Rosa Jordan - The Woman She Was

“That is a very noble thing to aspire to. But it is not easy. You must study hard.”

“She’s a very good student,” her mother bragged, causing the child to duck her head with embarrassed pleasure.

“My father was a doctor,” said Celia Sánchez. “He worked with the poor in the sierra and often took me with him. I watched him ease the suffering of many, and I myself held the hands of some who died. So I know”—here she turned away from the child to speak to her mother—“about death, Katrina. That is why I am not afraid.”

“And you are not in pain?” Katrina asked anxiously.

“Some,” Celia Sánchez admitted. “At times… so hard to breathe. But pain I can tolerate. It’s the loss of energy that I find frustrating.”

The women sat quietly for a few moments, having forgotten the child who thought she was not listening anymore, engrossed as she was in testing the hot chocolate with the tip of her pinkie and feeling a prick of pain because the cocoa was still scalding hot.

Celia Sánchez spoke again. “In the beginning we ask, as your daughter should be asking, ‘What do I want to do with my life?’ But at a certain age, Katrina, the question needs to change, and we must ask ourselves, ‘What do I want to have done?’ The Revolution—of course it has not been fully realized. But we always knew it to be an ongoing process, something that, if it was to be a success, had to be worked at generation after generation. It was only ours to begin, and that we have done, yes?”

Celia Sánchez coughed. The child could tell that talking was difficult for her. She wondered why her mother, who talked so much at home, was saying so little, why, in the presence of this older woman she was like a girl herself, shy and respectful.

“I have done all the things I wanted to have done, but for one, and it is almost finished. I have saved all the papers, every note, every instruction Fidel ever put his hand to. Now they are being organized into a national archive, and this I must finish. When we are gone this written record is all there will be, the only thing that tells what we did, how we did it, and why. Fidel said history would absolve him, but only if the history of La Revolución is preserved.”

“Surely you’re not still working on those archives!” Katrina exclaimed. “I heard that there are more than a million documents! There must be other people—!”

“Of course,” Celia Sánchez said. “Not one task in my life have I set out to do that there weren’t others—like you—who joined the struggle.”

She looked again at the child. “That is what it takes if we are to make this island a better place for all of us. Right, little one?”

The child, sucking the finger scorched by the hot cocoa, looked up quickly and nodded, but Celia Sánchez was again speaking to her mother. “Do you understand what I’m telling you, Katrina? In the end, what makes death easy is being able to say that you have done what you wanted to do. That is why you must ask, and know the answer. Not at the last minute either. If you wait till the last minute to ask, and the answer is that you have not done what you wanted, then your dying will be a terrible thing. So I’m telling you.” Again the spasm of coughing.

When it had passed, Celia Sánchez said in a voice that had become hoarse, “Ask yourself now, Katrina. Not the question of a child, ‘What do I want to do with my life?’ but the question of an adult, ‘What is it I want to have done?’ Then get on with it.”

The child, finding the cocoa at last cool enough to sip, understood the words but not their meaning. All she grasped was that Celia Sánchez was behaving like a mother to her own motherless mother, and that she was going to die and was trying to teach her mother about dying, which seemed a silly thing to do, since her mother wasn’t even slightly sick.

They never spoke of that conversation again, not on the walk home, not a dozen years later when Katrina lay dying of the same disease. It was not until now, in this darkened room with chocolate-scented stream rising from the cup in her hands, that Celia wondered, Did you, Mamá? You saved lives in the war, raised Carolina and me, loved our father while he was alive and other men who took your fancy later. Was that enough, or was there more you wanted to have done? You died so young—only a decade older than I am now. And I—what if I had died tonight? What is it I want to do that I would not have got done?

She wouldn’t have wanted her research projects left undone. The studies were not long-term; they would be finished in two years and would contain data that she felt sure would force the government to stop ignoring the health risks second-hand smoke posed for children. She would also show Liliana all the beaches and rivers and mountains and mogotes of this beautiful island. That, for sure, was something she wanted to have done.

Celia listened to the whisper of surf, so ever-present that she normally did not hear it. She watched the patterns cast by moonlight change as the moon moved across the sky, watched the reflection of her legs on the grey television screen fade and disappear. She lifted the cup and sipped the cocoa.

After a while she conceded that there was one other thing she wanted to have done. But it would take a little longer.

CELIA was wakened by a telephone call from Dr. Leyva. He said that in televised reports on the bombing he had glimpsed her and Liliana treating the injured and wanted her to know that after such an ordeal he did not expect her to go to México City today; that if she wished, Dr. Cohen could be sent in her place. Celia quickly agreed and hung up with a huge sense of relief.

The next caller was Alma. When Celia reassured her that they were fine, Alma called, “Luis! Come tell Celia what you found out.”

Luis came on the line and in a tired voice informed her that if she had received a call from Joaquín claiming that the terrorist was Luis Posada Carilles, she shouldn’t believe it; that he had just spoken to Captain Quevedo, who said neither of the terrorists were Posada Carilles. He said MININT had good intelligence that Posada was still in Central America and was expected to surface in the United States soon. There he would probably get the same protection accorded to Orlando Bosch, his accomplice in the Barbados airline bombing, who continued to live openly in Miami.

Celia was grateful to get the news from Luis rather than Joaquín, as it allowed her to deal with her frustration and bitterness in private and not have to cope with Joaquín’s at the same time. Luis did not acknowledge her thanks and handed the telephone back to Alma without saying goodbye.

Liliana wandered into the kitchen, dark curls frizzy from the late night washing and no interim combing. She was in surprisingly good spirits and ate breakfast with the television on in order to watch constantly replayed scenes of the chaos following the bombing, some of which showed her assisting the injured with calm efficiency.

After a while Liliana said she was going to unpack. Celia limped after her and sat down on the bed. Simply making herself available had always been the best way to get Liliana to open up. That was especially important this morning, Celia felt, in the aftermath of the hotel bombing.

Liliana exhibited a certain seriousness as she set about unpacking, but did not seem upset or particularly interested in talking about the night before. Celia was about to leave when Liliana lifted the ballerina music box out of her suitcase, carefully unwrapped it, and put it back in its usual place on her dresser.