This Totally Scary True Story About When My Aunt Died
A Short Story
By
Theodore Kohan
Smashwords Edition
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Published by:
Theodore Kohan on Smashwords
Copyright © 2010 by Theodore Kohan
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Everybody says I’m very mature for my age, so when my grandparents invited me to spend my summer vacation with them in Chile, my parents thought it’d be okay if I traveled by myself. Mom was kind of unsure at first, not so much because I’m a twelve-year-old girl and I’ll be traveling alone, although, of course, she worries about that too, but because I won’t have any summer this year. The problem is, when it’s summer here it’s winter there, so this year I won’t be able to go to the pool or to camp or do any of the fun stuff you do in the summer. But I don’t care. I’ve been to Chile before with my family, several times, actually, usually when it’s summer there, which is great because the weather is hot but not terribly hot and it never rains so you can do all kinds of cool stuff, but I was there once during the winter, too, two years ago, for my cousin’s wedding, so I know the winter is not bad at all in Santiago, nothing like on Long Island, where we live. It almost never gets below freezing except sometimes early in the mornings, but at that time I won’t be out, anyways, because I’m sure Grandpa and Grandma will let me sleep as late as I want. It can rain a lot, though, and it gets gray and gloomy and kind of sad.
At Kennedy Airport Mom and Dad look a little uptight, as if asking themselves if they’re doing the right thing, but they don’t say anything, I guess they don’t want to freak me out. But I’m not freaked out. I know it’s a very long trip, overnight and all, with a couple of stops along the way, but I’m sure I’ll be able to manage okay, I always do. At the Lan Chile Airlines ticket counter, checking in, Dad tells the ticket person, or whatever you call him, she’s twelve years old and she’ll be traveling by herself, but she’s asked not to be put in anybody’s care, she feels she’s old enough and capable enough to manage by herself. I’m a little worried, though, you think it’ll be okay? I get pretty mad hearing him say that, I’ve told him and Mom I don’t want any fuss over this, I’ll be perfectly fine. The ticket guy looks at me and smiles, I’m sure she’ll be fine, he says, and then he finishes tagging my suitcase and hands me my ticket. Have a good trip, he says.
We go to the waiting area and I know Dad wants to say something, but he’s kind of unsure. Well, Sonia, he says and then he stops. It’s pretty crowded here, lots of people with lots of duffle bags and suitcases and winter jackets and overcoats, all piled up on the aisles, and I hear a lot more Spanish than English. Well, Dad says again, remember everything we’ve— Dad, stop worrying, I cut him off and then I feel bad about it, but we’ve gone over it a thousand times: be alert, don’t talk to strangers, ask the airline personnel for help if you have any problem… I’ll be okay, Dad, I’ll be so okay.
They stay with me until the last possible moment, and just before I get to the ticket person at the gate Dad gives me a quick, nervous hug. Mom is more relaxed about it, she’s always more relaxed than Dad, less of a worrier. She gives me a good, long hug and pulls my hair away from my eyes and kisses me on the cheek.
I have an aisle seat, which is a good thing in case I have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. You have to climb over people when you have a window seat and I hate that, there is so little room between rows. A chubby but nice-looking woman sits next to me in the center seat. She’s wearing too much perfume and the smell of it grosses me out, but otherwise she’s nicely dressed and seems pretty friendly. Hi, she says and looks around, maybe to see who I’m traveling with, like wondering why I’m by myself in this row, then she takes the airline magazine out of the seat pocket and opens it sort of in the middle, so I do the same, although I brought The Diary of Anne Frank with me to read. The woman doesn’t really seem interested in the magazine, though, and flips pages back and forth and finally she closes it but she holds it in her hands. Are you traveling by yourself? she asks me, and I don’t know if I should answer or not, she is a stranger, after all, but what am I going to do, traveling all night next to her, just keep quiet and pretend she doesn’t exist? So I say, yes, I’m going to visit my grandparents, and we have a nice conversation. She tells me she has a son and a daughter, but older than me, she’s a grandmother, actually, which totally surprises me because she doesn’t look old enough to be a grandmother. Her daughter married a Chilean and they live in Chile now, in Viña del Mar, which is a nice city on the ocean, a couple of hours’ drive from Santiago, actually me and my family spent a week in a hotel there during one of our trips and it was great, we went to the beach every day. This daughter just had a baby boy and my new friend is going to Chile to see her brand new grandson for the first time. She talks to me like I’m a grownup, not down or anything, with no airs, so I tell her about myself, too. I’m the youngest in my family and the only one born in the United States, I explain. My parents are originally from Chile and so are my brother and sister, and they all immigrated to the United States like fifteen years ago, when my brother was five and my sister three, but they’re all American citizens now, which I am also, of course, automatically in my case because I was born in the United States. After that I think I doze off for a while because I don’t remember anything else until they announce we’re ready to land and we need to fasten our seatbelts and bring the backs of our seats up.
The first stop is Panama City and we all get off and these weird-looking buses that go up and down take us to the terminal, which is crowded and hot and very humid. I don’t think it’s air conditioned, or maybe the air conditioning is broken or not strong enough to cool the place down, and me and the lady I was sitting next to on the plane walk the terminal’s hallways back and forth, looking at all the stuff in the store windows but not going into any of the stores, and then I have to go to the bathroom, and when I come out she’s not around anymore, so I walk along the hallways by myself.
The layover is supposed to last only an hour, so I go to the gate like twenty minutes before reboarding time, but the hour comes and goes and there is no announcement to reboard. Actually there is not a single airline employee at the gate, and people start wondering what’s going on, and finally, like half an hour later, an employee shows up at the counter and tells everyone in Spanish there will be a delay, although he doesn’t say for how long, something about a problem with one of the engines. He can’t repeat it in English, though, his English is very poor, and my friend from the plane, who’s now next to me, plus a bunch of other Americans who’ve gathered around, have no idea what’s going on, and I have to translate for everyone what the airline employee said, and they all ask me all kinds of questions, like I know what’s going on.
Me and my friend sit near the gate. We’re tired of walking the hallways back and forth, we know the stores by heart by now. My friend can’t walk much, anyways, because she’s wearing these incredible high heel shoes and she looks like she’s ready to fall over with every step that she takes. She’s also all dressed up in a blue suit with a very short skirt, above the knees, which I think is kind of silly for a woman her age, she’s got big, heavy legs besides. I’m wearing just jeans, a t-shirt and tennis sneakers, and I’m sure I’m a lot more comfortable than she is. I wish I’d brought my book down, I only had a chance to read a few pages before landing, but I didn’t think it’d be worth bringing it down for only an hour, and now sitting like this, with nothing to do, I’m afraid I may fall asleep and miss the boarding call. My friend says not to worry, she’ll wake me up when it’s time to reboard, she’s not going to fall asleep, but I don’t believe her, her eyes look small and glassy, and most likely I’ll have to wake her up when it’s time to reboard. It’s one o’clock in the morning, Long Island time, I don’t know what the local time is. It’s gross in the terminal, so hot and humid I’m drenched in sweat and my hair feels stringy and wet, and I’m afraid I’m going to look like a scarecrow when I arrive in Chile. All of a sudden things begin to look kind of weird. I see colors but no shapes, and I’m afraid I’m falling asleep and I force myself to wake up, which startles me and makes my heart pound, and this happens again and again. My friend, next to me, is snoring away, and the sound of it feels like huge waves rushing to the beach and breaking right on top of me. Then the airline employee who can’t speak English says we’re ready to reboard, and I have to translate what he says for my friend and the other Americans, and everyone rushes to the gate, pushing and shoving, like they’re afraid if they don’t get to the front quickly they’ll be left behind, and the airline employee, all by himself, has a heck of a time trying to check everyone in, you can see the sweat running down his brow, it’s so disgusting I feel like puking, and people are getting annoyed and start yelling at him and he yells back, but finally it’s my turn to go through and I feel kind of relieved after I do.
Me and my friend sit in our seats, but then we have to get up to let the person who sits by the window in, he’s an older man walking with a cane, and he takes a long time getting settled and we have to stand in the aisle while everyone pushes to get through. The old man with the cane hasn’t said a word all night and I don’t know if he speaks English or Spanish. We’re going to be pretty late arriving in Santiago. We still have another stop to make, in Lima, and I hope there is no delay there, otherwise we’re going to be really, really late. I’m sure my grandparents will check with the airline before going to the airport, otherwise they’ll be waiting there for hours and they’ll get all freaked out worrying about me, especially Grandpa, I know how he is, just like my dad.
In Lima the flight attendants let me stay on board during the layover. I’ve been in the terminal before and I’m not interested in seeing it again. I try to sleep a little now that the engines aren’t roaring and the airplane isn’t bouncing all over, but I’m getting all excited about arriving in Chile and seeing my grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins, and I can’t relax enough to fall asleep, plus it’s light out already, seven in the morning according to my watch, and when I finally think I’m dozing off the passengers are coming back in, including my friend, and I have to get up to let her in. I wait for the old man with the cane before sitting down again, but it looks like he was traveling to Lima because he doesn’t come back, and my friend moves over to the window seat so we can have more room. I wished she offered me the window seat so I could have a good view of the Andes as we get near Santiago. My dad always gets all excited about them when we travel together, look, look, Sonia, the Andes! he yells, as if they’d just popped up, as if he were seeing them for the first time, that’s Mount Aconcagua, right there, the tall peak above the clouds. I know, Dad, I know, I’m looking at it, I say. My friend doesn’t offer me the seat, though, and I feel kind of funny asking her, besides it’s winter in Chile and it may be foggy and cloudy around Santiago, in which case we won’t be able to see the mountains at all. I concentrate on my book even though my friend looks kind of bored, I think she’d love to have another conversation with me, but I’m really getting into the story and I don’t want to be distracted. Anne Frank was almost exactly my age when she wrote it, so I can really relate to it. Right now Anne and her family just went into hiding in the secret annex, and I’m dying to know what happens next.
I go through immigration and wait for my suitcase at the carousel, I always get uptight wondering if it’s going to show up or not, but I’m lucky this time and my suitcase is one of the first to arrive. Mom tied a golden ribbon to the handle so I can recognize it easily. I go outside, where there’s always a big, noisy crowd waiting for the passengers to come out, and I look around for my grandparents. What would I do, I think with a tiny bit of panic, if my grandparents aren’t here to pick me up? I’d have to find a public phone to call them, and I’ve never used a public phone in Chile before, I’ve got some Chilean bills with me but no coins. But my grandparents are here, looking anxiously at the people coming out the door, and, it’s funny, they don’t see me, they stare straight through me, and I kind of go behind them and I tap Bueli on the shoulder. Bueli, which sounds like Welly, is how her grandchildren call my grandmother, I’m not sure where the name comes from, I think from abuelita, which is grandmother in Spanish. She turns around to look at me, and she still doesn’t recognize me, I’m almost as tall as she is now, and I say Bueli, it’s me, and she looks a little confused but then she says, oh, my God, Sonia! and she hugs me so hard I think she’s going to break my back. Grandpa hugs me too, and Bueli says she can’t believe how much I’ve grown in the past two years, since she last saw me, I’m a little woman now, no wonder she couldn’t recognize me, and so pretty, she adds, which makes me blush because I’m sure I look disgusting with my hair all tangled up and my clothes all rumpled after having traveled all night.
We walk to where their car is parked and Grandpa insists on carrying my suitcase, although I think I’m stronger than he is, he looks kind of frail, to be honest, small and thin and a little stooped. I help him get the suitcase into the trunk and we drive to their apartment. The weather is just like I remembered it from the last time we were here in the winter, overcast and gray and a little gloomy, but not cold at all, and I find it funny both Bueli and Grandpa are wearing heavy overcoats. Grandpa turns on the heater at full blast and pretty soon I’m roasting in the car, so I lower the window halfway to let fresh air in.
Bueli turns halfway to me and says everyone is looking forward to seeing me, my aunts and uncles and cousins. They have big plans for me, they want to take me to lots of places and keep me busy and entertained the whole time, but she hopes she and I can spend enough time together, too. It’ll be great to have me around, especially now, with what’s going on, she says, and then she sighs, a long, big sigh, and Grandpa kind of scolds her, you couldn’t wait to bring that up, could you, and I have no clue what they’re talking about, so I ask and they remain silent, and I wonder what’s going on, and then Grandpa tells Bueli, you started it already, so tell her, and Bueli sighs again and says, it’s Miriam, she’s very sick, and then I remember my parents told me before I left that Miriam is very sick, she has cancer of some kind, but I’d forgotten. Miriam is Bueli’s niece and my dad’s cousin, and I saw her every time we came to Chile in the past. She’s a tall and skinny woman, older than my dad, although I don’t think she ever married. Whenever I saw her she was always very nice to me, chatting with me as if I was her age, she’s the kind of person you feel good with right away, so I’m sorry she’s sick. I tell Bueli so, and she sighs and doesn’t say anything.
At their apartment building Grandpa asks Pedro, the handyman who takes care of the building, to bring the suitcase up the stairs to their apartment, on the second floor, and Pedro takes off his hat to say hi to me, which is a little embarrassing, he’s a pretty old, gray-haired man. Upstairs, Nana Eudocia, Grandpa and Bueli’s live-in maid, is waiting at the door. She’s been with them forever, I think, at least since I’ve been coming to Chile, and she’s always so nice, bringing me breakfast in bed and all and offering me food all day long. Hola! she says, and she seems really happy to see me, look at you, how much you’ve grown, and I hug her and she seems kind of shy about it. I guess she’s not used to people in the family hugging her like that, but I really like her, and I don’t think because she’s a maid I should treat her any differently from anyone else.
Pedro brings my suitcase to my bedroom, which used to be my dad’s bedroom before he married Mom, and puts it on top of the bed, and Bueli says she and Nana Eudocia will help me unpack, and I say I don’t need any help, and they insist and I insist, and I end up kind of pushing them out the door. I don’t want them to treat me like a baby, although, to be honest, I don’t mind Nana Eudocia doing my laundry or making my bed or bringing me breakfast in bed in the mornings.
Aunt Beatriz, my dad’s sister, and my cousin Felicia, Aunt Beatriz’s daughter, come to see me and have lunch with us. Felicia, to whose wedding we came two years ago, is pregnant, and she looks pretty big. Her belly is huge and round like an oversized basketball, and she moves as if she were dragging anchors with her legs. She still looks so pretty, though, she’s got huge grey-blue eyes and straight blond hair, which she wears tied back with a ribbon. I think she’s due pretty soon, in the next month or so, and the baby is going to be Aunt Beatriz’s first grandchild and Grandpa and Bueli’s first great-grandchild, and they’re all very excited about it. I’m excited too, because I may still be in Chile when Felicia has the baby and I’ll be able to see it.
Nana Eudocia has prepared a huge lunch, as usual. Whenever we eat at my grandparents’ home they serve enormous amounts of food, and I’m sure they end up throwing half of it away because, who can eat so much? Dad always complains about it, saying he hates to see food wasted like this, I guess he thinks of all the hungry people in the world, but they don’t pay any attention to him, and the next time they serve just as much or more. It’s what they do in Chile, I guess, because no matter whose house I go to, it’s always the same, enough food to feed a regiment. We all sit down and, actually, I get a little nauseous just looking at the food. I didn’t sleep very much last night during the flight, and after the excitement of the arrival and all, now that I’m sitting down and relaxing, it’s beginning to catch up with me. I feel lightheaded and my eyelids feel like lead, and I’m scared I may fall asleep while eating and drop my head on my plate, but the beef empanadas they serve as an appetizer look delicious, and once I start eating I find I’m pretty hungry even though I had breakfast on the plane not too long ago, just before landing. They serve meals at crazy hours during those overnight flights.
We talk and laugh over lunch, and they ask me lots of questions about my parents and my brother and sister, and also about school and stuff, and they all comment on how well I speak Spanish, even though they make fun of my accent, saying I speak like a gringuita, which means a little gringa, which I am, after all, since I’m the only one in my family born in the United States. Bueli is busy pushing food on everyone and making sure we all eat until we burst, but she looks sad and she sighs every minute or so, and I can see Grandpa is kind of mad about it. He gives Bueli dirty looks and raises his eyebrows at her, like saying, snap out of it, but Bueli ignores him and keeps sighing and pushing food.
Beatriz and Felicia leave after lunch, and Bueli suggests I go to my room and take a nap. She and Grandpa will go to the hospital to visit Miriam, she says, but Nana Eudocia will stay with me. I say I’m not really tired, but actually I am, so I don’t fight her too much and go to my room and close the door and lie on top of the bed at first but then I get cold, the winter may not be all that hard in Santiago, but the houses are not so well heated, there is no central heating in Grandpa and Bueli’s apartment, they use these tall and skinny kerosene heaters, so I get under the covers, and I must’ve really been tired, after all, because I don’t remember anything after that. When I wake up it’s already dark out and the streetlights outside my window have glowing halos around them. It’s not all that late, though, only five-fifteen, it just gets dark pretty early in the winter in Santiago.
When I step out of my room Grandpa and Bueli are already back, and Bueli has a face like she’s seen a ghost. I ask how is Aunt Miriam, knowing pretty well what the answer is going to be, but what can I do, it’d be worse not to ask, and Bueli shakes her head and tries to speak but she can’t, and Grandpa says, not so good, Miriam is going downhill quickly, and Bueli begins to cry, and Grandpa looks kind of impatient, come on, come on, he says in a tone that to me sounds a little too snappy. I think he feels Bueli is taking it too hard. After all Miriam is not a daughter or anything, just a niece, but that’s the way Bueli is, family is everything to her, and she’d take it to heart even if a third cousin’s dog were run over by a truck. I don’t know what to say or do, so I hug Bueli and kiss her on the cheek, and Bueli looks at me like saying, thank you, even though she’s still crying. Maybe the hug helped a little, but I wonder what kind of vacation I’m going to have if Miriam stays sick like this and Bueli keeps crying all day long.
The next morning cousin Diego, Felicia’s younger brother, shows up at the apartment to take me out for a ride, and Bueli insists I put on my winter jacket and a scarf even though it’s nice and sunny and not cold at all outside. Diego asks me where I’d like to go, and I say I have no idea, and he suggests we go up to the top of Cerro San Cristobal. The air is crisp and clear, he says, so we’ll have a great view of Santiago from there. I point to his car and ask, is that thing going to make it all the way up? Diego looks very offended, he may not drive a fancy car like I’m obviously used to in Gringoland, he says raising his eyebrows and rolling his eyes, but he wants me to know his car is only five years old, a 1975 Fiat, and it may look like a wreck but it’s in perfect mechanical condition and will climb the mountain without any problem at all, so we leave and the car, which is so tiny you feel like a sardine inside, rattles and shakes all over and the engine sounds like a sewing machine, putt-putt-putt, but once we start climbing the Cerro’s steep dirt road it just keeps going, even though huffing and puffing, helped along by Diego who is busy changing gears every couple of seconds or so. We park at the top and walk to the terrace overlooking the city, with the statue of the Virgin Mary behind us, and since Diego has a camera with him I ask him to take my picture in the same pose as the Virgin, with the Virgin in the background, so I turn my body kind of sideways and half extend my arms with the palms of my hands up, puckering my mouth and raising my eyes high to the sky, like I’m spaced out.
We contemplate the city from the terrace, and I’m kind of glad Bueli forced me to wear my winter jacket because it’s pretty chilly up here, very windy, and I pull up my hood to cover my ears. Diego points out some of the sights, like the national stadium, Cerro Santa Lucia, some of the taller buildings downtown, but to be honest I’m more interested in looking at him than at the sights, he’s soooo good looking, probably one of the most good looking guys I’ve ever seen, like a movie star, he reminds me a little of Christopher Reeve who I saw only a couple of weeks ago in Superman II, he’s got the same square jaw, the same naughty twinkle in the eyes, the same wavy dark hair. I never get tired of looking at Diego, I just try not to be too obvious about it, it’d be pretty embarrassing if he caught me staring at him with my mouth open, he’s my cousin, after all. I only wish he dressed a little better, he wears these tight-fitting t-shirts summer or winter, I can see he’s wearing one now under his winter jacket. I know he’s a bodybuilder and likes to show off his big muscles, but he looks so conceited that way and a bit like a burnout too, though I have no intention of telling him so, he’d take it pretty hard, I’m sure. Diego says he’d love to come to the United States for an MBA, like my dad did, after he finishes college, and I tell him if he gets into a school around New York City he can stay with us, which I’m sure would be okay with Mom and Dad, and he says maybe, maybe, and he winks, and then he says it’s time to go back because he has a class he’s got to go to.
After lunch Bueli says she and Grandpa will be going to the hospital again to visit Miriam. I can relax in the apartment, she says, or go out for a walk, although not too far so I don’t get lost, but I tell them I’d like to go to the hospital with them. Miriam being sick and all is screwing up my vacation, anyways, so I might as well go to see her instead of being stuck in the apartment with nothing good on TV or going out for a walk, like Bueli suggested. Grandpa and Bueli look at each other, not saying anything for a while, and then Grandpa says it may be too hard for me to see Miriam the way she looks now, skinny like a skeleton and completely bald and with all kinds of tubes coming out of her body. She’s also in a lot of pain. What he says scares me, I don’t know if I’m up to seeing her like that, I may get grossed out, but I don’t want to be a wimp either, maybe she’ll be happy to see me, so I say it’s okay, I think I can handle it.
We drive to the hospital and from the lobby we take the elevator to the third floor and walk along wide, battleship-gray hallways to Miriam’s room. The smell of disinfectant hitting my nostrils makes me gag, and I breathe deeply several times, and after we turn a corner we have to squeeze against the wall to let a stretcher carrying a patient full of bandages and connected to a bottle hanging from a metal pole go by, and I can’t take my eyes off him or her, it’s hard to tell with all the bandages around his or her head. The door to Miriam’s room is closed and her mother, Aunt Rebecca, is standing outside, and her eyes are red and her nose is puffy, and she tells Grandpa and Bueli the nurses are doing a procedure at the moment, and it’s going to be a few minutes until it’s okay to go in, and then she sees me and begins to cry. She’s Bueli’s older sister, and every time I saw her in the past she always had this look of tragedy to her, and that was even before her daughter got sick, she’s worse than Bueli that way. Bueli asks if there’s been any change, and she just shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head, and she looks at me like she wants to say something, but in the end she doesn’t say anything.
It takes a long time until the nurses come out, and I try not to look around too much because I can see some very sick people in the other rooms, with all kinds of tubes and oxygen and stuff, and I also hear a lot of moaning and crying and people talking in whispers. Finally the nurses come out and say it’s okay to go in, and Grandpa tells me to wait outside for a moment so they can tell Miriam I’m here, and the three of them go in and I wait and wait, and then Grandpa comes out and says Miriam would prefer I don’t see her the way she looks now, she’d prefer I remember her the way she used to look, and I’m kind of relieved, to be honest, I don’t know how I would’ve reacted seeing her, if I would’ve been able to look at her in the eyes and have a conversation and all. The funny thing, though, is I’m having trouble remembering how she looked before, I have a fuzzy image of her, which is not the case with any of the other family members. Maybe it’s because they told me how she looks now, and that image has kind of taken over in my mind and pushed away any other memories I may’ve had of her. It’s a pity, but what can I do?
Grandpa and Bueli come out after a while and say we can leave now, and Bueli is crying for a change, so I hold her hand and she squeezes my hand very hard, and we’re walking down the hallway when Aunt Rebecca calls us back and says Miriam would like to see me after all, for just a couple of minutes, she’s not in a lot of pain at the moment. My heart skips a beat and my legs feel kind of shaky, and I stand outside the door for a moment to pull myself together, and I tell the others I’d like to go in by myself. I guess I don’t want anybody to see me if I freak out or something. I take a big breath and go inside.
The moment I go into the room the smells of medicine and disinfectant and I don’t know what else, the smell of a sick person, I guess, hit me like a slap in the face, I thought I’d gotten used to it already after being in the hallway so long. I keep my eyes down, not looking at the bed where Miriam is lying. I know I can’t keep them down forever, though, I’ve got to raise them and look at her soon, I sense she’s looking at me, and I feel kind of feverish all over. The room is in semi-darkness, it’s getting dark outside and no lights are on inside, which is okay with me, the less I see the better, and finally I raise my eyes, slowly, carefully, I wish I could keep them out of focus, I wish I could see shapes and colors but no details, and the first thing that hits me is a pair of eyes staring at me, a pair of huge, gigantic eyes, eyes as if out of their sockets, as if outside the head, and those eyes are examining me from top to bottom, up and down, up and down, and then I see a hand on top of the covers, a skeleton’s hand, all bone and no flesh, and that hand is calling me to come closer, so I take a couple of steps toward the bed, and the hand goes up in the air looking for my hand, and I take it in mine, what else can I do, and it’s cold and scaly, like grabbing a dead fish in the fish section of the supermarket, except it’s not wet, it’s totally dry, and now I understand the expression bone dry, and I hold it in my hand and I feel a little pressure, like she’s trying to squeeze my hand but doesn’t have the strength for it, and finally I’m able to take my eyes off her eyes and look at the rest of her, and she’s completely bald and has no cheeks to speak of and a tiny nose and thin lips white like paper. I can see her bare arm too, where a clear plastic tube is held in place with tape, and I can see every vein in it, running up and down and sideways, all sky-blue like the sky I saw this morning from the top of Cerro San Cristobal.
I say hola, and she asks with a voice I can hardly hear, a voice coming up from deep down her throat, the voice of a ghost, when was the last time we saw each other, and I say two years ago, for Felicia’s wedding, and she nods and closes her eyes, and after a while I wonder if she’s fallen asleep and if I should leave, but I’m still holding her hand, and if I let go of it she may wake up, so I don’t know what to do, but then she reopens her eyes and stares at me again and says she was still well for Felicia’s wedding, although most likely the illness was already in her, and says she remembers dancing at the party, how she loved to dance, it was one of her favorite things to do, and I kind of remember her dancing too, although I’m not sure, and she sighs and closes her eyes again, and suddenly her whole body twitches and she opens her mouth as if she’s going to scream, it looks like the pain is coming back, which is pretty scary, and I wonder if now is the time to leave. This is the bad part about having come in by myself, nobody is here to tell me when I can leave, so I just stand next to her with her hand in my hand, and her hand is getting a little warmer, which is a good thing, I guess, and then Grandpa sticks his head in and gestures for me to come out, and I place very gently Miriam’s hand back on top of the covers and say, goodbye Aunt Miriam, I’ll come back to see you some other day, and she keeps her eyes closed and I don’t know if she heard me or not.
Grandpa, Bueli and I keep quiet until we’re back in the car, and then, as we’re driving away from the hospital, Grandpa asks if it was too shocking for me to see Miriam the way she looks now, and I want to answer him, to tell him it was okay, but suddenly I can’t speak, my throat is choked, and then I begin to cry, which totally surprises me because I didn’t feel like crying until just now, not even close, and now I’m sobbing, unable to control myself. Bueli turns halfway back to me and she’s crying too, which doesn’t surprise me, she cries all the time, and Grandpa slaps the steering wheel with his gloved hand and says he’s mad at himself for having let me come to the hospital, he should’ve known it’d be too scary for such a young girl like me, and I try to tell him that’s not why I’m crying, I’m glad I saw Miriam, but then I realize I don’t know why I’m crying, maybe it was too scary, maybe I did get grossed out without realizing it, so I keep quiet and try very hard to stop crying, which gives me a bit of a headache.
After dinner we watch TV and by ten o’clock Bueli says maybe I should go to bed, it’s been a long day and also a…and she pauses, looking for the right word, which she seems unable to find, but I know what she’s trying to say, and I say I’m not tired yet, I’d like to stay up a little longer, although what we’re watching is pretty boring, some news or political stuff, I’m not sure. I can understand Spanish really well, I grew up speaking both English and Spanish, but on TV it’s a lot tougher, and half of what they say goes right over my head. At eleven o’clock Bueli insists I go to bed, and again I say I’m not tired yet, although my eyelids feel like lead, and Grandpa gets up and says he’s going to bed, and suddenly I realize I’m scared to go to bed, I’m scared of the dreams I may have, I’m scared Miriam may pop up in them and try to hold my hand like she did at the hospital, and I don’t want her to do that, I don’t want to see her eyes either, but I know I’ve got to go to bed sometime, I can’t stay up all night, so I get ready for bed and get under the covers but I keep the light on and I lie on my back looking at the ceiling, and then the ceiling begins to spin and spin and I realize I’m falling asleep, so I turn off the light but stay on my back with my eyes open, waiting for Miriam to appear, telling myself I shouldn’t be scared if she does, it’ll be just a dream, but Miriam is not appearing, maybe she won’t appear after all, so I turn on my side, the way I normally sleep, and I close my eyes.
When I wake up I know it’s late because the sun is high in the sky. My mind is blank for several minutes, like I’m spaced out, which feels great, actually, I wish I could stay like this forever, but then I remember Miriam and my visit to her and all, and at first I’m happy I didn’t dream about her, but then I kind of shake all over. What bothers me the most, actually, is that I told Miriam I’d come back to see her some other time, and I’m not so sure I can keep that promise.
When I come out of the bedroom to let Nana Eudocia know I’m ready for breakfast I see Bueli is all dressed up, which is unusual, even at this late hour, and her eyes are red and puffy and she’s kind of bent and doesn’t look me straight in the eyes, like she’s hiding something from me, and then Grandpa takes me by the hand and says there is something he’s got to tell me, and we go into my room and he sits down on my bed and I stand in front of him, and he says Miriam passed away during the night. He’s sorry to give me such sad news, he says, but it’s actually a good thing it happened, she was in a lot of pain and now she’s resting in peace. He also says I should find comfort in the fact I took the time to visit her, and I do, I’m happy I did, although my first reaction is I’m glad she died because now I don’t have to go back to see her again. I know I should be sad and maybe cry, but that’s not how I feel. Actually, I don’t know how I feel, or if I feel anything at all at the moment. Maybe it’s too soon and I’ll feel something later, maybe I’m in shock, having gotten the news so suddenly, right after waking up.
Bueli is outside the door, listening to our conversation, and I hug her around the waist and she buries her face on top of my head and starts to cry. I’m sure she’s cried a lot already, and I feel her tears running down my hair, and we stay like that for a long time, until Grandpa pulls us apart, enough already, he says, and Bueli looks at me with bloodshot eyes and shakes her head, and I still don’t feel like crying, I can’t force it, can I? Grandpa says the funeral will probably be tomorrow, and he kind of raises his eyebrows like saying, you don’t have to go, and I know he thinks I shouldn’t, he’s sorry I went to the hospital yesterday and he doesn’t want to put me through anything like that again, but maybe Bueli will want me to be with her, so I’m not sure what to do. They’ll leave it up to me, I know, and it’s going to be a tough decision, but I don’t have to make it now, I can wait until tomorrow morning and see how I feel about it.
Grandpa and Bueli go to keep Aunt Rebecca company, and I stay in the apartment with Nana Eudocia and I read for a while. Anne Frank and her family and all the others are still hiding in the secret annex, and at times I feel like I’m Anne Frank, living in the annex and going through what she’s going through, relating like she relates to all the people she’s stuck with. Then I watch TV, but it’s turning out to be a long and dreary day. I wish Diego would pick me up to take me someplace, if only so I can look at him some more, but maybe it’s supposed to be a long and dreary day, with what happened and all. In the afternoon images of Miriam begin to spin around in my head. I see her huge eyes staring at me, I feel her bone-dry, scaly hand in my hand, I smell the room’s smell. I try to read some more, I go out to the balcony to look at the people and traffic go by even though it’s chilly and breezy outside, I tell myself stories, I’m good at that, and I still can’t get rid of the images. They go away for a while but then they come roaring back, and they’re so close and real I can almost touch them. I see Miriam inside the casket, where she must be by now, and her eyes are open. Don’t they close dead people’s eyes before putting them in the casket? A shudder goes through me. If Miriam’s images don’t go away I won’t be able to sleep a wink tonight.
Grandpa and Bueli get home just before dinner, and Bueli looks the same, sad and kind of bent, like she’s carrying a huge load on her shoulders, but she’s not crying anymore, she just sighs all the time, and she’s very quiet during dinner. Grandpa tries to make conversation with me, doing his best to sound upbeat, and I do my best to answer the same way, but the whole thing feels forced, I’m sure to him too, so after a while we just keep quiet, and the only sound we hear are Bueli’s sighs marking the time like clockwork. After dinner we sit in the living room but we don’t turn on the TV, Bueli feels we shouldn’t under the circumstances, so we sit there like mummies, with nothing to do, and I suddenly realize Miriam’s images have gone away, they’ve stopped spinning in my head, and I’m happy about it because maybe I’ll be able to sleep okay, and I also realize I’m exhausted, as if my day had been full of programs and activities when the fact is I didn’t leave the apartment all day, so I excuse myself and go to bed.
I fall asleep right away, I think, because I don’t remember anything after turning off the light, but I wake up in the middle of the night. Miriam’s images are back, spinning like crazy in my head, and I realize they’ve been there for a while and I’ve been tossing and turning nonstop and I’m drenched in sweat. I get up and go to the bathroom without turning on the light so I don’t wake up anybody, I can hear snoring in Grandpa and Bueli’s bedroom. When I come out I’m scared to go back to bed because I know the images won’t go away, so I stand in the hallway not knowing what to do. I think of going to the living room and putting on the TV softly to see if watching a boring program takes my mind off them, but then I hear Bueli talking to me, is everything alright? she whispers, and I whisper back, yes, I just went to the bathroom, but I guess she senses things are not really alright, maybe my voice sounds a little shaky, because she gets up and leads me back to bed and says she’ll keep me company for a while, and I get under the covers and she sits next to me, keeping a tight grip on my hand, and she hums a tune very softly. I’ve never heard her hum or sing before, it’s a quiet, simple tune, and she says it’s the tune her mother used to hum to her whenever she couldn’t sleep, and she caresses my head, smoothing my hair back again and again, humming the tune as she does, and I feel myself falling asleep and I don’t fight it, it’s so nice and warm under the covers.
I wake up before eight the next morning even though I was awake part of the night, and when I open the shades I see it’s gray and foggy outside, which makes me feel kind of down, and I imagine going to the funeral will make me feel even more so. Grandpa is all dressed up, wearing a suit and tie, and Bueli is still in the bathroom getting ready, and Grandpa says they want to leave early to keep Aunt Rebecca company until the time of the funeral. If I want to go, he won’t stop me, he says, but he thinks I should stay home. They’ll be back in time for lunch, then in the afternoon we can all relax, and tomorrow I can start having my normal life, going out and having fun, which is what I came to Chile to do. He’s sorry I had to go through all this, he says, but it’s been only a few days since I arrived and there will be plenty of time to forget what happened and have a good time.
So I decide to stay home. Nana Eudocia brings me breakfast on a big tray she places on my lap, it’s so cool to get breakfast in bed, and she stays with me and tells me stories about the little town she grew up in, in the south of Chile, and about her brothers and sisters, she’s one of twelve children, and after breakfast I take a long, steaming-hot shower and wash my hair with lots of shampoo, and then I sit in the living room and read my book but not for too long. I’m coming to the end of it and I know Anne couldn’t finish her diary, she was taken to a concentration camp where she died, and I don’t feel like reading about it right now, with Miriam having just died and all, maybe I’ll be able to finish it a few days from now. I do feel a little guilty about not going to the funeral. Maybe Miriam would’ve been happy if I attended since I saw her on her last day alive, but who knows what happens after you die, if you can still see things and know what’s going on, if Miriam can now get into my head and read my thoughts. It’s kind of scary to think so, but it’s also okay because I’m not thinking bad thoughts, except one: now that Miriam died I can really have a good vacation, and I’m not even sure that counts as a bad thought. Actually, I’m really sorry she died, even if I didn’t go to her funeral. If she can read my thoughts she’ll forgive me for not going, I believe, and if she can’t and being dead is like really the end, like falling into a black hole, then it won’t matter much, will it?
Grandpa and Bueli come back, and Bueli looks worse than ever, as if the load on her shoulders has only gotten bigger and she’s crumbling under it. We have a quiet lunch and Bueli hardly touches the food. She doesn’t cry but she sighs a lot and keeps her eyes down, and Grandpa, to make conversation, I guess, or perhaps because he believes this is something we should talk about to get it off our chests, says everything went well at the funeral, lots and lots of people attended, and I’m glad we’re talking about it, I’m glad we don’t have to keep it hush, hush, and I ask a few questions, like, were there any speeches and how long did the whole thing take and how was Aunt Rebecca, and he answers the questions and I ask more questions. Bueli is quiet, though, she doesn’t say anything, she just keeps her eyes down, and after lunch she says she’s going to go to her bedroom and spend the rest of the day in bed. I look at Grandpa and he shrugs his shoulders and says, it’s okay, she’ll feel better tomorrow, you know how your Grandma is, so I walk around the apartment like a zombie, I don’t know what to do with myself, I don’t feel like reading and I can’t watch TV. I could go out for a walk but maybe it’s not the right thing to do either, so finally I decide I might as well spend the time with Bueli, perhaps she’ll feel a little better if I do, perhaps it’ll take her mind off Miriam for a moment or two. I change into my pajamas and go into her bedroom and say, I’m keeping you company this afternoon, and I get in bed with her, and she seems surprised at first, but then a tiny, tiny smile shines in her eyes.
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About the Author
Born and raised in Santiago, Chile, Theodore Kohan undertook graduate studies in the United States. Following a brief residence back in Chile, he moved permanently to the United States, where he has lived most of his adult life. He and his wife currently reside in Sharon, Mass., and Boynton Beach, Fla.
Also from Theodore Kohan:
A Lucky Guy, available at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/31041 and in print at most online retailers
Summer Vacation and Other Stories, available in print at most online retailers.