This Side of Providence (37 page)

She's wrong about me not liking the window. What I like is being on the side that's closest to the door, just in case I need a way out.

 

       
S
HE SEES
the girl crying. On an airplane, flying over the ocean. She has never seen the water from so high. It looks dark and cold. Like the surface of another planet. She is afraid of falling out of the sky. She holds her daughter in her lap. She is not alone. She is a mother now. She will never be alone again. They eat the airplane food, like flavored cardboard. They sing songs. They sleep. The airplane lands in a foreign city. They are far from home. She feels lost, but knows exactly where she is. She gets her bags. Holds her baby. She has everything that belongs to her. She walks along the busy streets. People stare at her. Cars honk at her. The city screams at her. She stops. She looks at the buildings that surround her. Nothing is familiar. And none of it is hers. Outside she looks calm, but inside she is running again. She runs until she cannot breathe. She fears she will never stop running.

Arcelia

I
can't stand the silence of living alone. Not sure I can survive it. It was bad enough before, when Cristo was at school all day, but since he ain't coming back what's there to look forward to? My days are endless, broken only by the sunrise or night falling. I leave the TV on all day and usually the radio in the kitchen, too, just to keep me company.

Lucho disappears for two days right after Cristo leaves, and I seriously think it might be over between us. The first day is hard—just like breaking any habit—but after that I'm okay and I make an appointment to see my case manager and go to an NA meeting. But then Lucho comes back and she ends up staying with me for the entire weekend. We never really leave my bedroom, even though it's warm outside and there's a spring festival going on in the park. I can hear bells and the sound of children laughing, but I keep forgetting to look out the window.

We lose ourselves in the constant search for a better high—food, alcohol, drugs, sex—everything we can use, we do. Use or abuse, what's the difference? I don't remember deciding to binge, but here I am just doing it. Almost like an instinct. Opening a beer bottle, rolling a joint, packing my caps, bleaching my needle—it's all part of the same routine, as normal as getting dressed after taking a shower. I don't have to ask anyone for help. I don't have to wait on some list. I don't have to pretend to be better than I am—or worse, be something I'm not. I'm in my own skin again, in my own world, and it feels like coming home.

Every time I sober up, even if it's only for an hour or two, I regret using. I think about Cristo, about what I promised him, and I tell myself that I'm gonna stop. Each time is my last time. I vow to start taking my meds again, and to reschedule all the doctor's appointments I missed. I want to stop—I swear to God I do—but I don't know what it feels like to be done, to be full. What does it even mean to be satisfied? Most nights I'm afraid I'll never find the bottom.

What I do know during those brief moments of being straight is that I hate being addicted. The feeling when it bubbles up inside of me—that gnawing hunger—I want to have it cut out of my body like a disease. I try to ignore it first, but that's like trying to ignore a gunshot to the head. So instead I try to quiet it, to give it just a little something to tide it over. But no matter what I do, it's never enough. The need gets so big I can't control it. Eventually I have to give in. And when I do, it only gets bigger. I just don't understand why it has to get so big.

Getting clean the first time almost killed me, and I know it only worked 'cause I was locked up. I didn't have a choice. But on the outside things are different. Nobody is forcing me to do it. Nobody cares one way or the other. One day I have what my old counselor used to call a moment of clarity, where you see your future, and I see that going back in is the only way I'll ever be able to quit again. But I also know I won't survive being locked up a second time. Not sure I have the will to survive anything.

I must have a crazy expression on my face 'cause Lucho rolls over and asks me what's wrong and if I want her to give me another fix.

“No, I'm good,” I say, and she falls back into the wall and closes her eyes. I think she's nodding off but then she says, “This shit's all right but not as good as what we used to get from Snowman.”

“Nothing's as good as what I used to get in New York,” I tell her.

She shakes her head slowly. “Nah, you're just saying that because you were young then. It's always the best when you're just starting out. You don't have to work so hard to fool your
body.” Her eyes are still closed but she has a silly grin. “There's nothing like those first times, you know?”

I nod. “But we still keep trying to get back there, to that place you can never go again. It's kinda sad.”

She looks at me. “Do you feel sad right now?”

“I don't feel anything.”

She stretches out on the bed. “Sounds good to me.”

I watch her chest rise and fall as she breathes. I look down at my own chest but I don't see nothing move under my bulky sweater. I reach my hand under my shirt to feel my belly. The skin is warm and soft like a baby's. I think of Trini, how I used to tuck my hands inside her pajamas when they were cold. It always surprised me when I made her laugh. I fall asleep sitting up, the sound of my daughter's laugh echoing in my ears.

By the end of the weekend we run out of food and drugs, so Lucho goes back to work. We're back in the cycle. The first thing I do when I'm alone is shower. The water is hot and the force of it hurts my skin, but I want to feel something—even pain. I think about going to AIDS Care to get my Ensure and some food vouchers but I'm too tired to leave after drying myself off and getting dressed.

I smoke a few cigarettes to settle my stomach and drink cold, three-day-old coffee to try to wake up. My feet feel like they're made of stone and my left arm tingles from my elbow to my wrist. I sit down at the kitchen table at 10:30 and when I look at the clock again it's noon. I watch a few soaps and fall asleep on the couch and when I wake up Oprah is on. I open a window as wide as I can and sit in front of it. I watch people walk their dogs and their children to the park. I watch birds fly from one branch of a tree to another for no reason I can see.

As I sit, I try to remember what Providence was like when I first saw it. It's a small, peaceful city, and I remember thinking it was much prettier than New York. With big hills and trees and old cobblestoned streets that remind me of San Juan. The trees are what I love the most—how they line the streets just like
the telephone poles and are so tall you have to tip your head all the way back just to see their tops. My favorites are the big oaks that look like huge heads of broccoli, and the Christmas pines that make the whole street smell clean. There's a tree in the park so high I can see it from the window. I imagine lying under it and looking up at its dark branches, a tangled mass that blocks out the entire sky. I want to be that tall and strong—that old. I wonder how many kids have climbed its branches. How many teenagers with pocketknives have cut their initials into the bark. How many seasons it's seen. When I think of my own life compared to that tree, I realize how little I know. How little I've seen. I want to see all that tree sees, but I know it's impossible. Still, it don't keep me from dreaming.

I get out my notebook and start writing. Just putting words on paper makes me feel better. When I fill that notebook I go to Cristo's room to see if he has another one. I find an old one he left behind and flip through it, looking for clean pages. There's a page with names written on it in Luz's handwriting.
Cristoval. Lucila. Trini. Arcelia.
Below there are more words.
Mother. Skinny. Sick. Gone.
I find another list, filled with more questions than I've seen in my entire life. Questions my little girl was too afraid to ask me. She wants to know who I am, why I left Puerto Rico and left her father, and why I had to go away last year and leave her and Cristo behind. I owe her so much more than I can put into words—even if the letter was fifty pages long—but I have to try. I sit down on Cristo's bed and write a letter back to her, answering each of her questions. Even the ones I'm scared of.

After Luz, I write to everybody I can think of. All the people I love or should've loved, all those I owe and will never be able to repay. I save Cristo's letter for last. His is the hardest to write and maybe the most important. I know he feels bad about moving out and leaving me all alone, so I start by saying it's okay, that I forgive him for taking off that night and for taking care of himself. But more than that, I tell him it was actually a good thing that he left. Not because I wanted him to go, but because I had to know that he was strong enough to do it. I didn't know I needed it, but walking out was a gift he gave me, and it makes me happy to know I taught him something, even if
it meant leaving me behind.

I fold each letter and find envelopes for all of them, long white ones I stole from my case manager's desk. I address the few I know by heart and look up the ones I wrote down on the inside of matchbooks and gum wrappers. I leave the ones for my kids on the mantel, above the fireplace that no longer works, and put the rest in my pocket. I slip my sandals on and make the ten-minute walk to the post office on Weybossett, using my last three dollars to buy stamps with a picture of a black jazz musician on them. I drop them in the mailbox one by one, rereading the names and addresses one last time before I let it all go.

It's a beautiful spring day, sunny and not too hot. I walk with a smile on my face, something close to peace flowing through me. Folks here call this mud season—the weeks between winter and spring when the streets are covered with gravel and melting snow and the potholes are full of water. Near the high school I notice a row of lilac bushes just beginning to blossom. One bush has white flowers, but the others are covered with deep-purple buds that look just like candy. I walk over to the fence and pull a flower through the chain links. The metal feels warm against my fingertips. I breathe in the flower, feel its soft buds against my skin, but I can't smell anything. I twist the branch until it breaks off in my hand and hold it like a lollipop as I walk. When I get home I put it in a glass filled with water, hoping it will eventually bloom and fill the whole room with its scent.

When I can't sleep I decide to clean the apartment. I wash the floors with a rag soaked in dish soap, getting on my hands and knees to pull out the furniture to dust behind it. I mix bleach in a bucket of hot water and disinfect everything in the bathroom. The smell makes me feel light-headed but I like it. I stand on a chair and wipe down the insides of each cupboard. I even climb on the kitchen table to wash the light fixture in the middle of the room. When I'm done I open all the windows to air out the smell. I'm sweating and my hands are sore from the
work. It feels good to be tired in that way. The smell of bleach and lemon dish soap reminds me of my childhood, of Saturday mornings when my mother was still alive, how we would clean together in an empty house while she sang songs about broken people finding love.

I stay in the kitchen till the sun sets and the whole room fills with darkness. When I can't see the table or the color of my fingernail polish, I turn the lights on. I close the windows and pull all the shades. Now it feels too bright, like a classroom. I turn the lights back off and light a candle instead, watching the flame dance along the wall. The hunger is coming. I can feel it building inside me even though I can't find it yet. The first sensation—a tingle in the bottoms of my feet—feels really good, like an itch you're about to scratch. I try to remember that it won't always feel this good, that I'll start scratching and soon it will burn hot enough to take my breath away. But that don't matter right now.

I start yawning, even though I'm not tired. My nose starts to run. It's been a few hours since my last fix, but I'm already feeling the signs of withdrawal. I know I won't sleep without another hit, but Lucho is working an overnight and won't be back until the morning. I need a distraction. I need to do something with my body.

I search my bedroom for leftover food and find half a pizza under the bed. I eat a slice covered with shriveled green peppers and cheese that's hard like wax. A few seconds later I think I'm gonna throw up. I spend the next half hour lying on the bed telling myself not to. As soon as I stand up I walk straight to the toilet, lift the lid, and puke into the newly bleached bowl. Then I go outside to get some air.

It's completely dark by now and cold enough to empty the streets. It seems much later than it is. The pay phone at the corner store is busted, so I walk two more blocks and use the one outside the liquor store. I page Lucho and wait for her to call me back. Twenty minutes later she hasn't called so I page her again.

An old guy walks out of the liquor store with a paper bag wrapped tight around a bottle of whiskey. He stops on the street
to open it and takes a long drink. His stubble is several days old but his hair is neatly combed. I recognize him from dinners at one of the soup kitchens and nod hello. He smiles, showing me all five of his teeth. Twenty years ago he might have been handsome, but now he's just pathetic. He offers me the bottle and I take it quickly. I don't even like whiskey but I drink as much as I think I can get away with.