Саманта Швеблин - Mouthful of Birds

None of the other women are listening. All of them, and now the newcomer, too, just look out at the highway and are silent for a while. That’s when it happens.

“It can’t be,” says Nené.

In front of them, in the distance, the horizon starts to light up with small pairs of white lights.

“What?” asks the grandmother. “What’s going on?”

In the passenger seat, the newcomer throws glances at Nené, as if waiting for an explanation. The pairs of lights grow, coming closer. Felicity peers between the two front seats.

“They’re coming back,” she says. She smiles and looks at Nené.

On the highway, the first pairs of lights are now cars, almost on top of them, and now they pass at full speed.

“They changed their minds,” says Felicity. “It’s them, they’re coming back for us!”

“No,” says Nené.

She lights a cigarette and then, exhaling smoke, she adds:

“It’s them, yes. But they’re coming back for him.”

A week passes, a month, and we gradually start accepting that Teresita will be here ahead of all our plans. I’ll have to turn down my scholarship, because in a few months it won’t be easy for me to keep studying. Maybe not because of Teresita, maybe it’s just anxiety, but I can’t stop eating and I start getting fatter. Manuel carries the food to me on the sofa, in bed, in the yard. Everything arranged on the tray, tidy in the kitchen, stocked in the pantry, as if the guilt, or whatever it is, was driving him to meet my every expectation. But he’s losing energy, and he doesn’t seem very happy: he comes home late, doesn’t keep me company, doesn’t like to talk about it.

Another month passes. Mom resigns herself, too, buys us some gifts and gives them to us—I know her well—a bit sadly. She says:

“Here is a washable diaper bag with a Velcro closure… These are pure cotton ankle socks… Here’s the piqué hooded towel…” Dad watches her and nods.

“Oh, I don’t know…” I say, and I don’t know if I’m referring to the gifts or to Teresita. “The truth is, I just don’t know,” I say later to my mother-in-law when she drops by with a set of little colored sheets. “I don’t know,” I say, not really knowing what to say, and I hug the sheets and burst into tears.

The third month I feel sadder still. Every time I get up I stand for a while in front of the mirror. My face, my arms, my whole body, and especially my belly are more swollen. Sometimes I call Manuel in and ask him to stand beside me. He, in contrast, looks thinner. He seems distracted. He doesn’t talk much. He comes home from work and sits down to watch television, his head in his hands. It’s not that he loves me any less. I know that Manuel adores me and I know that, like me, he has nothing against our little Teresita—what could he have against her? It’s just that there was so much to do before she came.

Sometimes Mom asks if she can touch my belly. I sit on the sofa and she talks to Teresita in a soft and loving voice. Manuel’s mom, on the other hand, tends to call all the time to ask how I’m doing, where I am, what I’m eating, how I feel, and anything else she can think of to ask me.

I have insomnia. I spend nights lying in bed awake, looking at the ceiling with my hands over little Teresita. I can’t think about anything else. I don’t understand it—there are so many things in this world that seem marvelous to me, like renting a car in one country and returning it in another, thawing out a fresh fish that died thirty days ago, or paying bills without leaving the house. How is it possible that in a world like that, we can’t just make a small change in the order of events? I just can’t resign myself.

Then I stop worrying about what insurance will cover and start looking for other alternatives. I talk to obstetricians, healers, and even a shaman. Someone gives me a midwife’s number and I talk to her over the phone. But they all, in their own ways, present conformist or perverse solutions that have nothing to do with what I’m looking for. It’s hard for me to get used to the idea of receiving Teresita so early, but I don’t want to hurt her, either. And then I find Dr. Weisman.

The doctor’s office is on the top floor of an old building downtown. There’s no secretary, no waiting room. Just a small entrance hall and two rooms. Weisman is very friendly as he ushers us in and offers us coffee. During our conversation he is especially interested in what kind of family we are—our parents, our marriage, the individual relationships between all of us. We answer every question he asks. Weisman interlaces his fingers and rests his hands on the desk, seemingly satisfied with our profile. He tells us a few things about his career, the success of his research and what he can offer us, but he realizes he doesn’t need to convince us, and he moves on to explain the treatment. Every once in a while I look at Manuel: he is listening attentively, nodding; he seems enthusiastic. The plan includes changes in diet and sleep patterns, breathing exercises, medicine. We’re going to have to talk to Mom and Dad, and with Manuel’s mother; their roles are important, too. I write everything down in my notebook, point by point.

“And what guarantee do we have with this treatment?” I ask.

“We have what we need for everything to turn out well,” says Weisman.

The next day Manuel stays home. We sit at the living room table, surrounded by graphs and papers, and get to work. I write down as faithfully as possible how things have happened from the first moment we suspected that Teresita had come early. We summon our parents and we are clear with them: the matter is decided, the treatment is under way, and there is nothing to discuss. Dad is about to ask a question, but Manuel interrupts him.

“You have to do what we ask,” he says, and he looks at them as though imploring them to commit, “on the right day and at the right time.”

I understand what he’s feeling: we’re taking this seriously and we expect the same from them. They are worried, and I think they’ll never really understand what it’s all about, but they promise to follow the instructions, and each of them goes home with a list.

When the first ten days are over, things are already running a little more smoothly. I take my three pills a day on time, and I respect every session of “conscious breathing.” Conscious breathing is a fundamental part of the treatment, and it’s an innovative method of relaxation and concentration, discovered and taught by Weisman himself. Sitting on the grass out in the yard, I focus on making contact with the “damp womb of the earth.” I start by inhaling once and exhaling twice. I draw out my breath until my inhale is five seconds long and my exhale is eight. After several days of practice, I inhale for ten seconds and exhale for fifteen. Then I move to the second level of conscious breathing, where I start to feel the direction of my energies. Weisman says this level is going to take more time, but he insists the exercise is within my reach and that I have to keep working at it. There comes a moment when it’s possible to visualize the speed of the energy as it circulates through the body. It feels like a gentle tickle and it generally starts in the lips, hands, and feet. You have to try to slow it down, gradually. The goal is to stop it entirely and, little by little, start it circulating again in the opposite direction.

Manuel can’t be very affectionate with me yet. He has to be faithful to the plan we made, and so for a month and a half he has to stay away, talk only when necessary, and come home late some nights. He complies diligently, but I know him: I know that secretly he’s better, that he’s dying to hug me and tell me how much he misses me. But that’s how things must be done for now; we can’t risk straying from the script for even a second.