Stranger (8 page)

She lay on the bed and turned her head towards the women sitting on the floor. Her mother was holding the baby, which was covered with a blanket. Señora Perdido removed the blanket and
inspected the baby from head to toe. She touched the eyes and the nose, and the mouth, which worked vigorously. She put her finger inside the baby's mouth and felt the palate. She moved the baby's arms back and forth. She touched between its legs and said that it was a girl. Then she handed the baby to Illya, who kissed the baby's head. The women dressed the girl in a striped blue top and a cortez. Francisca told
Íso
that it was time to birth the placenta. She closed her eyes and suffered some more birth pangs, and as she did so she wondered if she was doing everything in the correct manner. But Francisca did not say anything other than bueno and so Íso believed that everything had been good. Francisca left and returned with atole and fresh tortillas. Íso ate and she drank tea. She watched the women pass the baby between them. And then Illya stood and handed the baby to Íso, and she took her and held her.

A
T
night, alone with the baby, she was fierce with love. The birth was beautiful. The baby was beautiful. The fingernails and the toenails and the arches of the feet and the heart beating through the fontanelle. All of this. And the knuckles. And the fists clenching and unclenching. The generous mouth.
Íso
had breastfed immediately, and even though she had no milk yet, the baby had latched well. Her family and Illya and Francisca had stayed late and then finally left to get some sleep. They would return for her in the morning. She talked to the baby. She told her that she was handsome and strong, and look at her eyes, and she had such hair, and
wasn't she lucky, and she said that she would have the perfect name, and wasn't she guapa, and didn't she have the longest fingers and such big feet.

She fell asleep and woke to touch the sleeping child, and she fell asleep again.

A nurse came in and woke her and said that she would take the baby for a bath.
Íso
didn't know the nurse, though she thought she should, and she asked the nurse if she couldn't wait until morning and then she, Íso, would bath the baby. She said that she loved the smell of a newborn, and she dipped her head and smelled the child, as if to prove her words. But she was very happy and her hormones were wild and she was very proud and because of this her mind was not clear, and so she kissed the baby's head and let her go. She told the nurse to come straight back after the bath. The sun was about to rise. She saw the light at the edge of the volcano, which was visible from the large window in her room. The line of the volcano's backside was perfectly straight, as if drawn by a giant with an enormous ruler. It was black and straight save for a single tree that towered over all the others. A tree with a large canopy.

She fell asleep, and woke to the noise of birds in the garden. The sun was bright. It was morning. She thought immediately of her baby. She sat up. Her breasts hurt. She called out. No one came. She called again, a little louder this time, but still in a natural voice because she didn't want to seem impractical. The nurse must have put the baby in the nursery. She got up and slipped into a robe. She felt a little pain, but she could walk without difficulty. In the hallway, it was hushed. Still early. The baldosas were
smooth and cool on her feet as she moved through the corridor to the nursery.

There was no one on duty.

The nursery was dark and empty.

She stood in the dimness.

She had many thoughts, and some of the thoughts were panicky, but she did not allow the bad thoughts to stay with her. There would be a practical explanation. The baby was being admired by the keepers who had just arrived. The baby was being held because it was fussy. She left the nursery and returned to her room. It was empty. The garden beyond the window was bluish grey in the new light. A hummingbird floated above a bird of paradise. She saw the bird and she saw the flower and she thought that everything must be normal. It was good.

She dressed, and even as she dressed she was aware that she was doing something wrong. She put on her underwear and she slipped her dress over her head and as it fell to her knees she felt the lightness of the material against her skin. Everything was exaggerated. The silence of the room, the fall of the cloth over her head, the whisper of her feet going into her sandals, her thin and quick breathing. She tried to remember the nurse. A silver bracelet on her left wrist. Voice low. Soft and convincing. Just a quick bath. She shook her head now and felt her throat close. All this wasted movement. But she thought that if she was dressed and prepared for her baby, then she would be shown the place where the baby lay, and she would pick the baby up and everything would be normal. There was an explanation.

Her hands were shaking, and she heard someone whimpering, and she knew that the noise was coming from her own mouth. She stepped out into the hallway. A keeper passed by. Have you seen my baby? she asked. The keeper looked at her and shook her head, and then walked on. She moved in the opposite direction of the keeper, towards the entrance of the clinic. There were tall flowering plants in large clay pots standing sentinel beside the main doors, and though she had seen these plants and clay pots many times before, she had never noticed their elegance and their colour and their size. Like guardians flanking the entrance. A nurse was sitting at the main desk. She told the nurse that she was looking for her baby. It was with me last night, and then a woman came, a nurse, and she took it, and she didn't bring it back. She was speaking Spanish but the nurse didn't understand, so she said in English, My baby. It's gone.

The nurse stood and came around the desk and asked her name. She had a Dutch accent.

Íso
. It's Íso.

And the baby's name? the nurse asked.

No name. Not yet.

The nurse guided her to a cane chair and told her to sit. She went back to the desk and picked up the phone. Íso watched her. She saw her speaking but she could not hear the words. The nurse hung up and came back towards Íso, holding a glass of water.

Íso took it and drank. Is it coming?
she asked.

The nurse said that the director would come soon.

No, Íso said. Not the director. My baby.

The nurse held her hand. She must have thought Íso was crazy, because she stroked Íso's head and said that everything would be fine. Don't worry, she said. You're upset.

The director did not come.
Íso
waited, and the longer she waited the more aware she became of the tall plants in the clay pots, and she imagined that the plants were growing right before her eyes. The nurse was sitting again behind the front desk.

She said to the nurse, It's gone. My baby.

That's ridiculous, the nurse said. Babies don't just walk away. Is it a girl?

Íso nodded.

She's here somewhere, the nurse said and smiled, and Íso smiled back, because what else was she to do. She didn't want to be ridiculous.

Her hands were shaking. Her legs. And still she sat, not moving. Which was wrong. She sat and thought of all the wrong things. She thought of her hunger and she thought of the birth and she thought of her mother, who would be at home. She thought about simple things, like the colours of the flowers in the pots, and the types of flowers, and then she stopped and was appalled by her thoughts. But as soon as she thought about the baby she couldn't breathe and she felt faint and her heart went desolate, and none of this was good. She had to stay alert and strong. But still, the baby. And so she stood and began to walk back along the corridor towards the garden. And then she ran, and then she walked because it seemed wrong to run, and then she ran again because time was crucial. The Dutch nurse called out in her flat voice, but
she ignored the nurse, who knew nothing and only took directions from the director.

Íso
stepped into the garden and went to the first woman she saw and she asked, Have you seen my baby? It was early and the woman was alone and drinking her morning tea. She looked up and shook her head. It was all so disconcerting. For the woman. For Íso. She began to knock on doors to the rooms. She called out. Some women tried to console her. Others ignored her. All saw her as deranged. Even the keepers she came upon shied away. She found herself in the pool area, fearing that her baby had been drowned. But how? And for what reason?

And this is where Elena found her, at the edge of the pool, staring down into the water. She took Íso by the arm and said, Come. Come.

My baby, Íso said. She's gone.

They walked together back down the corridor towards the room in which Íso had birthed the baby and then fed the baby and then slept, holding the baby. As they walked, hand in hand, Íso began to feel calmer, and she realized that the baby was of course back in the room. Here she'd been running all over looking for a baby that was where it was supposed to be. They entered the room, Elena first. Íso followed. The room was empty.

She's not here, Íso said.

Elena took her by the shoulders and looked into her face and said, She is gone.

Gone?

Yes.

She's dead?

No, Íso, no. She's safe. Elena guided Íso to a chair. Sit, she said.

I won't sit, Íso cried.

You must. You'll faint otherwise.

But where? she whispered. Where has she gone?

Elena touched her shoulder.

Íso pulled back. Where?
she said again.

To Doctor Mann and his wife.

They were here? In this place? Doctor Mann is here?

His wife was here. She has the baby.

No. No. The baby is mine.

As she is the doctor's, Elena said. You signed the papers. You released the baby.

The papers? I didn't know. I didn't know. What are you saying? She was shouting now.

You signed the papers, Elena said again. The baby is gone.

There was the sound of a wail and it was so distant and so eerie that it frightened Íso, and she covered her ears and fell to her knees in order not to hear that horrible cry, but still it came and came and came, and then someone was lifting her and carrying her, and she was laid on her bed and a doctor appeared—Betje, it was—and Betje held up a syringe and said it was for calming down, and she felt the needle in her thigh, and then she felt nothing.

I
N
the early days, just after her baby was taken,
Íso
went to the police station in her village and she spoke with one of the officers.
She sat for a long time in the anteroom and when she was called into the inner office she explained her situation. The officer was a short man in a tight-fitting uniform. He was patient, but he seemed bored. He explained that there was little to be done. It was out of his hands. And he raised the hands he had just referred to and held them palms up towards the ceiling, as if hoping that something of value might fall down and benefit him. Íso understood that this was a plea for money, and she understood that the bribe might produce nothing. Her breasts were leaking, even though she had expressed milk that morning, and she was aware that the officer had noticed the wet spots on her shirt. Respectfully, he made every obvious effort not to look at her chest.

She spoke to a lawyer, who advised her to hire an American lawyer. He said that he had no power over these kinds of things. It was out of his hands. He too made a gesture, and this gesture seemed to indicate the senselessness of the world. She saw many different officials. Some were greedy and wanted money for nothing, others saw her as a fool who had tumbled into a place of her own deserving, and one man treated her as a puta. He was interested in her.

She rode the bus to the city and went to the US embassy and she inquired into the legal rights she had. She was told that even if the child was hers, she would have to go to the place of residence of the father and press charges against him. Even so, she might not gain anything. She had signed the papers allowing the child to be taken. The father had his rights as well.

I
N
the weeks that followed the disappearance of Íso's baby, there were rumours of a change of policy at the clinic: there would be no more contract births. But then the rumours subsided and everything continued as usual. Elena ruled in the same manner, with a feigned benevolence. A fresh deluge of barren women arrived fortnightly to take the waters. The keepers cared for their charges. The doctors in the outpatient clinic saw children with earaches and they saw campesinos with broken limbs. A new group of foreign doctors and nurses arrived—young and idealistic and brimming with notions of charity and goodwill. The salaries of the local workers remained the same. The clinic founder, Doctor August, grew richer.

Íso wrote Doctor Mann and his wife messages that begged for an explanation and a reply. No response came. She became wild and inconsolable. She slept and woke and her mother tended to her, and then she slept some more because she could not bear being awake. Eventually, she grew quiet and found a place where she might put the child. In her heart. She had no photographs, just a memory of that first night, holding her baby and then feeding her, and then sleeping side by side. It was her own mother who had told her that she must decide to be at
peace. The baby was alive. The baby was taken care of. The baby was with the father.

She no longer worked at the clinic. She took care of her mother's tienda. In the evenings, sometimes, when she heard the sound of a Honda motorcycle approaching, she looked up as if expecting the miraculous, but then the motorcycle passed on and she returned to her books. She was now reading textbooks, biology
and chemistry. She had hired a tutor and would reapply soon for medical school at a university in the city. She had no doubts that she would be accepted.

Six weeks after the child was taken, Elena contacted her and asked her to come by for a talk. It is important, she said.