke. The plumbing was acting up and someone
was stuck in the bathroom, trying to make the toliet flush, so I left through
the backdoor and stepped outside to inhale the fresh air with its array of
odors: roses, the chicken coop, rotting mangos and cow dung. I did what my
therapist had advised -- made a mental list of all the ordinary objects around
me to assure my brain I was not in danger. It was my faulty nervous system
getting nervous. The breathing returned to normal and the burning sensation
subsided. I wiped the sweat off my face with a damp towel hanging on the
clothesline, took a deep breath and begin to think of what lie to tell in order
to take an earlier flight back home to the quiet of my city life with no
responsibilities but my survival.
I came back into the house just as my mother
walked across the room, parting the waters as she always did: elegant,
beautiful and aware of her audience. Mami was the movie star who never got to
be in a movie because she got tangled in the red tape of traditional Puerto
Rican martyrdom. She would remain the benevolent goddess with a wicked sense of
humor. Mami smiled and greeted everyone as if it were a regular party, except
the fatigue and sadness of the last six months remained especially around her
eyes.
The radiant smile did nothing to assuage the
grief.
They made a dashing couple -- the picture on
the mantle of my parents made me proud; her slim body draped in an evening
gown, cinched at the waist, pressed against his and her chin tilted up to take
a closer look at his face. His left arm was tightly wound around her, his eyes
fixed on the camera and his right hand in the pocket of his loose white slacks.
It looked as if he were ready to pick her up off the ground and run down the
street.
Mami walked by and was about to greet me as
if I were another guest, but recognizing me at last, she let her smile fade. We
embraced and I made sure to not crush the rose pinned to her dress.
I will miss him, she said, and after a long pause, I do miss him
Every feeling fades with time, even grief
Your’re right, Maria. Always so sensible.
I try not to do it too often
What?
Be sensible . . . it gets boring.
I was tempted to speak of my disappointment,
not that Papi hadn’t recovered from his illness, but that María hadn’t wanted
to meet me and her powerful absence. My dreams of re-connecting with the sister
I had never met were dashed again.
You’re sad about your father too. I can
see it.
Not wanting to spoil her moment, I agreed,
using my sadness about my sister as a sign of grief for my father.
My mother squeezed my arm to signal the end
of our communal mourning; she returned to her sanctuary, to make more
sandwiches and slice large hunks of guava paste and white cheese into thin
slivers, layering one guava and one white cheese slice on crackers with her
usual grace and lack of appetite. She tasted a recipe and never ate a full meal.
We always knew when to leave each other alone because we shared the belief that
grief was private. I considered for a moment whether to leave a note and take
an early flight, but decided against it. There was enough drama without my
creating more, so I slipped away from the party, took off the dress and changed
into running clothes.
To
be able to breathe deeply again, I had to run away if only from a couple of
hours. Once outside, standing on the porch by myself, I took the opportunity to
look in at the crowd of people speaking in whispers about the deceased, and I
held my memories of his abuse close. I let the sounds of hushed voices and the
rising noise of coquis fill my ears so my thoughts were no longer significant,
I headed down the narrow tree-lined road to the edge of the river to talk to
ghosts and give up on the living. Talking to ghosts had always been a comfort.
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