Read Online Beyond the Ties of Blood by Florencia Mallon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Florencia Mallon
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glass of water after another one of her night terrors in 1984, Eugenia felt happy that her daughter wanted to take care of her. In fact, Laura used the same words to comfort her mother after her nightmare that Eugenia had used a few weeks before when their roles had been reversed and Laura had been sick. If only Eugenia had been able to comfort her mother back when Papa left, but Mama had locked her door during the time she was ill. Then she and Laura had talked about Manuel. For the first time, Eugenia realized, she was able to tell Laura about their daily life together, things she thought about constantly but had never been able to share with her daughter before. Now that Laura was ten, perhaps it was easier for her to understand.
She wondered if Laura had seen the scars on her arms that night. Sheâd been wearing a sleeveless nightgown. When Laura didnât say anything, Eugenia relaxed. But when it happened again, Eugenia bought a new wardrobe of nightgowns, all with long sleeves. They were especially useful after the earthquake, when she found she could not sleep at all.
One September morning in 1985, Eugenia woke to the worst earthquake she had ever experienced. By the time she became conscious, her bed was on the opposite side of the room from where sheâd fallen asleep and the walls were changing shape. She was unable to stand until the first shock passed, and found Laura crying under her bed.
For weeks Eugenia roamed the apartment at night. Laura took to sleeping in Eugeniaâs bed, Paco the porcupine clutched to her chest. Sometimes, just the regular breathing of her daughter next to her calmed her enough so that she could doze off for a while. But then she would wake up again. In the early mornings, with slivers of almost-sun peeking in through the drawn curtains, she spent hours watching her daughter sleep. The straight jet-black hair, the long raven lashes that fluttered against her cheeks as she dreamed. She did not look like Manuel. She tried to put them side by side in her mindâs eye, and found that the minute one of them came into focus, the other disappeared. It was almost as if the presence of one was conditional on the absence of the other. Again and again, in the apologetic light of early dawn, she tried to hold both together in her mind. When she finally gave up, only Manuel stood there, his red hair glowing. She shook her head back and forth to get rid of him and reached out and gently moved a finger across her daughterâs right cheekbone, imprinted now with the folds of the pillow.
She called her sister, who now had a job as an associate chemist at a lab at MIT, and said she could no longer stay in Mexico. Irene called back a week later to tell her about the fellowship being advertised at Carmichael College, which was also in Boston. They were looking for someone with experience in cross-cultural reporting who could also teach a class to undergraduate majors. Her ten years of experience as a journalist in Mexico impressed the search committee, and somehow the school administration convinced the Immigration and Naturalization Service that no one else could do the job.
Boston, 1990
As she sat in her darkened office, Eugenia realized how out of place sheâd felt in Mexico. Everyone presumed she shared Manuelâs political values, his passionate sense of justice. But beyond her own vague belief that the poor should have access to land, a place to live, basic rights, things like that, she had no idea what he really stood for. His romantic revolutionary figure hovered over every conversation she had with Chilean exiles, and she had to pretend she knew his politics. While others went on and on in hushed tones, all she could remember was him crying on the steps of Ireneâs apartment, or his body doubled over in the torture camp.
Her early journalistic forays had an almost desperate quality to them. Why had the poor been so important to him? Why had he been so passionate
She wondered if Laura had seen the scars on her arms that night. Sheâd been wearing a sleeveless nightgown. When Laura didnât say anything, Eugenia relaxed. But when it happened again, Eugenia bought a new wardrobe of nightgowns, all with long sleeves. They were especially useful after the earthquake, when she found she could not sleep at all.
One September morning in 1985, Eugenia woke to the worst earthquake she had ever experienced. By the time she became conscious, her bed was on the opposite side of the room from where sheâd fallen asleep and the walls were changing shape. She was unable to stand until the first shock passed, and found Laura crying under her bed.
For weeks Eugenia roamed the apartment at night. Laura took to sleeping in Eugeniaâs bed, Paco the porcupine clutched to her chest. Sometimes, just the regular breathing of her daughter next to her calmed her enough so that she could doze off for a while. But then she would wake up again. In the early mornings, with slivers of almost-sun peeking in through the drawn curtains, she spent hours watching her daughter sleep. The straight jet-black hair, the long raven lashes that fluttered against her cheeks as she dreamed. She did not look like Manuel. She tried to put them side by side in her mindâs eye, and found that the minute one of them came into focus, the other disappeared. It was almost as if the presence of one was conditional on the absence of the other. Again and again, in the apologetic light of early dawn, she tried to hold both together in her mind. When she finally gave up, only Manuel stood there, his red hair glowing. She shook her head back and forth to get rid of him and reached out and gently moved a finger across her daughterâs right cheekbone, imprinted now with the folds of the pillow.
She called her sister, who now had a job as an associate chemist at a lab at MIT, and said she could no longer stay in Mexico. Irene called back a week later to tell her about the fellowship being advertised at Carmichael College, which was also in Boston. They were looking for someone with experience in cross-cultural reporting who could also teach a class to undergraduate majors. Her ten years of experience as a journalist in Mexico impressed the search committee, and somehow the school administration convinced the Immigration and Naturalization Service that no one else could do the job.
Boston, 1990
As she sat in her darkened office, Eugenia realized how out of place sheâd felt in Mexico. Everyone presumed she shared Manuelâs political values, his passionate sense of justice. But beyond her own vague belief that the poor should have access to land, a place to live, basic rights, things like that, she had no idea what he really stood for. His romantic revolutionary figure hovered over every conversation she had with Chilean exiles, and she had to pretend she knew his politics. While others went on and on in hushed tones, all she could remember was him crying on the steps of Ireneâs apartment, or his body doubled over in the torture camp.
Her early journalistic forays had an almost desperate quality to them. Why had the poor been so important to him? Why had he been so passionate
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