Part 7 (1/2)

”Don't be ridiculous,” she said.

Despite the fact that they hadn't seen each other since the previous Sunday, Kevin dropped Monica off at her house without getting out of the car. He said he had a headache and an early morning meeting. She ran and got his laptop computer and handed it to him through the open window of his Honda. They kissed, but coolly. He drove away, and Monica went upstairs and went to bed. She lay awake, staring out at the gray horizon, at the glimmering water and the swollen moon. She had the first inkling that something about Kevin seemed to bring out her most independent and stubborn self, made her dig in her heels far more than she meant to. Most of the time, the pa.s.sion of their arguments flared up into romantic ardor, and then they got to enjoy the making up. But not tonight. Tonight they were just frustrated with each other. Tonight she was glad he was gone.

MONICA FOUND THE ARTICLE she was looking for at the hospital library. She checked it out and made three copies. She sat in the break room at work, eating a ham sandwich between appointments. She finished reading the article, which was three pages long, while holding the sandwich up in the air without taking a single bite. The article, ent.i.tled ”Natural-Born Healers,” stated that BioSource, a British-owned biopharmaceutical start-up, was the financial sponsor of a clinical trial in Central America. One trial was to be held in San Salvador, while another separate trial was being held in an undisclosed rural area. Monica drew a question mark in red ink next to that sentence. The article went on to state that BioSource was synthetically mimicking a snail peptide (product prototype name: SDX-71) and hoped to offer the drug to the U.S. FDA and Europe within three years. BioSource claimed that, although there was no known substance that could reverse brain damage, SDX-71 had shown success in ”energizing” stalled or extremely slow progress. The program's recruiter and company contact was listed as Leticia Ramos. she was looking for at the hospital library. She checked it out and made three copies. She sat in the break room at work, eating a ham sandwich between appointments. She finished reading the article, which was three pages long, while holding the sandwich up in the air without taking a single bite. The article, ent.i.tled ”Natural-Born Healers,” stated that BioSource, a British-owned biopharmaceutical start-up, was the financial sponsor of a clinical trial in Central America. One trial was to be held in San Salvador, while another separate trial was being held in an undisclosed rural area. Monica drew a question mark in red ink next to that sentence. The article went on to state that BioSource was synthetically mimicking a snail peptide (product prototype name: SDX-71) and hoped to offer the drug to the U.S. FDA and Europe within three years. BioSource claimed that, although there was no known substance that could reverse brain damage, SDX-71 had shown success in ”energizing” stalled or extremely slow progress. The program's recruiter and company contact was listed as Leticia Ramos.

Monica's attention snapped back to the name. Her mother had used that name as an alias back in the days of the war. Did Alma know this Leticia Ramos? Had she been a friend? Or was it a coincidence, with Alma having picked the name at random?

As Monica sat and pondered the possible explanations for that old name to reappear, she felt an unexpected mix of emotions bubble up to the surface. Although nothing had yet been proven, she was proud that Alma's life quest had been the pursuit of something wonderful and healing. There was also sadness that her mother had died before achieving anything to that end. If SDX-71 turned out to be viable, the credit would go to someone else, although surely they had stood on the back of Alma's research. If only Alma hadn't complicated her life with Maximiliano.

Leticia Ramos. Monica underlined the name several times, slowly, so that the red ink bled onto the next line. She gnawed on the name like an oversize wad of chewing gum. A colleague, perhaps a mentor? El Salvador was a small place, and Leticia Ramos wasn't a common name. Monica was so curious that when she went back to her desk, she ignored her work and began researching the name and the subject of the venom trials. She scoured the Web sites of the academic organizations that had received credit in the article, but found nothing. Surely her father would find out everything there was to know after he interviewed the staff. Monica looked at her watch. Her hip-replacement client was due in twenty minutes. She closed the magazine and decided it was time to visit with Sylvia Montenegro, alone. Monica was clumsy and distracted through her next two appointments. At three, she picked up the phone and asked to be connected to Yvettte Lucero's room.

”TELL ME ABOUT EL SALVADOR.” Sylvia patted the s.p.a.ce on the vinyl couch next to her. ”I know very little about it. I just remember it was in the news around the time that President Reagan was in office.” She unfolded an oversize, soft-cover book of world maps and spread it out on her lap. Her bony finger traced an outline of the small Central American country. ”I see here it borders with Guatemala on the north and west, Honduras to the north and east. The Pacific Ocean to the south.” Sylvia patted the s.p.a.ce on the vinyl couch next to her. ”I know very little about it. I just remember it was in the news around the time that President Reagan was in office.” She unfolded an oversize, soft-cover book of world maps and spread it out on her lap. Her bony finger traced an outline of the small Central American country. ”I see here it borders with Guatemala on the north and west, Honduras to the north and east. The Pacific Ocean to the south.”

Monica peered over her shoulder at the map. ”Twenty years ago, when I came to visit my relatives here in Connecticut for the summer, people around here would say, 'So, I hear you're from Ecuador. What's it like living right on the equator?'” Monica said, then laughed. ”Anyway, the civil war did a lot to put it on the map in terms of the public's general sense of geography.”

”As wars always do,” Sylvia said, with a thicker accent than normal.

Monica used a pen she had clipped to the breast pocket of her suit jacket to point to the country's belly b.u.t.ton, a star with a circle around it. ”That's the capital city, San Salvador. The whole country is sitting right in the middle of a seismic zone. It has more than twenty volcanoes, some extinct, some active. See that lake? Lago de Coatepeque. It's sitting in the crater of a dead volcano. n.o.body has been able to discern the depth at the center ... like it's this orifice that leads to the earth's center.”

Sylvia raised one eyebrow. ”Is El Salvador still unsafe?”

Monica shrugged. ”It recovered a great deal from its civil war and subsequent disasters, which included a huge earthquake. But I wouldn't know firsthand. I haven't been there in fifteen years.”

”You should go, Monica. When was the last time you visited the land you came from? You have to return to your mama's lap.” Sylvia patted her hands on her thighs, as if she were inviting a child or a small dog to dive in.

Monica rested her chin on her knuckles. ”My mama wasn't really the lap type, Sylvia. Anyway, she's dead and my dad is estranged from her family. He hates them.”

”Then it's your father's baggage, not yours. It's like my husband used to say, time waits for no one.”

Monica sighed. ”The wounds go pretty deep between them.”

Sylvia turned and pointed to a framed photo next to Yvettte's bed that Monica had not seen before, one of Will and Yvette on their wedding day. ”I find that a lot of men close the door on the past more tightly than women. They turn away from the scary stuff, they keep their feelings locked up. Not us,” she said, patting Monica on the leg. ”We stare it down, don't we?”

Monica nodded. ”Yes, we do.”

”If you feel you have to go, then go. To h.e.l.l with your father, he'll get over it when he sees that you're fine. He'll realize then that you didn't automatically inherit his old traumas. He'll probably be relieved.”

”I don't have have to go,” Monica said. ”I said I'd to go,” Monica said. ”I said I'd like like to go. Under the right circ.u.mstances. In reality, it's always been something I just talked about, complained that I had no one to go with, no one to go see. Blah, blah, blah.” She opened her eyes wide. ”I'm not sure if I actually meant to follow through.” She crossed her elbows over her chest and rubbed her arms, trying to iron out the gooseflesh that had erupted underneath the sleeves of her blue cotton blouse. ”What about you? Are you feeling like you have to take Yvette?” to go. Under the right circ.u.mstances. In reality, it's always been something I just talked about, complained that I had no one to go with, no one to go see. Blah, blah, blah.” She opened her eyes wide. ”I'm not sure if I actually meant to follow through.” She crossed her elbows over her chest and rubbed her arms, trying to iron out the gooseflesh that had erupted underneath the sleeves of her blue cotton blouse. ”What about you? Are you feeling like you have to take Yvette?”

Sylvia raised a thin, penciled-in eyebrow and stated primly, ”I'm feeling like I have to know everything there is to know about this treatment, especially the specifics they don't get into in the article.”

Monica glanced at Yvette's bed, then back at Sylvia. ”Did you know my dad's talking about going down there to research their claims?”

Sylvia stared at the tile floor for a moment, as if to arrange her thoughts. She nodded, then folded her hands over her lap. ”I'm ahead of him. I've been corresponding with a woman named Leticia Ramos.” She stopped speaking, looked around. She got up and closed the door to the room.

”Yes, Leticia Ramos,” Monica practically shouted after Sylvia had pressed the door shut. ”Who is she?”

”You can't breathe a word of this to Will,” Sylvia said, pointing one finger up to the ceiling. ”I won't tell you a thing unless you promise to keep this conversation a secret.”

Monica drew an imaginary line across her lips. ”But why are we keeping it from Will, Sylvia?”

Sylvia's sparkling eyes darkened and she balled her small hands into a fist. ”Because he isn't a mother, that's why. He has no instincts, no intuition, and he won't get out of the way and let me help my child.” She cupped her abdomen with both hands. She glanced back at the bed behind them. ”She's my baby, dammit. She's a part of me me.”

Monica let out a breath, slowly. She stared at the floor in silence, deeply moved by the fiercely protective maternal presence. There ought to be more of that in the world, she thought. The world would be a better place if every mother felt like that. She held her right hand up. ”Okay. I promise not to tell anyone. You have my word.”

When she was satisfied, Sylvia put her hand on Monica's knee again and looked deeply into her eyes. ”Out of twelve cases similar to Yvette's they have succeeded in facilitating an 'a.s.sisted recovery,' as they call it, in six cases. That's a phenomenal track record. Phenomenal Phenomenal. Anyway, the tough part is the cost: special air transportation is about ten thousand dollars.

Plus the five thousand to the clinic.”

Monica whistled.

”I have the money,” Sylvia said softly.

”I thought it was a trial-a study. How can they charge five thousand dollars for a trial?”

”The fee is for room and board, ongoing daily care for twelve weeks, pharmaceuticals, physical therapy, on-site family accommodations, and unlimited local transportation. When you add it all up, you'll find it's actually dirt cheap compared to what all that would cost here in the States. The venom treatment itself is free of charge.”

”Did they send you literature? A map or an address?”

”No, they just pick you up at the airport. I don't really know which end of the coast it's on. I just know it's on the beach.”

”... Did they mention a contract, an application, anything?”

”It's not a Club Med, Monica. It's top secret.”

Monica made the most horrified expression she could come up with. ”Sylvia, I wouldn't even talk to them unless they can produce some literature that spells out details.”

”I'm not stupid.” Then, in a softer voice, almost a whisper: ”I was thinking of maybe going along with your dad.”

”Now that's a great great idea.” idea.”

Monica took Sylvia's hands and leaned so close that she could see the pinhead-sized dots on the cus.h.i.+ons of Sylvia's earlobes where earring holes had apparently closed up. Monica looked past her, at the toes of Yvette's pale yellow socks pointing inward on the bed and whispered, ”Someone built that clinic and the treatment around my mom's work. I know it.”

”Let's go then,” Sylvia said, opening her eyes wide. ”It's your duty to make sure your mother gets credit. Let them know you're aware of what they're doing. Who knows, they may want to ask you things about your mother and her work that weren't doc.u.mented. You can stay at a nearby guesthouse for a few dollars a night.”

Monica felt a current of excitement rush through her. Still, she refused to get completely swept up just yet. ”What does Yvettte's doctor say? Did you show him the article?”

Sylvia laughed bitterly and spoke in a deep voice, imitating Dr. Forest Bauer. ”'It's something to watch,' he says to me. What the h.e.l.l does he think I've been doing for two years? Watching Watching. Every little movement, every breath she takes.” Sylvia shook her head and pointed at the door. Her face was contorted with inner conflict. ”The FDA will approve importation of foreign pharmaceuticals if there is no other available treatment here in the U.S. ... as long as you can get a U.S. doctor to oversee the treatment.” She kept pointing at the door, shaking her head.

”But no one will,” Monica said.

Sylvia hung her head. ”No one will.”

”Well, that's not a good sign. We have some of the best neurologists in the world here at Yale, Sylvia. If they don't think it's a good idea ...” Monica began to feel the weight of responsibility for commenting on the cones in the first place.

Suddenly, Sylvia brightened and pulled a gold chain out from under the neck of her blouse. Attached to the chain was an antique locket, but bigger, like a small pillbox. ”Look. I just got this from Rome. A real strand of Saint Anthony's hair. Four hundred dollars. A bargain if you think about what a relic it is. It's supposed to return lost things, people included.”