Part 8 (1/2)
When the adults all finally sat down at the table, Esperanza asked, ”What happened with the strike?”
”There was no strike,” said Alfonso. ”We heard that they were all ready. And that there were hundreds of them. They had their signs. But the storm hit. The cotton is next to the ground and the fields are now buried in dirt and cannot be picked. Tomorrow, they will have no jobs because of an act of G.o.d.”
”What will we do tomorrow?” asked Esperanza.
”The grapes are higher off the ground,” said Alfonso. ”The trunks of the vines are covered but the fruit was not affected. The grapes are ready and cannot wait. So manana, we will go back to work.”
The next morning, the sky was blue and calm and the dust had left the air. It had settled on the world, covering everything like a suede blanket. Everyone who lived at the camp shook out the powdery soil, went back to work, and came home again, as if nothing had happened.
In a week, they finished cutting the grapes. Then while they finished packing the grapes, they were already talking about preparing for potatoes. The camp routine repeated itself like the regimented rows in the fields. Very little seemed to change, thought Esperanza, except the needs of the earth. And Mama. Mama had changed. Because after the storm, she never stopped coughing.
”Mama, you're so pale!” said Esperanza.
Mama carefully walked into the cabin as if she were trying to keep her balance and slumped into a chair in the kitchen.
Hortensia was bustling behind her. ”I am going to make her chicken soup with lots of garlic. She had to sit down at work today because she felt faint. But it is no wonder because she is not eating. Look at her, she has lost weight. She has not been herself since that storm and that was a month ago. I think she should go to the doctor.”
”Mama, listen to her,” pleaded Esperanza.
Mama looked at her weakly, ”I am fine. Just tired. I'm not used to the work. And I've told you, doctors are very expensive.”
”Irene and Melina are coming over after dinner to crochet,” said Esperanza. She thought that would cheer Mama.
”You sit with them,” said Mama. ”I'm going to lie down until the soup is ready because I have a headache. Then after dinner, I'll go straight to bed and get a good rest. I'll be fine.” She coughed, got up, and slowly walked from the room.
Hortensia looked at Esperanza, shaking her head.
A few hours later, Esperanza stood over Mama. ”Your soup is ready, Mama.”
But she didn't move. ”Mama, dinner,” said Esperanza, reaching for her arm and gently shaking her. Mama's arm was burning, her cheeks were flushed red, and she wasn't waking.
Esperanza felt panic squeezing her and she screamed, ”Hortensia!”
The doctor came. He was American, light and blond, but he spoke perfect Spanish.
”He looks very young to be a doctor,” said Hortensia.
”He has come to the camp before and people trust him,” said Irene. ”And there are not many doctors who will come out here.”
Alfonso, Juan, and Miguel sat on the front steps, waiting. Isabel sat on the mattress, her eyes worried. Esperanza could not sit still. She paced near the bedroom door, trying to hear what was going on inside.
When the doctor finally came out, he looked grim. He walked over to the table where all the women sat. Esperanza followed him.
The doctor signaled for the men and waited until everyone was inside.
”She has Valley Fever.”
”What does that mean?” asked Esperanza.
”It's a disease of the lungs that is caused by dust spores. Sometimes, when people move to this area and aren't used to the air here, the dust spores get into their lungs and cause an infection.”
”But we were all in the dust storm,” said Alfonso.
”When you live in this valley, everyone inhales the dust spores at one time or another. Most of the time, the body can overcome the infection. Some people will have no symptoms at all. Some will feel like they have the flu for a few days. And others, for whatever reason, cannot fight the infection and get very sick.”
”How sick?” asked Hortensia.
Esperanza sat down.
”She may have a fever on and off for weeks but you must try to keep it down. She will cough and have headaches and joint aches. She might get a rash.”
”Can we catch it from her? The babies?” asked Josefina.
”No,” said the doctor. ”It isn't contagious. And the babies and young children have probably had a mild form of it already, without you even knowing. Once the body fights off the infection, it doesn't get it again. For those who live here most of their lives, they are naturally immunized. It is hardest on adults who move here and are not accustomed to the agricultural dust.”
”How long until she is well?” asked Esperanza.
The doctor's face looked tired. He ran his hand through his short blond hair.
”There are some medicines she can take, but even then, if she survives, it might take six months for her to get her full strength back.”
Esperanza felt Alfonso behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders. She felt the blood drain from her face. She wanted to tell the doctor that she could not lose Mama, too. That she had already lost Papa and that Abuelita was too far away. Her voice strangled with fear. All she could do was whisper the doctor's uncertain words, ”If she survives.”
Esperanza almost never left Mama's side. She sponged her with cool water and fed her teaspoons of broth throughout the day. Miguel offered to take over the sweeping job for her, but Esperanza wouldn't let him. Irene and Melina arrived each morning, to check on Mama and to take the babies. Alfonso and Juan put up extra layers of newspaper and cardboard in the bedroom to keep out the November chill and Isabel drew pictures to hang on the walls because she did not think the newspaper looked pretty enough for Mama.
The doctor came back a few weeks later with more medicine. ”She is not getting worse,” he said, shaking his head. ”But she is not getting better, either.”
Mama drifted in and out of fitful sleep and sometimes she called out for Abuelita. Esperanza could barely sit still and often paced around the small room.
One morning, Mama said weakly, ”Esperanza ...”
Esperanza ran to her and took her hand.
”Abuelita's blanket ...” she whispered.
Esperanza pulled her valise from under the bed. She had not opened it since before the dust storm and saw that the fine brown powder had even found its way deep inside. As it had found its way into Mama's lungs.
She lifted out the crocheting that Abuelita had started the night Papa died. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Had it only been a few months? She stretched out the zigzag rows. They reached from one side of Mama's bed to the other, but were only a few hands wide, looking more like a long scarf than the beginnings of a blanket. Esperanza could see Abuelita's hairs woven in, so that all her love and good wishes would go with them forever. She held the crocheting to her face and could still smell the smoke from the fire. And the faintest scent of peppermint.
Esperanza looked at Mama, breathing uneasily, her eyes closed. It was clear she needed Abuelita. They both needed her. But what was Esperanza to do? She picked up Mama's limp hand and kissed it. Then she handed the strip of zigzag rows to Mama, who clutched it to her chest.
What had Abuelita told her when she'd given her the bundle of crocheting? And then she remembered. She had said, ”Finish this for me, Esperanza ... and promise me you'll take care of Mama.”
After Mama fell asleep, Esperanza picked up the needlework and began where Abuelita had left off. Ten st.i.tches up to the top of the mountain. Add one st.i.tch. Nine st.i.tches down to the bottom of the valley, skip one. Her fingers were more nimble now and her st.i.tches were more even. The mountains and valleys in the blanket were easy. But as soon as she reached a mountain, she was headed back down into a valley again. Would she ever escape this valley she was living in? This valley of Mama being sick?
What else had Abuelita said? After she had lived many mountains and valleys they would be together again. She bent over her work, intent, and when her hair fell into her lap, she picked it up and wove it into the blanket. She cried when she thought of the wishes that would go into the blanket forever.
Because she was wis.h.i.+ng that Mama would not die.
The blanket grew longer. And Mama grew more pale. Women in the camp brought her extra skeins of yarn and Esperanza didn't care that they didn't match. Each night when she went to bed, she put the growing blanket back over Mama, covering her in hopeful color.