How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents (10 page)

heart?" He discovered this every time he wanted to make love to her.

The valentine was too hot. "I'm sweating," it moaned. "Don't."

The hand wouldn't listen. The middle finger traced a heart on her lips. The pinkie shaped a heart on the fleshiness above her right breast.

"Please, John!" His fingertips felt like rolling beads of sweat.

"John, please," he echoed. He printed J-o-h-n on her right breast with a sticky finger as if he were branding her his.

"John! It's too hot." She appealed to his common sense.

"John, it's too hot," he whined. The combination of heat and thwarted desire made him nasty.

She stoppered his mouth with her hand. He ignored the violence in the gesture and kissed her moist palm.

His eyes lidded with hopefulness, he rolled towards her, his body making a sucking sound as it unglued itself from the bare mattress. The sheets had drooped from their hospital corners; they wilted onto the floor.

John's right hand played piano on her ribs, and his mouth blew a piccolo on her breasts.

"Shit!" she yelled at him, leaping out of bed.

"Fuck!" He had forced her to say her least favorite word in the world. She would never ever forgive him for that.

"Ever?" he said, angrily grabbing for her arm in the dark. "Ever?"

Her heart folded, flattened, folded again. The halves fluttered, blinked and opened. Her heart lifted up to the cloud-flowers in the sky.

"Ever!" She slapped him with the sound. "Ever!

Ever!" She wished she had her clothes on. It was strange to make absolute statements in the nude.

He came home with a bouquet of flowers that she knew he had paid too much for. They were blue, and she guessed they were irises.

Irises

was her favorite name for flowers, so they had to be irises.

But as he handed them to her, she could not make out his words.

They were clean, bright sounds, but they meant nothing to her.

"What are you trying to say?" she kept asking.

He spoke kindly, but in a language she had never heard before.

She pretended she understood. She took a big smell of the flowers. "Thank you, love." At the word

love,

her hands itched so fiercely that she was afraid she would drop the flowers.

He said something happily, again in sounds she could not ascribe meanings to.

"Come on, love," she asked his eyes be

she spoke precisely as if she were talking to a foreigner or a willful child. "John, can you understand me?" She nodded her head to let him know that he should answer her by nodding his head if words failed him.

He shook his head, No.

She held him steady with both hands as if she were trying to nail him down into her world. "John!" she pleaded. "Please, love!"

He pointed to his ears and nodded. Volume wasn't the problem. He could hear her. "Babble babble." His lips were slow motion on each syllable.

He is saying

Hove you,

she thought! "Babble," she mimicked him. "Babble babble babble babble." Maybe that meant, still love you too,

in whatever tongue he was speaking.

He pointed to her, to himself. "Babble?"

She nodded wildly. Her valentine

hairline, the heart in her ribs and all the ones on her sleeves twinkled like the pinchers of the crab in the sky. Maybe now they could start over, in silence.

When she left her husband, Yo wrote a note,

I'm going to my folks till my head-slash-heart clear.

She revised the note:

I'm needing some space, some time, until my head-slash-heart-slash-soul-No, no, no, she didn't want to divide herself anymore, three persons in one Yo.

John,

she began, then she jotted a little triangle before John. Dear,

she wrote on a slant. She had read in a handwriting analysis book that this was the style of the self-assured.

Dear John, listen, we both know it's not working.

"It'st"

he would ask.

"It's,

meaning what?"

Yo crossed the vague pronoun out.

We are not working.

You

know it, I know it, we both know it, oh John, John, John.

Her hand kept writing, automatically, until the page was filled with the dark ink of his name. She tore the note up and confettied it over her head, a rainfall of John's. She wrote

him

a short memo,

Gone-

then added-

to my folks.

She thought of signing it, Yolanda, but her real name no longer sounded like her own, so instead she scribbled his name for her,

Joe.

Her parents were worried. She talked too much, yakked all the time. She talked in her sleep, she talked when she ate despite twenty-seven years of teaching her to keep her mouth shut when she chewed.

She talked in comparisons, she spoke in riddles.

She ranted, her mother said to her father. Her father coughed, upset. She quoted famous lines of poetry and the opening sentences of the classics. How could anyone remember so much? her mother asked her sullen father. She was carried away with the sound of her voice, her mother diagnosed.

She quoted Frost; she misquoted Stevens,-

she paraphrased Rilke's description of love.

"Can you hear me!" Doctor Payne held his hands up to his mouth like a megaphone and made believe he was yelling over a great distance. "Can you hear me?"

She quoted to him from Rumi; she sang what she knew of "Mary Had a Little Lamb," mixing it up with "Baa Baa, Black Sheep."

The doctor thought it best if she checked into a small, private facility where he could keep an eye on her. For her own good:

So

round-the-clock care; nice grounds; arts and crafts classes; tennis courts; a friendly, unintimidating staff, no one in a uniform. Her parents signed the papers-"For your own good," they quoted the nice doctor to her. Her mother held her while a nurse camouflaged in street clothes filled a syringe. Yo quoted from

Don Quijote

in the original; she translated the passage on prisoners into instantaneous English.

The nurse stung her with an injection of tears.

Yo went quiet for the first time in months, then burst into tears. The nurse rubbed a tiny cloud on her arm. "Please, honey, don't cry," her mother pleaded with her.

"Let her cry," the doctor advised. "It's a good sign, a very good sign."

"Tears, tears,"

Joe said, reciting again,

"tears from the depths of some profound despair."

"Don't worry," the doctor said, coaching the alarmed parents. "It's just a poem."

"But

men die daily for lack of what is found there,"

Yo quoted and misquoted, drowning in the flooded streams of her consciousness.

The signs got better. Yo fantasized about Doc. He would save her

body-slash-mind-slash-soul by taking all the slashes out, making her one whole Yolanda. She talked to him about growth and fear and the self in transition and women's spiritual quest. She told him everything except that she was falling in love with him.

Was she ready for her parents? he asked.

Ready for her parents, she echoed.

Her parents stepped into the room, staging happiness. They tested her with questions about the food, the doctor, the weather, and the tile ashtray she had made in arts and crafts therapy.

She offered it to her mother.

Her mother cried. "I shouldn't cry."

"It's a good sign," Yo said, quoting Doc, then caught herself. Quoting others again, a bad sign.

Her father moved to the window and checked the sky.

""When are you coming home?" the back asked Yo.

"Whenever she's ready to!" Her mother parted the hair from Yo's forehead.

And the valentine appeared again on the earth.

"I love you guys," Yo improvised. So what if her first original words in months were the most hackneyed. They were her own truth. "I do, I do," she singsong. Her mother looked a little worried as if she had bitten into something sour she had thought would be sweet.

"What happened, Yo?" her mother asked the hand she was patting a little later. "We thought you and John were so happy."

"We just didn't speak the same language," Yo said, simplifying.

"Ay,

Yolanda." Her mother pronounced her name in Spanish, her pure, mouth-filling, full-blooded name, Yolanda. But then, it was inevitable, like gravity, like night and day, little apple-bites when God's back is turned, her name fell, bastardized, breaking into a half dozen nicknames-

"pobrecita

Yosita"- another nickname. "We love you."

Her mother said it loud enough for two people's worth.

"Don't we, Papi?"

"Don't we what, Mami?" Yo's father turned.

"Love her," his wife snapped.

"There's no question at all." Papi came towards Mami, or Yo.

"What is love?" Yo asks Dr. Payne; the skin on her neck prickles and reddens. She has developed a random allergy to certain words.

She does not know which ones, until they are on the tip of her tongue and it is too late, her lips swell, her skin itches, her eyes water with allergic reaction tears.

The doctor studies her and smells the backs of his fingers. "What do you think it is, Joe?

Love."

"I don't know." She tries to look him in the eyes, but she is afraid if she does, he will know, he will know.

"Oh, Joe," he consoles, "we constantly have to redefine the things that are important to us. It's okay not to know. When you find yourself in love again, you'll know what it is."

"Love," Yo murmurs, testing. Sure enough, the skin on her arm erupts into an ugly rash. "I guess you're right." She itches. "It's just scary not to know what the most important word in my vocabulary means!"

"Don't you think that's the challenge of being alive?"

"Alive," she echoes, as if she were relapsing to her old quoting days. Her lips burn.

Alive, love,

words she can use now only at a cost.

Yo's finger traces Doc's body on the metallic screen of the window as if she were making him up. Maybe she will try writing again, nothing too ambitious, a fun poem in the limerick mode. She'll call it, "Dennis"

Racket," playing on the double meaning of the word

racket

as well as on his last name, Payne.

Deep within her, something stirs, an itch she can't get to.

"Indigestion," she murmurs, patting her belly. Perhaps not, she thinks, perhaps it is a personality phenomenon: the real Yolanda resurrecting on an August afternoon above the kempt green lawns of this private facility.

Her stomach hurts. She strokes wide I-am-hungry circles on her hospital smock. But the beating inside her is more desperate than hunger, a moth wild inside a lampshade.

It rises, a thrashing of wings, up through her trachea-until Yo retches. How tragic! At her age to die of a broken-heart attack. She tries to laugh, but instead of laughter, she feels ticklish wings unfolding like a fan at the base of her throat. They spread her mouth open as if she were screaming a name out over a great distance. A huge, black bird springs out; it perches on her bureau, looking just like the etching of the raven in Yo's first English poetry book.

She holds out her hand to befriend the dark bird.

It ignores her, and looks philosophically out the window at the darkening sky. Slowly its wings lift and fall, huge arcs rise and collapse, rise and collapse, up and down, up and down. Her hair is blown about her face. Dust hurries to comers. Curtains set sail from their windows.

It flies towards the window. "Oh my God!

The screen!" Yo remembers in a moment of suspension of belief. "Have a little faith," she coaches herself, as the dark shape floats easily through the screen like smoke or clouds or figments of any

sort. Out it flies, delighting in its new-found freedom, its dark hooded beak and tiny head drooping like its sex between arching wings.

Suddenly-it stops-midair. Delight and surprise are written all over its wing grin. It plummets down towards the sunning man on the lawn. Beak first, a dark and secret complex, a personality disorder let loose on the world, it plunges!

"Oh no," Yo wails. "No, not him!" She had thought that alone at her window on an August afternoon she would be far from where she could do any harm. And now, down it dives towards the one man she most wants immune to her words.

Yo screams as the hooked beak rips at the man's shirt and chest,- the white figure on the lawn is a red sop.

Satiated, the dark bird rises and joins a rolling cluster of rain clouds in the northern sky.

Yo bangs on the screen. The man looks up, trying to guess a window. "Who is that?"

"Are you all right?" she cries out, liking her role as unidentified voice from the heavens.

"Who is that?" He stands, grabs the beach towel.

The blood congeals into a long, red terrycloth rectangle. "Who is it?" He is annoyed at the prolonged guessing game.

"A secret admirer," she trills. "God."

"Heather?" he guesses.

"Yolanda," she murmurs to herself. "Yo," she shouts down at him. Who the hell is Heather, she wonders.

"Oh, Joe!" He laughs, waving his racket.

Her lips prickle and pucker. Oh no, she thinks, recognizing the first signs of her allergy-not my own name!

in

The lawn is green and clean and quiet.

"Love,"

Yo enunciates, letting the full force of the word loose in her mouth. She is determined to get over this allergy. She will build immunity to the offending words. She braces herself for a double dose:

"Love, love,"

she says the words quickly. Her face is one itchy valentine.

"Amor."

Even in Spanish, the word makes a rash erupt on the backs of her hands.

Inside her ribs, her heart is an empty nest.

"Love."

She rounds the sound of the word as if it were an egg to put into it.

"Yolanda."

She puts in another one.

She looks up at the thunderclouds. His tennis game is going to be rainchecked, all right. There isn't a sample of blue up there to remind her of the sky. So she says,