“Eighty-four,” I lie.
“That’s way older than I thought at first,” says Maritza. “You’re the same age as my abuelita. But you don’t act like her.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I think.”
Doubled over again, she doesn’t respond. I want to try to get her mind off what’s worrying her: Luis’s whereabouts, her pain, the pain to come. “Tell me more about Coco,” I say.
“What do you want to know?”
“Well, it’s exciting to have a child,” I say. “What are your plans? No, scratch that—let’s not talk about plans. What are your dreams for the little person? What do you want for him or her?”
Her creased forehead shines brightly with sweat, but she manages a little smile. “It’s silly,” she says. “Luis says it is. But I want Coco to be the first baby born in 1985. You know, the New Year’s baby.”
“That’s a good goal,” I say, and look at my watch. “It’s about 10:30. You’re within sight of it, certainly. If you get this show on the road, Coco just might make it.”
“Ma’am!” says a voice from across the room: the receptionist at the admitting desk. She has, I realize, been saying it for a while. “Do we need to get her to maternity?”
“No!” Maritza says, pivoting her belly away as if to protect its contents.
“We’ll wait for the father, thank you!” I say with a cheery wave.
“Are you an angel?” says Maritza, squeezing my hand so tightly it hurts. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Good grief,” I say. “Don’t go delirious on me.”
She looks past me to the sliding doors and relief floods her face. “Luis!” she shouts.
A thin man with a round face that makes him look even younger than Maritza has just walked in, his dark eyes frantic, scanning the room. He sees us and sprints over.
He wears a leather jacket and a baseball cap. He takes off the latter and clutches it in his hands as he looks at Maritza and then at me, confused. She says something to him in Spanish and he nods to me, and I transfer Maritza’s hand to his.
“I think you’re all set to check in now, Maritza,” I say. “Yes?”
“Yes,” she says, holding on to Luis. “Thank you, Lillian.”
“Muchas gracias, Lillian,” says Luis.
“Of course,” I say. “You’re welcome. And good luck. Just remember, the first thousand diapers are the hardest.”
Maritza laughs, then says, “It hurts to laugh.”
Luis seems to have all but forgotten me. He’s holding both of Maritza’s hands now, his eyes sharp with terror and wonder; his car keys, I notice, still dangle between his fingers. I think about all the ads for engagement rings that I wrote over the years, mostly for R.H. Macy’s but also freelance. How are you fixed for diamonds? they’d ask. Diamonds are better than sulfur and molasses for sweethearts suffering from the megrims. We’ve seen one of our diamond wedding rings revive a young lady’s drooping spirit in half a split second. A time came when these ads stopped seeming funny to me, and I could no longer write them.
“Maritza,” I say, “don’t worry too much about what anybody’s grandmother thinks. Do whatever you want. Anyone who tells you you shouldn’t is trying to sell you something.”
As I walk back to the street, I try to make a mental note to check tomorrow’s papers and see whether Coco, born to Maritza and Luis, succeeds in being 1985’s first sparkling new baby. It’s nice to feel a small sense of investment in the future, even if it only lasts a few hours.
I have so little future left. And so much past.
19
A Horrid Little Ghost
One leaves a sanitarium with a renewed enthusiasm for making oneself up.
At least I did, that early summer of 1955. But one must remain in the sanitarium for quite some time before one achieves such a transformation. Four months in my case: from bleakest February to greenest June.
The last poem I wrote before they sent me in was called “Blackout;” it went like this:
When life seems gray
And short of fizz
It seems that way
Because it is.
It eventually found a home in Ladies’ Home Journal, accompanied by a cute illustration.