How Not to Drown in a Glass of Water (8)

Lucky for her I know many remedios. I froze some bags of té de menta so she can put it in her mouth to help the pain go away. When I took them to her, her son Adonis was sitting in the kitchen. Lulú was serving him a steak, because that’s what he likes.

Are you OK, Mami? Adonis asked.

You know what she did? She took a bite of the steak and chewed. She even smiled. I know que esa vaina hurt like the devil.



* * *



Ay, now it’s me that is too serious. This is why I prefer not to talk, because if you don’t talk, it is more easy to forget the things of life.

Can you permit me to get myself another glass of water? These cups are so small.

Something I like to do? OK, I will tell you.

Every night, Lulú comes over with two glasses of wine—not the full bottle, because Lulú likes to save the wine. She loves the wine. Some days, we sit for hours and watch the camera in the lobby. Ever since those people who can pay two times the rent moved in a few years ago, the management, who’s like this with the policía, installed a camera that watches the door of the building. If we turn the TV to Channel 15, we can see who comes and goes twenty-four hours a day.

In truth, when there is no novela to watch, it’s how we entertain ourselves. Because we can’t sit outside to get some fresh air with the radio on like we used to. We were out there so much, we chained our chairs to the stairs in the lobby. The old super who lived in the basement would bring out the barbecue. We’d throw chicken, hamburger, everything we wanted on it. And the management never said nothing. But now, dique everything is a fire hazard.

We were able to do what we wanted before the hospital opened all the laboratories and those other people moved in. And it’s good that now the management doesn’t let the elevator stay broken for weeks and the lobby has a painting of some mountains hanging on the wall. They even put some plants in the hallway—they’re false, but it looks fancy. But now the policía gives you a ticket if you sit outside or turn up your radio. Can you believe that? The point is, they want us out, like we weren’t here first.

I don’t care that nothing happens on Channel 15. I leave it on all day. Sometimes the boy from 2F turns the camera to face the wall so he can sell in the lobby. Not drug drugs, but pain pills that he buys from las viejas in the building who have the Medicaid. I took one of those pills many years ago, when I had the pain on my back from working in the factory. I couldn’t stand up. The doctor insisted to try them. You know what? That little pill emptied me. For one day I didn’t think about my son Fernando. All my suffering, erased. It was the devil, I tell you. I threw them in the garbage.

Channel 15 gets interesting when people come home. I see my neighbor Tita and her daughter Cecilia—she never developed, and for the twenty-something years that I’ve known Cecilia, she’s been in a wheelchair. I see Fedora and her big hair always carrying some box. I even caught my sister ángela and Hernán holding hands—at their age. Can you believe it?

When I see La Vieja Caridad in the lobby on Channel 15, I go down to help her. She can only walk with the cane now. Ay, to be old and have to wait for help. All she wants is to stand outside and get the sun. I put on my shoes and a little bit of lipstick to go help her. But when I arrive, someone’s already opening the door. It’s OK, I can always use ten minutes of sun. I go and stand outside with La Vieja Caridad. We know: the secret to a long life is to get at least ten minutes of sun every day.

Yes, that could be a good job for me. I could take care of old people. I know what they need before they know what they need.

For example, I told La Vieja Caridad to get checked for the blood because I could smell something was not correct. Also, I see her eyes go far away in the distance más y más, like she’s looking over my shoulder. When that happens, I take her to her apartment and make her the green tea with honey, because, you know, the tea helps to focus. When I went through the menopausia, I was forgetting phone numbers and the names of things. Lulú told me to drink the green tea. Every day we drink two cups to maintain the mind. You know?

But anyways, Lulú and I noticed more strange people coming and going. And not strange like it was many years ago, when 3H was of the drugs. No, mostly young people from who knows where, with suitcases and backpacks.

If we, who have been in this building for decades, rent our apartments to other people, it’s dique illegal, but these new people that pay double the price make this building like a motel. We don’t rent rooms to strange people who come and go. We rent to someone of confidence for months. For example: Pargat Singh. He was such a nice young man. Many years ago when I needed money, I rented the room of my son Fernando. Trust me, this was not easy to do because I had been saving his room for years exactly like he left it, waiting for him to return. Always, I put a plate for Fernando on the table when I ate. Always, I hung a clean towel for Fernando on the bathroom door.

But the point I’m trying to make is that I rented a room to Pargat, who came from las Indias to work in the hospital. He loved living with me because he could go in and out of the laboratory at all hours to check his experiments. He was alone, without family. Because I didn’t let him to use the kitchen, every time I cooked, I gave him to eat. In the beginning, he didn’t eat, to be polite. But then he got comfortable and ate. Still today, when he is in the neighborhood, he brings me pan dulce or some little thing and says hello.