Song of the Shaman (2 page)

Four days later, Sheri left the hospital and headed home alone with her newborn son. It was one in a string of blazing hot afternoons. She took another yellow cab back over the Brooklyn Bridge, this time with Zig strapped to her chest in a navy blue Swedish baby carrier. Seeing the cab’s interior—her crude birthing room—made her instantly nauseated, so she kept her eyes on the world outside the window. A muscle still ached where the ashtray had rammed into her back. Perspiration dripped from her temples down between her swollen breasts. She tried in vain to shield Zig from the city buses belching their gritty exhaust. Zig slept through the ride, limp and burrowing into her armpit. She held his cheek to steady his head, gazing at his sweet face. In the space of a few days, her life had been irreversibly changed. Her body felt ravaged, but excitement pulsed through her veins. It was as if she had transformed into crisp white drawing paper or a taut canvas on a frame, and was about to illustrate her life with new blood and bones. Funny thing was, she couldn’t remember the last time she had touched real drawing paper or a canvas.

She had stumbled into advertising out of art school, wet behind the ears, eager to make a decent salary, and she’d quickly adapted to the culture of consumerism. Success as senior art director at Aeon Worldwide was like a glamorous lover with an infectious disease: the sex was bound to kill you, but not just yet. Not while you could shoot award-winning television commercials in exotic locales, sleep in five-star hotels, and dine in restaurants where celebrities were regular customers. The highs were like a cocaine hit that sent you flying along a moonlit skyline. The lows were more frequent and gutter level. Ball-breaking clients. Caustic executives who amused themselves by manipulating the staff. Long, life-draining hours. Ad agencies were laden with talented addicts stumbling down a gaily lit ditch. Before she knew it she had become one of them.

Gradually she awakened. The glitzy showcase of personalities and possessions could no longer distract her from the utter barrenness she felt inside. Love languished in the back of her mind, on tomorrow’s wish list, and then it was too late. At thirty-three she woke up to find the above-average Joe either already married with kids or recently divorced and not interested in another serious relationship. But she wasn’t the only one in a rut. Some of her most savvy and sophisticated friends were wait-listed and turned desperate: married for marriage’s sake, then soon after divorced—many even before they had a chance to get pregnant. She no longer wanted to be a part of those endless, disheartening conversations. Over time she distanced herself from her girlfriends, migrated to Brooklyn, and took the road less traveled to forge her own happiness. Becoming a single mother was the most frightening, sobering decision Sheri had ever made. She did not regret a minute of it.

The glaring metal street signs seemed to yell out directions. Men and women of myriad colors were like a box of crayons slowly melting down Flatbush Avenue. Prospect Park’s tree limbs hung low to the ground, its leaves curled and pale. At the sight of her building on Eastern Parkway, Sheri breathed a sigh of relief.

Raised in a soulless neighborhood of roller-coaster high-rises and rent-controlled walk-ups on the Upper East Side, she had chosen Brooklyn with its wide vistas as her new home. Here she could start fresh, carve out a new identity or disappear into the woodwork without the cold, condescending looks of Manhattanites. In her seventh-floor apartment her living room windows boasted picturesque green views of the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens and Brooklyn Museum, while her bedroom windows overlooked sparkly stretches of the New York harbor. These were the only things that greeted her daily since moving here six months ago. She knew no one in Brooklyn. That suited her just fine. Once she became pregnant all her old girlfriends slunk away anyhow, the suffering they once shared dried up now that she had left the pack. Even Reyna, her manic, beloved yoga teacher, disappeared. Reyna, who was so fascinated with Sheri’s gestation, who carefully spotted Sheri’s Tree posture and her wide belly in the Cat-Cow pose, Reyna who had had her ovaries taken out when she was thirty. All the same, instant messaging took the place of Sheri’s face time socializing. Virtual became real and vice versa.

Sheri hauled herself and Zig out of the cab and into the lobby. Juan, the doorman and local ballyhooer, looked up from his newspaper. On the front desk a battery-operated fan whirled next to a mountain of balled-up deli napkins.

“Is that you,
mamí?
You had the baby!” Juan cried, throwing aside the
Daily News
and dashing to her side. “Awww, look at his little face…
qué lindo!
He looks like you,
mamí!
He’s gonna be so lucky!”

Sheri thanked him for the compliments, knowing there was some dirt to come. Alarming residents with the drama of the day was a job Juan took very seriously. He carried her overnight bag to the elevator bank, adding in a low voice, “You didn’t miss nothing—central air is out in the whole building. Three days now! I coulda fixed it but they won’t pay me.
Pendejos.
They better fix it soon. It’s hot as shit!”

She rolled her eyes. Back to reality, but she was glad to be home. “Thanks for the heads-up, Juan.”

He snorted and put the bag at her feet. When the elevator came, she pressed the button for the seventh floor. The doors opened to thick, humid air and the scent of fried garlic. Someone’s toy dog yapped and a telephone rang on and on. As she neared her door, she heard a recorded voice coming from the apartment.
Damn! That’s my phone!
She groped for her keys and opened the door.

The apartment was stifling. The living room windows were sealed shut. Her jade plant had dropped half of its leaves on the coffee table. Two boxes of Chinese food, now rancid and pungent, were also on the table. Liane, the Machiavellian media director, was leaving a message on Sheri’s answering machine. She picked up the phone midsentence.

“Sheri Lambert,” she said, forgetting where she was.

“Sheri? Thank God you’re there! Are you okay? Everyone was worried when you missed the pre-pro meeting!”

“I’m fine, Liane.”

Liane paused.

“Did you have the baby?”

“Yes, he’s right here with me.” Zig started to squirm.

“Well, congratulations! Aren’t you early? How did everything go?”

Sheri looked around for a place to lay Zig down. The maple wood crib was packed flat in the box by the front door. The bassinet was halfway put together, sheets still in their plastic sleeves. She fumbled with the lock on the baby carrier—
how did the darn thing open?

“Good. I had natural childbirth.”

“Really? I didn’t think anyone these days bothered with
natural—”

Zig started to holler. She tried to pull him out of the carrier.

“Uh-oh, I better go. You’ve got your hands full.”

“No, it’s okay. I can talk. Any word from JetSet?”

“They absolutely loved the television. I’m pretty sure it’s a go with—hold on a sec.”

Their conversation was interrupted by hip-hop Muzak dotted with a sugary announcer plugging the agency’s awards. By now everyone was over the shock of her being a single mother. Lots of successful women were doing it—even Madonna. Madonna was a gap-toothed woman just like Sheri. Sheri liked to believe she was as cool and self-ruling as the superstar, too.

She flipped the central air switch in the hallway, half hoping the A/C would start up. It didn’t. She was still struggling with the baby carrier when Liane clicked back.

“That was Roland—our three o’clock was moved up. Gotta run, sweetie. Don’t worry, we’ll handle everything till you get back in December.”

“November twenty-second.”
Bitch.
Zig was turning four-alarm-fire red.

“Anyway, Roland’s aiming to have the JetSet commercials shot and in the can by early November. Take care, Sheri.
Motherhood—”

Zig’s shrieks drowned out Liane’s last words.
Shit!
Sheri slammed the phone on the kitchen counter.
They better not shoot my spots before I get back.
She pried her arms out of the carrier, wrestling Zig and the whole contraption over her head. Where could she put him?
The leather sofa held a sea of teetering toys, baby bottles, bibs, and onesies. Shoving them to the floor, she placed him on the seat. A penetrating, terrifying cry surged from his tiny body. Sheri sat on the edge of the sofa and whipped off her shirt. Her bra was dripping wet—was that milk? Sweat? She pulled the straps down to an alarming sight. Her breasts were stiff and misshapen; her nipples taut and hard. They didn’t look like that in the hospital. Zig’s screams got louder. A stream of milk sprayed out of one breast and across his little face. Sheri scooped up her son, brought his mouth to her leaking nipple. He could barely latch on before milk flooded his nose, mouth, and chin. Zig gagged and coughed, and soon his crying stopped. The silence that followed was almost as deafening as the screaming. Sheri took deep breaths. She was shaking. The clumps in her life softened and dissolved as Zig drank long draughts from her.

DURING THE EARLY WEEKS of Zig’s life there were many days when they saw no one but each other. Ironically, she felt her solitude more acutely now that she had a baby. Bombarded with meetings and phone calls at the office, she had eagerly looked forward to quality time at home. Now that it was here, she felt cut off. The phone seldom rang. At first she tried to keep up with IM’s, e-mail, and phone calls, but every time she turned on her computer or picked up the phone Zig would start crying. Sheri spent hours pacing the floor with him cradled in her arms until all the loud demands of the world slowly died out, like the tin-can clatter of a circus miles and miles away. Their bonding had a soothing, hypnotic effect. One thought remained constant in her mind:
He will always know his mother.

No one claimed Sheri after her mother had died during her birth, so she was sent to
Cuidad del Niño
, a local orphanage in Guabito, a farming town on the border between Panama and Costa Rica. In the summer when she turned three, through a surreptitious adoption, a Jewish couple traveled to the orphanage and brought Sheri back to New York. Well into their fifties, the Lamberts ran a small stock brokerage firm that kept them bickering and drinking when they weren’t buying and selling. If Wall Street had a good year she went to private school. When it was bad she went to public school. In private school she noticed that the handful of honey-colored girls had parents that looked like Sheri’s. In public school there were many more girls that looked like her and they had parents that matched. Obvious signs of her Latin descent became more apparent in the sixth grade. Her eyes were the shade and shape of warm almonds, unlike her father’s, which were heavy lidded and the color of murky water. Her hair was dark and thick with loopy curls, not flat and golden like her mother’s. Sheri’s nose was slightly round, her lips fleshy even when stretched with a smile. And by the end of the summer her olive skin turned the color of sandalwood, while her parents turned blotchy and red.

Her mother and father told her the truth a few days after her eleventh birthday party, mechanically, like it was part of some kind of benchmark guideline in a parenting book. She heard the words halfway through a slice of leftover chocolate birthday cake. She was adopted.

Sheri felt as if she had been thrown off a moving carousel. She knew there was no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny or tooth fairy. That was nonsense. Anyone could figure that out. But her mother and father were not real?
This is what happens when you grow up, lucky girl. Truth is given to you like a birthday gift. It’s the gift that takes your speech and breath away. Takes your known life away. You cry every night and even when you stop, the tears rain down inside but the gift givers never see. They never know your tears have no end.

How stupid she had been! The boys and girls she laughed with as they chased her around at her party—they knew all along. Just like Anna and Leah, the best friends who stared at her and whispered in each other’s ears on Parents’ Visiting Day. The teachers. The neighbors. Everyone knew. Sheri locked herself in the bathroom and vomited, the sweet chocolate cake turning to bitter slime in her mouth. She heaved until her guts were squeezed dry, until her organs pushed against her throat as if she were trying to spit out her heart. Paramedics took her to Lenox Hill Hospital where doctors made her swallow some nasty liquid. She remembered the numbness that came over her legs. It swept up her back to her ears and forced her eyes shut, a deadening that lingered inside for years and had begun to recede only with the birth of her son.

ONE MORNING BEFORE DAWN while Sheri was nursing Zig, she thought she heard a voice. A word was spoken just once.

Tukitima.

She glanced around her cluttered bedroom. A torn box of Pampers sat on the floor next to the bassinet. Booties, blankets, and hooded towels were heaped on the end of the changing table. What caught her off guard was Zig. In the ashen stillness his unblinking eyes were locked on hers.
That’s weird.
She thought about it for a moment, then shrugged it off. Zig exhaled, his tummy full and contented. Sheri lay down in bed with him curled up on her chest and fell asleep.

1899

Guabito, Panama

THEY REACHED THE BORDER at Guabito exactly twenty-one blasted minutes late, according to Father, who snapped his pocket watch shut for the hundredth time. So it was past noon! Louise, half asleep and slumped against the carriage door, kept a brown paper parcel from sliding off her lap. Maud also slept, her pale sweaty cheek pressed into Louise’s shoulder. For days they had traveled over dust-clouded roads in the heat from Panama City, stopping only to lodge in shabby taverns along the way. Louise tilted her head to gaze through the open window. Watching endless walls of banana groves spotted with workers chopping off large bunches—
racimos
—made her all the more drowsy. Across from her sat their father, Charles, a soggy handkerchief tight in his fist.

With his spectacles, red-rimmed eyes, and pasty skin he looked like a nervous clergyman and not the chief financial officer at the Canal Commission. The way his white linen suit clung to his paunchy middle made her frown. She wondered, if he ate one less
cocadita
a day he might find comfort in other things. He might even see her.

Louise glanced at Maud. She brushed stringy blond wisps off her younger sister’s temple, listened to her clogged nose sip the hot, humid air. Maud was fair and fragile, but not as naïve as Father made her out to be. She was almost sixteen, four years younger than Louise; still, he doted on Maud, spoiled her from the day Mother died. Maud took full advantage, playing the precious little daughter, ever pouting and preening for his loving eyes, and when he wasn’t looking she took her privileges even further. Why not, the two of them looked just alike. Together they struck a lovely family portrait. Louise rolled her tongue against the small gap between her front teeth. With her dark eyes and ruddy complexion she favored her mother, whereas Maud and Father had eyes the color of sea foam and thin skin that burned in the midday sun. Louise was glad she took after her mother—what she could remember of her.

The Sixaola River stretched before her like a soothing balm, linking Panama with Costa Rica. Its jade green water, still as glass, mirrored an array of glittering trees and shrubs, a welcome sight from the monotonous banana plantations. Maud raised her head an inch from Louise’s shoulder to let out a rattling cough. Charles sprang up, his back stiff. For months Maud’s health had not improved. Doctors from Panama City to Colón proved useless as her asthma grew more and more chronic. Soon Father dismissed the doctors and took matters into his own hands, the way he did with most everything. An engineer at the Canal had told him about Don Pedro, a famous shaman, or “awa,” as the Nrvai Indians call them, who lived in the Talamanca Mountains of Costa Rica on the other side of the river. Benjamin, the awa’s grandson, was to meet them at the river with a canoe and escort them to his grandfather’s house. Maud whined about being away from home. The thought of seeing a medicine man frightened her. But for Louise, travel meant escape; a chance to break free from the narrow-minded upper crust of San Felipe; a chance to reinvent herself as someone other than the eldest, unmarried daughter of a Canal Commission officer.

Louise stretched her cramped arm, careful not to wake Maud, and took note of her father’s grave expression, which he put on daily like his hair tonic. After Mother’s death he had relied heavily on Louise to be a role model for Maud.
Mind all you say and do, Louise
was his never-ending drill. She leaned against the rattling carriage and shut her eyes. Sparks of a dark, stifling night rolled in her head.

“Louise!”

Mother had cried out for her from behind the bedroom door. Like a wildcat Louise had fought Father’s clutches, scratching, screaming. But his iron grip held her tight.

“Let me go! Mama! Mama!”

Louise grabbed fists full of air. Midwives took Mother and a stillborn baby away in blood-soaked sheets, leaving Louise behind to forever make sense out of life.

The coach stopped abruptly and they were all jostled about. Charles snapped at the driver. Maud stifled a cough, draping a eucalyptus-laced hankie over her nose. Louise, a bit disoriented, gathered her fallen parcel—a gift of chocolate and tobacco for the shaman. Outside a tall, slim young man stood on the side of the road. In the bright sunlight his amber eyes seemed colorless. They lingered on hers politely, then an instant longer than politeness allowed. She looked away. In that brief instance it was as if he saw what had happened to her and her mother, like he peered into the window of her most private thoughts.

The driver hastened around to open the coach door, but Charles had already let himself out.

“Come come, girls! We’re late and must be back by sunset!” Charles grumbled. He was helping Maud down when the tall young man appeared before them.

“Señor Lindo.”

Charles looked up. Holding Maud like an injured dove, he seemed momentarily surprised at the young man’s graceful demeanor.

“I’m Benjamin Xyrmach—Don Pedro’s grandson.”

“Aha! Right on schedule. Charles Lindo.” Charles passed Maud to the driver and gave Benjamin’s hand a hard shake. “These are my daughters—Miss Louise and Miss Maud.” Charles reached for Louise’s arm to help her off the carriage. Her heels sank into the soft soil and she lost her footing for a moment. Benjamin caught her by the elbow.

“Pardon me!” Louise said, flushed with embarrassment.

“The swells are to blame.” The young man apologized for the river, his eyes settling on hers again. Loose waves on his head tossed easily in the hot breeze. His skin reminded her of café con leche, and stood in contrast to his plain linen shirt. Maud’s cough started again with a sequence of hacks. Father and Benjamin rushed to her side to assist her to the canoe. Louise trekked behind them, still feeling the pressure of the handsome stranger’s hand.

Benjamin rowed them across the river while Louise, fascinated with the excursion, had many questions to ask. How many kilometers to the other side? What species of fish were there? Are there truly red monkeys, tapirs, and jaguars in the Talamanca Mountains? Benjamin answered casually. Did he welcome her interest? Then Charles, filled with hot air, had to remind everyone of his rank and great intelligence.

“In Panama City we have an abundance of the same flora and fauna and then some, Louise, as we are practically neighbors.” Yet his presumptuous tone did not match his nervous tapping feet and darting eyes. The fact that he had to seek help from these simple people troubled him.

Like other prosperous men in Panama, Charles viewed the Indian population as one would coconut trees or sugarcane: indigenous and almost invisible. He never took into account how his own Sephardic traditions, as inconsistent as they tended to be, kept him somewhat distanced from the country’s culture. Louise tossed a leaf into the rushing water.
That’s the irony of arrogance.

She set the package on the floor of the canoe to open a parasol over her and Maud’s head, and found herself daydreaming about a river outing she had made with her parents when she was little. How happy Mother had been that day, splashing water on Father and ruffling him in his new suit. She remembered Mother’s laugh most of all, a rhythmic, gutsy laugh that rose from her hips. If she were here, she might have asked Benjamin about his grandfather, how he became a shaman, and what sort of lessons he learned from him. Louise stared at the radiating circles on the surface of the river.
Perhaps a shaman could have saved Mother.
At last Father stopped talking; he slid closer to Maud to pat her limp hand. Louise twirled the parasol, sending a welcome draft of air to her neck, and watched the young man push the oars through the deep water.

The canoe landed with ease on the Costa Rica side, and as there were no horses or carriages, they began their journey by foot, following Benjamin up the steep and isolated Talamanca hills. The quiet beauty of the countryside moved her; the still cedars and laurels lounged peacefully against the turquoise sky. Maud took several needed rest stops along the way. Father reeled at the slightest crackle in the bush; Louise half expected him to brandish his pistol.

“Is it much further to your village?” Charles asked, winded, glancing over his shoulder and swatting at flies.

“It’s just past the next clearing.” Benjamin helped Maud cross a knobby cluster of stones. Insects were not attracted to him like they were to Father.

“Your grandfather has the reputation of being a celebrated shaman.” Louise said, eager to change the subject.

“Don Pedro is well known for his songs and medicines.” Benjamin broke off a branch that hung in the path and tossed it into the bush. “We have few visitors from outside our way of life. Grandfather knows by your effort you are worthy of seeing him.”

Louise glanced at her father’s tight face and braced herself for a tart reply, but he remained silent. For now.

Charles had arrived in Panama from New York City full of vigor for the canal and its potential. He hailed from a long line of bankers in the United States and Central America with vested interests in financing the project. Twenty-two years ago, at an extravagant dinner party held to celebrate the newly built mansion of French engineer Monsieur de Lesseps, he met Ethel Louise, a raven-haired young woman whose beauty was the talk of the town. Charles, fiercely competitive in matters of business and pleasure, saw courtship as just another blood sport, with Ethel Louise as the grand prize. Immediately he barricaded her with his prowess. No man could match his wit. Eventually his persistence and confidence won her over. Born and raised in Panama, Ethel Louise was the daughter of a wealthy linen export merchant. She had never met anyone like Charles.

WHEN THEY NEARED THE CLEARING they came upon an enormous circular dwelling. Thickly thatched with palm leaves, it rose from the ground to a sharp point at least forty or fifty feet in the air. Its peak appeared to be covered with a sort of bowl or jar. There was a large square doorway with an awning over it. Benjamin strode to the opening. A brood of feeding hens clucked and scurried. Maud clutched Charles’s arm as they entered the unusual home.

“Grandfather! Your visitors are here!” Benjamin called out. Inside the abode was dark and cool, and there was a smell of burned wood. Louise adjusted her eyes to the dimness. Monkeys chattered from above but where she could not tell. Carrying bags and baskets of various sizes dangled from beams in the ceiling. Bows, arrows, and long poles were stuck in the thatched walls. Wooden drums swung from a rafter on one side, along with striking bird plumes and animal skins. Opposite the entrance was a hearth where three hammocks hung—one occupied by a man who lay sleeping, his arm dangling over the side. Benjamin quietly approached the hammock and gave the man’s arm a gentle tug. The man stirred. He groped for Benjamin’s hand and then pulled himself up in the hammock. He was small and wiry with sparse hair, sharp cheekbones, and leathery skin several hues deeper than Benjamin’s. He rubbed his face with his palms while Benjamin introduced him.

“Señor Lindo, this is Don Pedro, the man you and your daughters have come to see.”

Benjamin whispered something to Don Pedro. Don Pedro turned and studied the three visitors. He motioned for Maud to come forth, gesturing for her to sit in the empty hammock next to him. Holding tight to each other, Father and Maud walked deeper into the dark room. Don Pedro shook his head with rigor. He pointed at Maud. Charles, somewhat apprehensively, let go of his daughter’s arm. She inched over to Don Pedro and sat on the edge of the rough-hewn hammock. At that moment a butterfly descended on her lap; its yellow, blue, and black wings beat against her hand as she frantically waved it away. Don Pedro leaped from his hammock and followed the butterfly’s flight, staring for some time. He spoke with excitement in his native language, nodding after the beautiful insect.

“Grandfather says the butterfly represents a deceased soul. He wants to know who in your family has died,” Benjamin said, interpreting his grandfather’s words. Maud shot a confused look at Charles.

“My mother died when I was eight.” She twisted a ring on her finger and glanced back and forth between Don Pedro and Benjamin. Don Pedro spoke again, his broken Spanish rapid and emphatic.

“The butterfly is a sign that her spirit is here.”

Chickens darted into the room. Louise put her hand on her father’s rigid arm. How tense he was! Don Pedro continued asking Maud questions about Mother, whether her asthma started before or after her death. Though no one addressed him, Charles butt in.

“I can’t see how my daughter’s mother’s passing has anything to do with her illness. Maud has been congested and short of breath for weeks. The wasted hospital stays. Useless physicians. Obviously what she needs is an alternative medicine—a more effective tonic or poultice!”

Louise lowered her head.
Must he embarrass her like this?
Don Pedro went back to his hammock and fell silent for a long while. Benjamin brought stools over, inviting Louise and Charles to sit. He then stood next to his grandfather and waited. Maud wiped her nose repeatedly. Father grew restless. Just when Louise thought the awa had fallen asleep he jumped up, turned to Benjamin, and rattled off a list of words, counting on the fingers of one hand. Benjamin explained the plan to Charles.

“Don Pedro needs certain plants, flowers, and roots for the curing ceremony. I’ll go out now to gather them.” He unhooked a coarse sack that hung from the ceiling and slung it over his arm. “You and your daughters can rest here until I return.”

Louise blinked. She longed for a break from her father and sister.

“Can I be of any help?” Louise’s question was for Benjamin, but she looked at her father instead. He seemed preoccupied, lost in a reverie.

“You’re welcome to come if you like,” Benjamin said. He pulled a machete from the thatched walls. “What grandfather needs is on the grounds nearby.”

Louise started to take her father’s hand but thought better of it.

“May I go?”

Charles pushed his hands into his pockets and looked past her absently. “You must be in plain sight.” He walked with them to the front of the dwelling. Benjamin pointed to an area ten meters away. Charles glanced back at Maud and Don Pedro.