Memories of a Cachique

Margaret:

It's December 21st and I don't know where to start.

There's something falling outside, something that resembles snow, but not exactly. It's bluish silver, sort of like those little iodine droplets that my grandmother used to dot on her chest. Grandma always took good care of herself that way, bandaging her wounds, binding her wrists when they were in pain. She made sure that she was well for everyone else around her.

Wish I could say the same for me.

Where do I start?

First time I fucked was 15, when my ass started to balloon like an infected mosquito bite. He was quite cute, I was quite high, and our relationship was quite over as soon as the sex ended, which was what? 15 minutes later? Not even that.

It all went downward from there. The sex, the drugs. They all just kept flying my way. Especially the drugs. First it was weed. Then it was coke. Coke. Sounds like my favorite drink. Hell, sometimes I miss the sensation, like a backwards slide into marshmallow field. Sort of like the one I used to play around in when I was a kid. But, then, I remember rehab--the sour hallways, the addicts going through withdrawal that just couldn't resist pinching my ass once the orderlies' backs were turned. Then I choose to forget it all. Kind of, anyway.

Then, there's also the baby. My baby. My beautiful boy.

He is my everything, with my husband, Stephen, following closely behind.

Did I say how my husband saved me?

Well, he did.

It was a few months after I was released from the clinic. Of course, I bumped into old friends. Really close friends, if you know what I mean. We had one hell of a night, at least from what I can remember. There were blunts, condoms, all types of crazy shit everywhere. That's all I remember of it.

Until I found myself in a dark place. Literally.

I mean, I was messed up. Dragged out, flat out fucked up. I looked at my hands. They were shining with blood. My blood. I wasn't sure how I knew it was mine, but I felt it was. I think it was because of the pain that I felt. I tried to get up, to walk away, but there was just so much pain nagging at me. So much blackness. The blood was just coming out like a nightmare in heat. The moment became static at that point. And there was nothing but black. Again.

The next thing I felt were branches. Large, thick, strong branches.

My dead weight pressed against them, but they didn't budge. My eyes then opened. They saw night. The world was moving in circles, up and around my aching bloody heap of a body. I closed, opened, closed them again. My eyes slowly focused. I realized that I was lying on a hospital cot. Strapped in like a madman about to break free. Lights flashed: red, white, blue, pink. It's funny. I felt like I was on Broadway. And this was my encore performance. I heard the crowd screaming for me to act, act, act! For Chrissakes! They were only sirens, after all.
When I got to the hospital, I felt numbed, somewhat relieved, somewhat pissed at the fact that I was fucked three ways, sideways from, to tomorrow--however that damned saying went, whatever. But mostly, I was sad. Sad because, well, this, this shitfest was all about me. This was my life.

See, Grandma? You don't have to be an actress to play the dirty slut.

But then, I looked up into the hallway and I swear I felt like a virgin again.

I don't know what it was: his eyes, his face in general. Or was it that way he looked at me?
At first, I thought he was one of the doctors, maybe even one of the nurses even. That look though. That wasn't the face of a doctor. Or a nurse, for that matter. No way. He was a saint. He was a gentle presence blazing against that morbid reality. They told me, the nurses, that is, that he was the one who had found me, who alerted the authorities about me. Of course, I didn't tell a soul. I know those girls would be fired if the doctors found out that I knew. Fuck it. I'll always remember his face.

That makes it some type of shit that he found me again before I did.

**************************************************************************************************************

Stephen:

December brings a special type of happiness for me. I don't know what it is about it. Maybe it's because it's winter, and in winter there's snow. And snow always reminds me of the way my mother put confectioner's sugar on that wonderful holiday bread of hers, that panettone. I guess I've always been kind of the cheesy type. I mean I always loved the idea of a "white Christmas." Too much bread, I guess.

But then, I think of the 21st. Today. And then that familiar warmth leaves me.

It was tonight, years ago, that night when it happened. When I first saw her.

I remember that I was running along that block on 112 Street and Park Avenue, around where the Metro runs now, getting to that damn 6 before it left. I was there to see my mother, a beautiful remnant of the Italian Harlem that once stood there. As much of that Sicilian food I loved so much that I could eat, I knew I had to get back before the hustlers that polluted that neighborhood started to make their rounds.

I was so hurried that I stumbled across almost everything in my path. Bottles, shoes, needles. I did my best to carefully, meticulously step over them. Especially the needles. No need to get pricked by those fucking disgusting things.

And yet the most fatal threat there was lying almost dead against the project fence on that block I was rushing to get past.

I remember her face, the sore purple lips amongst her beautiful muddled skin. She lay there, naked, covered in her own blood, tear-stained. My eyes watered, I felt unsettled, ready to regurgitate whatever homemade goodness was in my stomach. Yet, among my pity and fear was something deeper. In her pained state, she was so serene. Beautiful. And then, without thinking, I ran into the goddamn project, knocked on the first door I saw, and called 911. I wanted to be the one to save her. At least that.

It's ironic that the first time I fell in love with her was when she was so close to death. So helpless to what had happened to her.

I just hope it isn't a sign of what is to come.

I want to keep her close. I think it's because I've become so accustomed to being her glue, her screw, keeping her from falling apart whenever she's in a crisis.

I found her before a full crisis could manifest completely the first time.

She had just come out of the hospital, a little less than fully healed, but beautiful all the same. It was that same block that I first saw her. I didn't expect to see her there.

I just wanted to know her name. Where she came from. Who she was, to herself, to everyone else.

And she knew my name. "Stephen?," she said. She called it out to me before I could calm myself. It got me out of my nervous spell. That's for sure.

"Yes, that's me. What's your name?" My voice lowered on that last part as I remembered the way her eyes looked when I found her. It was the same as now: a sad emptiness.

"Margaret. Margaret DeJesus." She smiled slightly, her mouth crooked at a slant, almost slyly.

And then, this: "I was hoping that I would find you again."

There was a certain disbelief, but more of a relief. I wouldn't have enough in me to explain to her how we met. It's too tender. "You know who I am?"

"Nurses have a tendency to do a bit too much gossiping. Especially in my ward."

I cleared my throat. "I see. So you know how it happened, what happened to you...?" My voice was beginning to crack.

"Stop shaking. It's OK." Indeed, I was shaking. I didn't really think I was that nervous.

"It's fine," Margaret reassured me. She turned away from me and looked up at the buildings.

"You know, my grandmother lived here in this building." She pointed to one of the projects in front of us, one of the closest ones to the street. "She changed buildings once. Took me with her too."

"Does she still live here?," I asked.

"No. She's gone. Died a few years back."

A small pause. "I'm sorry."

"Nah, it's fine. She had a life." Her eyes shifted away from me at those last words, hiding some strange thing that I wasn't so sure of then.

I decided to change the subject a bit, partly because of my unease, partly because I knew there was something about that last statement that bothered me. "My mother, she lives around here."

The mahogany in her eyes flashed. "Does she? That's nice. Do you come to see her often?"

"When I can. I've just been so busy lately with a whole lot. You know how it is."

She walked a bit closer to me and said in a low voice: "No, I don't. But maybe you can tell me a bit more." I looked up at her and saw that fox-like smile again. This time, it was much more pronounced.

We began our lives from there. I took her to Patsy's, my favorite pizzeria, and we told each other our stories. We were both born in Mount Sinai, both raised in the same neighborhood. Same age even. And that's where our lives forked away from each other.

While my mother stayed home to take care of me and my siblings (gone from here a long, long while ago), her mother was in jail. So was her father. Her mother's mother, grandmother, was left with her. She pointed to old healed up tears and scrapes to explain how her life was there. She wouldn't explain. Never wanted to. I don't think she ever really will, no matter what.

It was then that I understood that strange thing, the anger that inhabited her eyes. To which, I responded: "Did you tell anyone?"

She said this: "As much as I wanted to, I couldn't. There was nowhere else I could go. Or anyone that I could talk to, really. And forget foster care. Those people have the potential to hurt you even more. I've heard things."

She paused and looked out the window. "You know, I should really be upset."

I was afraid this was going to come up. "About...?" I wanted to seem unsure, so that I wouldn't make the situation more awkward.

"You know. What happened to me." She laughed a bit, which made me a bit uneasy. "I've always heard that women like me, that they become very insecure, very paranoid, suicidal because of what they went through. That power upset, the man, men, women, taking what they want, making you feel that terrible pain." There was gloss in her eye as she lowered her voice.
"I want that pain, that memory" she said. "At least I would have known for myself what really happened. I can't even remember anything that happened to me. I just know what everyone else tells me."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It's like I was dreaming, a fantasy that's suddenly going to hell. I felt terribly for her. Each of her tears was like a pinprick driven deep into my fingers. There were a lot of them that very moment.

I sat next to her, held up my napkin to her eyes to dry her eyes up, and hugged her. She relaxed in my grasp. I told her that it would be OK, that there was help, help for her type of pain.

She lived on that old block for a time with her friend. It took only a month for her to leave with me.

**************************************************************************************************************

Margaret:

I'm washing the dishes from breakfast, but I'm thinking, thinking, thinking, what?

“Honey, I’m going to feed the baby, OK?” Stephen catches me from behind, hugging my waist.

“Didn’t I feed him already?” I’m pretty sure I did.

“No, baby, you just put him in the high chair now.”

I turned around to face them. I saw that my son was squirming around, crying. How could I forget such a thing? Shit. “I thought I did.”

“Don’t worry, Meg. It’s fine. I’ve got the bottle here.”

“OK, Stephen. Thanks.” I go back to washing.

“Baby?” My husband is right behind me, holding the baby.

“What is it?”

He has my baby holding his bottle, with a face I’m not sure I’ve seen before.

“When was the last time he was changed?”

Oh, that expression. I see now. And then, I smell it. Shit.

“Jesus, take him over to the bathroom, please.”

He walks away from me but still stands behind me. He’s smiling a little bit. “It doesn’t smell like he was changed.”

“What? What did you say?” For some reason, I couldn’t concentrate on what he was telling me.

“He smells pretty fresh, in a bad way.” He wrinkles his nose, and so does my son, who’s still crying.

“Oh God. I’m sorry. I know, I thought I just did that before I brought him downstairs.”

His expression changes. “Meg, are you sure you’re OK? Do you need me to help out a bit more?”

“No, no. You’ve been doing so much for me. Just take him and change him for now and I will be right there to feed him a little more. OK?”

It’s been like this for some time now. I used to be so point on about things, what to do, what time to do it. Now, I’m slipping. Maybe it’s the stress of it all. I mean, I feel the strain of it and so does everyone else around me. I feel like I can't even hold down a single thought anymore. The blood can be rushing between my legs and I wouldn't know what to do with it.

But then there are times when I don't even recognize myself, especially when I give a glance out to myself in a window. That’s when I become really worried.

Then I think: I’ll always know when it’s Christmas: the sights, smells, sounds. Tastes. And then I feel just a little bit better.

Christmas in this neighborhood, in any American neighborhood, I would imagine, is quite unmistakable. The sights, I mean. Outside, everyone's Christmas lights are flashing, loudly at that, kinda like those mating fireflies I used to catch. The iodine drops have frozen up into a white froth, piling up inches on the ground. There was no wind, just a strange, cold calm with kids spattered all around, throwing bundles of froth around.

Right now, all of my attention is thrown on this one bird chirping. It's quite a quirk, bobbing its head to the rhythm of its wings. Makes me remember that damned parrot that was in my abuela's house, caw-cawing all the damn time, squawking and squeaking like a cheap purse.
And then, there was that song she used to sing to fill in the emptiness between its sounds.
The song was wordless, nameless, and quite mindful of my need to sleep and feel at ease. These rare moments where I was able to be perfectly still with my grandmother were quite precious, because they were also filled with that song.

And yet, I can't remember it. Not the notes, nor the rhythm, yet all of the rage and love behind it I can still feel in those quiet moments that I have during the day, while watching the baby sleep in his crib.

I loved her then. Even now.

I hope I can still say that tomorrow.

**************************************************************************************************************

Stephen:

"There's a problem here, Mr. Fanucci."

I hold the phone a bit closer to my ear, unsure of what I’m hearing.

"Can you repeat that to me?"

"There's a problem with these test results." The woman had a flat, tepid voice, which annoyed the shit out of me. Give a little anger, sadness, happiness, at least something. You're telling me about the rest of my life here. My family's life.

Shit, does my head hurt. "What is it?"

"Your wife's results and yours. They're not consistent."

My heart stings as I clench my fist. I was trying to stop my tears, but it hurts too much. Yet, it is all enough to muster up some energy to ask: "Meaning?"

"I'm sorry, sir. Your wife is positive. You, on the other hand, are negative."

My body starts to rattle and heave. Oh my God. I’m actually...laughing. Crying too. But laughing? I can't stand myself. What am I doing? My wife is dying. And I'm acting like a hysterical maniac. I have to get my shit together here. I have to know. I have to ask: "Is that really...possible?"

"Sure, it's possible. However, I would have you retest yourself in about 6 months. You mentioned that you had a son?"

"Yes, he was tested with us."

A pause. Lady, hurry the fuck up. "OK, his name?"

Thank you. "Stephen Michael Fanucci."

"Here, we go. OK, Mr. Fanucci, he's negative."

My chest jerks out with my heart. Again. "Is it...?"

"Yes, there have been cases like this before, sir. But again, I would have you and your son retested in a few months from now."

Another pause. I'm physically calm, but fuck, am I screaming out of my skin. Fuck it.

"Thank you."

"Good luck."

I hang up first. It feels right at this moment.

Let me close that book up myself.

"Baby? What happened?"

I faced her, those eyes filled with that strange sweet sadness from our first meeting. Only I had those eyes now.

I walk over and held her. I know that her mind is leaving me, that she’s leaving me, that it is eating that beautiful wit she has always had, eating away at our times together. And yet, I smile and hold her hands, cold from washing and rewashing the dishes, as she now does.

"It's going to be fine. Everything's fine." It's hard to keep my voice low; it wants to crack so much. "Just go upstairs and rest."

Unfortunately, her mind knows better. "The doctor called, didn't she?" She smiles at me, an attempt to keep me from losing it. I know she'll never be ready to hear it. Why should it matter then if I tell her now or tonight?

My eyes avert hers. "Yes, she did."

She’s hesitating, rubbing her nails back and forth. "Are you fine?"

Dammit. I still can’t look at her, at least for a period of time. I’m doing my best, though.

"Yes, I am."

"Our baby?" This time, she’s calm.

Of course, I’m not. "Yes."

"And me?"

I say nothing for a couple of seconds. But then, I get the best of me.

"You have a bit of fighting to do.”

“Do I?” Her voice is clear, but the gloss is unmistakable.

“It’ll be fine. I promise. I’m not going anywhere. No one is." She smiles, takes my hands, and
squeezes them. We hug again. She then kisses my cheek and walks up the stairs. Suddenly, I feel as porcelain as the dolls my mother used to collect.

I wonder if she feels it too. My porcelain, porcelain beauty.

**************************************************************************************************************

Margaret:

And here I am, alone again.

I open my eyes and watch the hands of the clock for a brief moment. It's three P.M. and I'm drowsier than my own son during a lullaby.

Now I have something to blame it on.

I imagine that, years from now, this moment will be nothing but a sad, sad story told a thousand times by my relatives and others that I won’t even know, now or later. I surely never imagined that I would be part of such a thing.

You know what I thought? Once the drugs were out of my system, once I was clean and straight, that nothing could ever go wrong, much less have the past come and bite my ass.
And here I am, thinking about the rest of my life. And, of course, about what I’ve known and lived through. Slashings, thrustings, childbirth. It’s not a pretty thing. Yet, there is a certain beauty to it, through what I have with Stephen. The warmth of his arms and body. His eyes. His nose. Mind. Everything. All of it helps me to feel my own beauty, something that I never realized or got when I was shooting up.

Wow. I feel the silence now.

Damn, I’m cold. I need a fucking sweater.

Now, what was I saying before?

Shit.

Silence.

I’m thinking of it now--that song, my grandmother’s lullaby. I think it’s finally coming back to me now. That mockingbird song, is it that? Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Momma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. Oh my God. After all this time, now I remember. And I can’t even remember what I was just thinking.

My baby’s crying. I hum the song as I walk into his room and hold him close.

His eyes. They’re as mahogany as hers.