The Second Room

“And over here is the master bedroom,” the realtor beamed, gesturing dramatically with her left arm towards the bedroom’s alder door, “Isn’t the natural light marvelous?” she asked. Franky and I just nodded our heads while we admired the empty space. 

I could see his eyes traveling from one corner of the room to another with a steady concentration. He clenches his jaw and squints ever so slightly when he is focused, his eyelashes gently making contact with his glasses as he surveys. I knew that he was visualizing what our bedroom would look like, where we would put the bed, if we would each have a nightstand, how much closet space each of us would need, where we might place his reading chair, who would sleep on the side of the bed closest to the bathroom. A million unanswered questions spun around in my husband’s head under a quilt of black hair, and then he turned to me, “I think we would have enough space for a queen size bed in here, don’t you? Wouldn’t that be nice, cariño?” 

A smile appeared at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes shimmered with all the glittering possibilities his promotion could bring to us. New wife, new job, new apartment, new life. His joy could be felt mingling with the sunlight that boldly burst through the windows, unimpeded by neither fixtures nor furniture. A passing ambulance reminded me to answer, “A little more wiggle room never hurt anyone,” I agreed. 

“And, it’s right across the hall from the second bedroom,” the realtor hinted unsubtly, before exiting the master bedroom and turning the knob on the door to the room across the hall. It was smaller than the master bedroom, of course, but it still had plenty of space. What we would use this space for, I could not say. I’ve imagined a hundred uses for this extra room. A painting studio, a darkroom, an office, a library, a nursery. The latter was most certainly what Franky thought of as the room’s intended use, and perhaps had my life before Franky been much different, then I would also be able to think of it this way. But it was not, and I cannot. 

“I was thinking we could paint this room green,” he smiled at me, “Like a light green, something kind of calm and peaceful like the forest, or a palm tree. And it works for a boy or a girl,” his smile widened, “But I really hope it’s a girl.”

Tell him, I thought, but I could not. How could I? His grin was now stretching to his temples at the prospect of having this green baby bedroom. My stomach grimaced at a moment when my face could not, and I forced myself to smile back at him. 

The realtor, having witnessed my discomfort, quietly exited the room and made her way back towards the entryway, where she waited for us to finish visualizing. Franky looked around the second room one more time before closing the door behind him, pulling my hand into his in the hall. The floor to ceiling windows in the living space were so blindingly bright, each new surface more reflective than the next. The bulbs in all the lighting fixtures were brand new, shining unabashedly over our heads, creating spots of heat on my scalp. I suddenly felt a heaviness in my body, a creeping nausea rising through me. An urge to lay my body upon the white tiles, welcoming their coolness to my newly moistened flesh, overwhelmed my thoughts but I resisted so as not to alarm Franky. I leaned against the wall instead, allowing myself to rest for a moment. 

I knew we should have rescheduled this tour. 

Franky was examining the view and I pushed myself from the wall to join him there. I looked down below to the courtyard, watching the ant people rise from their benches and pedal their bicycles back down their sandy paths to their ant homes. I twisted my ring around my finger nervously as microscopic flecks of rain appeared and decorated the view with a thousand kaleidoscopic miniature versions of itself. I peered into these tiny worlds for just a moment, and allowed myself to picture a thousand different versions of myself living within these liquid domes. New versions of myself, with no histories to tie them back to the original, they only exist in the now. It was a comforting thought. These selves were free. 

The summer before I turned fifteen, my parents sent me to stay with my tío Álvaro and his wife in Cozumel. We had visited them as a family many times, almost every summer, but this time I had gone alone to oversee the planning of my quinceañera. “Make sure you pick out the most beautiful dress, mijita,” my father instructed before I left, “And we’ll be there to celebrate your quinces at the end of the summer.” I saw that my father was having difficulties letting me go, “ Díos te bendiga, María,” he said, before kissing me on the forehead. My mother waved solemnly from the doorway. She never liked my tío Álvaro, but he was my father’s brother and best friend, so she had forced herself to dismiss her feelings. 

I had my own room in their house, its walls were a light yellow like the center of a daisy or a dandelion before it scatters in the wind, and the single bed was placed in the far corner and made up with new pink sheets that smelled of detergent and sunlight. My aunt and uncle did not have a dryer, so my tía Rosa hung the clothes on line outside to dry in the unrelenting Mexican sun. The room was hot and sticky during the day, even with the breeze from the sea, so I spent most of my summer reading outside under the palm trees that grew tall and sturdy in the front of the house. Occasionally, tía made paletas de coco with the coconuts that fell into the grass. I’d watch as she mixed the fresh meat with sugar and the fruit’s own water before pouring it carefully into the molds, her forehead beading with sweat throughout the process.

 Throughout the summer, we took short trips into town for cake tastings, dress shopping, my tía buzzing around me excitedly the whole time, “I can’t believe my little María is becoming a woman!” she’d shriek. I did not feel as though anything important was happening to me. My body had changed many years ago, but I knew that had not truly meant anything because I would not have officially begun my womanhood until this party was over, and I longed for the party to be over. My days were filled with anxious reading, avoiding the thought of my whole family’s eyes on me, crashing over my adolescent body with the force of a tidal wave. 

My uncle’s eyes were the ones I feared the most. He did not come with us into town, instead he stayed home watching TV and pacing around the house. His eyes were always somewhat glazed over, like he was not really behind them, his body being controlled by another lifeform. Sometimes, when I would be fixing myself a cold drink in the kitchen, I could feel his attention shift abruptly from the television and I would turn my head ever so slightly so as to peer over my own shoulder only to then meet my uncle’s dark eyes, and I would force myself to smile at him. 

My parents arrived in Cozumel the night before my quinceañera and we sat under the stars drinking horchata and enjoying our reunion. I shifted anxiously in my seat throughout the evening, processing my own impending public embarrassment, but also avoiding tío Álvaro’s leaden stare. He had become silent as the night grew darker, transfixed, lost in the night itself. His eyes fell emptily upon me, and I felt their hollow pupils dilate at my image. 

I excused myself and my father said, “Of course, mijita, big day tomorrow! Say goodnight to your tío and  tía before you go to bed.” My stomach turned. I walked over to give  tía Rosa a kiss on the cheek, quickly angling my body towards the door before running to my bedroom. As I left, I heard my father apologize, “I don’t know what’s gotten into her, Álvaro, she must be nervous about tomorrow.” 

Sleep had not come for me before my mother entered my room early the next morning. She was vibrating with enthusiasm as she glided over the tiles to open the windows and let in the morning light, “Today’s the day! How are you feeling?” she asked, taking no pause to allow for my response, “How did you sleep? Are you excited? Come now, let’s brush our teeth.” My mother guided me through the morning’s schedule this way, making sure everything was just right so that all I would have to do is simply appear where and when I was told. After hours of preparation, I was finally made up, pinned, sprayed, dressed, and ready for the party.

 While we were in the house, our family and guests arrived outside where my aunt and uncle welcomed them. The music was playing loudly already, the smell of charring meats filled the air, and I could hear bursts of laughter exploding in every direction. I took a deep breath, and walked across the threshold into a sea of smiling, familiar faces. I exhaled. 

Later, after I danced with my father and we had finished gorging ourselves on cake and sweets, I wandered through the yard for a while. I mingled with the guests, making sure to take the time to greet anyone who had come all the way here to celebrate my special day, and I suddenly felt quite tired from all the excitement. My feet, possessed in their search for refuge, brought me to my palm tree where I had found shade to read beneath all summer long. A soothing quiet fell around me and I savored the delight of my aloneness, breathing in the salty air. This moment of peace had been fleeting. 

“Did you enjoy your party, María?” a voice asked flatly from behind me. I swallowed. Before I could respond, the smell of uncle’s sweat and cologne was creating a smog that clouded the space around me. I could have choked on this odor, coughing and wheezing until my lungs could finally inhale fresh air once more, gasping when they finally could. His breath fell heavy on my neck, like the bull before it charges at the matador. My hand steadied my petrified body on the firm trunk of my palm tree. The sound of my heart beat pounded in my ears, I could no longer hear the music and laughter from the party that continued a mere few hundred feet away from where my uncle and I now stood. He placed both my hands, limp with fear,  above my head and pinned them against the coarse fibers of the palm tree with his own forceful hands. 

I could not make out his face in the darkness. My uncle said nothing as he pressed himself into the burgundy fabric of my dress, tearing it slightly along its sides with his urgency. A deep stabbing pain overtook my thoughts, and then there was nothing at all. 

“You’re a woman now,” he said, buckling his belt before spitting onto the ground and walking back to the party. 

Not knowing what else to do but stand there until he was out of sight, I let the icy shroud of shock wrap itself around my body, numbing myself to my core. My feet carried me back towards the dancing guests, clapping for one another. I ran into my father before retiring to my room for the night, “What happened to your beautiful dress, mijita?” he asked with a touch of disappointment, as though he imagined that I must have ripped the holes myself with my carelessness. I did not know what answer I could give him, what could I have possibly said there in front of our whole family? I was not even certain of what had happened to my dress, the damage done to it. 

“I fell.” I said, and we never spoke about it again. 

It was October when I realized I had become pregnant. My period never came again after I left my uncle’s house. My father, he would have been so upset with me and my mother would have died of disappointment if I told them about the secret that was growing inside of me. There was no time to think, I knew I needed to act before it was too late and I would then be forced into motherhood with the same abrupt violence as I was forced into womanhood. I could not carry my uncle’s baby in my fifteen year old body. I would not. But I knew I could not go to the clinic because they would surely inform my parents of my state and that would lead to questions. All sorts of questions, which I knew very well I must never answer. So, I devised an alternative plan. 

Years later, after the nightmares had stopped, or at least became less frequent, and I had finished college and met Franky, I considered myself to be free at last from the shackles that chained me to the palm tree in my uncle’s yard. I had rid my body of his seed, and thus rid myself of him entirely. After two years of living together, Franky asked me to marry him and I agreed. Franky asked me to move to San Francisco with him and I agreed. Franky asked me to have a baby with him and I agreed, even if my body would not. 

Franky had to stay late at the office last week when I had my appointment with Dr. Greene, our fertility doctor, so I went alone. Franky had been so excited that we had finally produced a positive test, but something stopped me from joining him in his celebrating. I did not want to get my hopes up just yet; I had started cramping just the day before, which is what had prompted this appointment. 

Dr. Greene gestured for me to sit in front of her desk while she was finishing on the phone with another patient. She looked at me apologetically before telling the person on the other line that she would have to call them back. “No Franky today?” she asked me. 

I shook my head. 

“Well, then, I suppose I will take this opportunity to speak with you one-on-one since we haven’t been able to before. Franky has been the perfect image of a supportive partner, I’m almost shocked that he was unable to make it, although I do understand, of course. And I’m sure that he would much rather be here with you,” she rambled on, nervously. She was anxious, young, trying to create space between herself and confirming my suspicions, but she continued, “Anyway, I need to ask you some personal questions, and I’m sorry in advance if they bring you any discomfort.”

“By all means, Dr. Greene, ask what you must.” I sighed. 

“Have you miscarried before?” The words were sharp and fragile, like splintered glass. Not unintentionally, I thought. 

“Yes. Once.” Her face grew concerned and soft with pity. I hated her expression. 

“The ultrasounds have shown that there is a lot of scar tissue in the uterus, making it incredibly difficult to fertilize the egg, which in your case we have succeeded in, however the amount of scar tissue seen in your scans, coupled with the spotting you’ve reported, is very concerning.” She let out a deep breath, “Look,” here it comes, I braced myself, “the cramping will continue for a few days, coupled with some spotting. I’m so sorry. I know how excited you and Franky are, and how patient you’ve been throughout this whole process, but I think it’s time to start looking at some other options. There are plenty of adoption agencies that we work with here in the city that I’d be able to set you up with, if you’re both interested.” Dr. Greene left no room for me to react to her news. I would not have a child, not now nor ever, and I would somehow have to explain all of this to my husband. But how? 

The spotting had finally come to a halt this morning, but I still felt weak and I found myself refocusing on what the realtor was saying to Franky about the gas stove and its six burners as I stared absently over the gradually darkening city sky.  

Franky paced over to me, his shoes sticking slightly to the recently waxed floorboards, “I think this is the one, María, don’t you? It’s perfect. You, me, and baby, can you see it?” He glowed, a bright star to contrast the gray behind him. 

Tell him, I pleaded with myself, tell him now. 

I turned from Franky and looked towards the realtor, now answering a call from another couple who would be coming to visit the same apartment this evening. I looked at my husband’s smiling face, and froze it that way in my memory. We would have our new life with its green baby bedroom, we would just have to find another way. Tell him, I argued with myself. 

No, not today. 

“We’ll take it.”