Read Online The Seamstress by Frances de Pontes Peebles - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Frances de Pontes Peebles
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knickers. She took both arms from the branch above her. In an instant, Emília saw her sister’s face change from a look of surprise to one of dread—her eyebrows furrowing and teeth clenching as if prepared for the impact. Luzia tipped backward.
“Luzia!” Emília shouted. She grabbed for her sister. Their fingers touched, sticky and wet from mango juice, then moved apart.
Luzia’s head thudded against two thick branches. She flopped onto the earth, exhaling a small sigh before closing her eyes. Her left arm was twisted at a horrendous angle beneath her body. She looked like one of their rag dolls—her limbs splayed and limp. Emília wrapped her arms around the tree’s trunk and scrambled down, scraping her knees and the pads of her hands. Zefinha’s neighbor appeared from the coffee trees, ready to yell at the girls for stealing his fruit. His scowl disappeared when he saw Luzia.
Emília knelt and quickly pulled up Luzia’s underpants. “Pick her up!” she ordered the old farmer, her voice sounding unfamiliar to her, too high pitched and insistent.
Aunt Sofia covered her mouth when she saw them emerge from the trees: Emília shouting orders, Zefinha’s neighbor wide-eyed and frantic, Luzia limp in his arms. They laid her on the kitchen table. Blood leaked from a wound on the back of her head.
“I found her like this,” the neighbor said, holding his dark and calloused hands together as if in prayer. “They were in my tree.”
“We’ll put her hands in cold water,” Zefinha said, then ran and filled two clay bowls. Luzia’s hands hung limply inside them. Her left arm was twisted elbow side up, as if it had been sewn on backward. Aunt Sofia stroked Luzia’s hair away from her forehead. She did not wake. They poured water over her face, wafted a bottle of strong vinegar under her nose, pinched her cheeks and pulled her hair, but Luzia did not move.
“Her breath,” Aunt Sofia whispered, “is so shallow.” She looked intently at Luzia’s chest. “I can barely see it rise.”
Zefinha lifted Luzia’s head gingerly and slipped a towel beneath it to soak up the blood. She faced her son. “Ride to town,” she ordered. “Get the midwife.”
Dona Augusta, the local midwife, was the closest thing Taquaritinga had to a trained doctor. Aunt Sofia fell to her knees. Everyone followed. The dirt floor felt cold against Emília’s knees. The neighbor shifted next to her, curling the brim of his hat in his hands. He smelled of onions and dirt. Emília felt dizzy. She shuffled away from him and clasped her hands together.
Aunt Sofia recited a series of prayers to the Virgin. They opened their eyes after each one, hoping to see Luzia stir. When she did not, they quickly lowered their heads again.
“My Santo Expedito,” Aunt Sofia called out, her voice shaking and grave, “guardian of all just and urgent causes, help us in this moment of affliction and despair. You, the warrior saint. You, the saint of all afflictions. You, the saint of all impossible causes. Protect my niece. Help her; give her strength. Don’t let her go to that dark place. My Santo Expedito, she will be eternally grateful and will carry your name for the rest of her life.” Aunt Sofia stood. She put her head to Luzia’s chest. “I can barely hear the beating,” she said.
“We should get a candle,” the neighbor said.
Aunt Sofia gripped her rosary tighter. The deep, V-shaped creases that ran across her forehead twitched. “No,” she said. “She’s still alive.”
Zefinha placed her hand on her friend’s arm. “Sofia,” she whispered, “her breath is so faint. What if she doesn’t wake? She’ll need that light.”
Emília clasped her hands tighter. There was a metallic taste in her mouth. Her spit felt viscous and thick. She remembered when Cosmo Ferreira, a local farmer, was bucked by his donkey one Saturday during the market. Aunt Sofia had tried to cover Emília’s eyes but she squirmed and saw everything. His
“Luzia!” Emília shouted. She grabbed for her sister. Their fingers touched, sticky and wet from mango juice, then moved apart.
Luzia’s head thudded against two thick branches. She flopped onto the earth, exhaling a small sigh before closing her eyes. Her left arm was twisted at a horrendous angle beneath her body. She looked like one of their rag dolls—her limbs splayed and limp. Emília wrapped her arms around the tree’s trunk and scrambled down, scraping her knees and the pads of her hands. Zefinha’s neighbor appeared from the coffee trees, ready to yell at the girls for stealing his fruit. His scowl disappeared when he saw Luzia.
Emília knelt and quickly pulled up Luzia’s underpants. “Pick her up!” she ordered the old farmer, her voice sounding unfamiliar to her, too high pitched and insistent.
Aunt Sofia covered her mouth when she saw them emerge from the trees: Emília shouting orders, Zefinha’s neighbor wide-eyed and frantic, Luzia limp in his arms. They laid her on the kitchen table. Blood leaked from a wound on the back of her head.
“I found her like this,” the neighbor said, holding his dark and calloused hands together as if in prayer. “They were in my tree.”
“We’ll put her hands in cold water,” Zefinha said, then ran and filled two clay bowls. Luzia’s hands hung limply inside them. Her left arm was twisted elbow side up, as if it had been sewn on backward. Aunt Sofia stroked Luzia’s hair away from her forehead. She did not wake. They poured water over her face, wafted a bottle of strong vinegar under her nose, pinched her cheeks and pulled her hair, but Luzia did not move.
“Her breath,” Aunt Sofia whispered, “is so shallow.” She looked intently at Luzia’s chest. “I can barely see it rise.”
Zefinha lifted Luzia’s head gingerly and slipped a towel beneath it to soak up the blood. She faced her son. “Ride to town,” she ordered. “Get the midwife.”
Dona Augusta, the local midwife, was the closest thing Taquaritinga had to a trained doctor. Aunt Sofia fell to her knees. Everyone followed. The dirt floor felt cold against Emília’s knees. The neighbor shifted next to her, curling the brim of his hat in his hands. He smelled of onions and dirt. Emília felt dizzy. She shuffled away from him and clasped her hands together.
Aunt Sofia recited a series of prayers to the Virgin. They opened their eyes after each one, hoping to see Luzia stir. When she did not, they quickly lowered their heads again.
“My Santo Expedito,” Aunt Sofia called out, her voice shaking and grave, “guardian of all just and urgent causes, help us in this moment of affliction and despair. You, the warrior saint. You, the saint of all afflictions. You, the saint of all impossible causes. Protect my niece. Help her; give her strength. Don’t let her go to that dark place. My Santo Expedito, she will be eternally grateful and will carry your name for the rest of her life.” Aunt Sofia stood. She put her head to Luzia’s chest. “I can barely hear the beating,” she said.
“We should get a candle,” the neighbor said.
Aunt Sofia gripped her rosary tighter. The deep, V-shaped creases that ran across her forehead twitched. “No,” she said. “She’s still alive.”
Zefinha placed her hand on her friend’s arm. “Sofia,” she whispered, “her breath is so faint. What if she doesn’t wake? She’ll need that light.”
Emília clasped her hands tighter. There was a metallic taste in her mouth. Her spit felt viscous and thick. She remembered when Cosmo Ferreira, a local farmer, was bucked by his donkey one Saturday during the market. Aunt Sofia had tried to cover Emília’s eyes but she squirmed and saw everything. His
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