Gonzalo Torne - Divorce Is in the Air

There were signs that made me suspect he’d moved in with someone younger, but over time I’ve developed serious doubts about my detective skills. The fine woven bracelet could have been a gift from one of his girlfriend’s adult daughters (my stepsisters — oh, what new and repugnant vistas familial upheaval opens up); nor could I know to what point the idea of the greedy young gold digger was clouding my vision and leading me astray. When all is said and done, Dad had spent two decades as a young man who didn’t know a thing about me or my sister, and now he was entering the next phase, when men who can’t bring themselves to believe in anything supernatural start to get a whiff of their mortality. Maybe he wanted to forget his kids a while, graft himself onto a different person, take a dip into novelty, adrenaline, rekindled emotion.

Dad had enough perspective to understand the contradictions of reinventing life in his fifties, but whatever my sister might say, it wasn’t his style to leave those clothes behind as an insurance policy to facilitate his eventual return. I like to think that Dad didn’t take his shoes, the Australian clotheshorse, or his favorite ties because he never really managed to leave — that given Mother’s “situation,” his ventricles would’ve gotten all twisted up if he’d ever truly abandoned her.

“John.”

Helen’s voice, skillfully negotiating the bend in the hallway, carried with it a sweet reproach. I’d left the water running too long; the sink was filling up. I opened the three mirrored cabinet doors in the bathroom; ever since I was a child I’d liked to focus them to reflect my image in an apparently infinite series. My face hadn’t changed much since I’d left home — it still wouldn’t have occurred to me to move the mirrors and make sure no areas of my skull were shedding any hair. I’d been married almost half a year (months during which I’d managed to shield my family from Helen’s social voracity), and the changes had all been on the inside. Our cohabitation was taking root in me: a common nervous system was forming that fed me with a different kind of energy, sweeping away the last residue of insecurity, strengthening me. But if I lay there at night and imagined something happening to Helen, someone hurting her, I would never get to sleep. I was implicated in her future, and I wasn’t sure that if the time ever came I’d be able to extract myself from the web of capillaries that emerged from one of us and spilled into the other.

“I’m coming! I saw something weird in the bathroom.”

“Cockroaches?”

“I’ll tell you in a second.”

Helen was obsessed with cockroaches. She fell back on all sorts of questionable statistics to warn me that Barcelona’s underground spaces were overflowing with the creatures, swarming in hordes like crunchy sheets, in search of cracks in pipes and kitchen walls where they could employ their astonishing reproductive abilities. I never saw any in my parents’ apartment, or at school or at any of my friends’ houses. I lived convinced that they’d been wiped out in Europe, but Helen’s eye was alert and terrified by the possibility of making contact with her first living specimen.

I ran some more water.

“Mother’s situation,” as it was called in our family shorthand, wasn’t ever even correctly diagnosed. One day, Mother rose decisively from the sofa and then collapsed with a violent pain in her ear. It didn’t go away after she fell, or once she was sitting, or standing, or when she covered her ears, not to mention the meager results from my father’s home remedies (lemon juice, or camomile and olive oil, or a mixture of chopped garlic and lavender). For half a week she couldn’t sleep, and she sobbed in exhaustion. The specialists we consulted ruled things out one by one: poor drainage in her Eustachian tubes, sinus infections, referred pain (which could originate in the teeth, the throat, or the tongue); they finally convinced themselves it was a problem with her inner ear. After all those examinations we still had no clear idea of what was going on inside Mother’s head. As the uncertainty grew, though, so did my conviction that the inner ear’s design is astonishingly exquisite — a membranous maze within a bony maze that with the help of cochlear fluid somehow transforms sonic waves into nerve signals. Something had gone wrong in those cartilaginous depths and was bathing my mother’s life in pain.

My father managed to divert a Chicago-based specialist from his conference for a few hours. He was forty years old with elegant, hairy hands, and he was delighted at having chosen a profession that enabled him to glide successfully around the world. His treacle-colored eyes gave off a cold boldness; in sum, he was the kind of Anglo-Saxon from whom you can expect nothing but the truth. I even liked how he received us in his shirtsleeves.

“There’s no damage to the organ. I suspect we’re dealing with imaginary pain.”

“When will it go away?”

“We don’t know why the brain imagines pain behind the ear, nor when it will stop. We don’t understand this behavior, and we can’t fix it. We cannot cure imaginary illness, you see? But patients can benefit from what we’ve learned about the brain’s geography to make the area emitting the commands go to sleep.”

“Will it stop hurting her?”

“She’ll stop believing she’s in pain.”

“Well then…?”

“You don’t need me for that, Mr. Miró-Puig. You can consult any general practitioner.”

The result of all those excuses and medical obscenities was some pills: white, blue, and red, a French flag. Three tablets that offset each other’s negative side effects, and kept the patient (my mother!) within the fairly unambitious bounds of what those people consider “healthy.” I don’t really know how it all happened because I had play-offs (thirty-six points and we crushed the Marista team on their own court, three socks supporting the swelling left ankle I twisted in the first quarter). Also because I’d spent a week sweating in fear, convinced I’d be the next one to have some hidden element of my body give out.

“She hardly ever complains. She smiles, but it looks painted on.”

“The doctor says there’s pressure on the nerves that feed her brain.”

“She stayed under the sheets like she was waiting for something.”

Though she recovered from the pain in her ear (or at least stopped complaining about it), the pills dulled her spirits into hibernation. She didn’t care if it was one thing or the other, and she dwindled away so much she seemed incapable of tending to her own basic needs. And that was how a diluted version of my mother settled unannounced into the landscape of our family life. Equidistant from health and sickness, from affection and indifference toward her children, from independence and dependence, she was the woman whose husband both abandoned and did not abandon the home they shared.

The first thing we thought when Dad took off was that, with a son in Madrid and a daughter in Boston, she was going to starve to death. What no one saw coming was that my father would travel from wherever the new center of his activity was, to bring her food and cigarettes (which my mother still had not learned to do without), to clean the apartment (we now have a very Peruvian cleaning lady) and prepare plates of food that could be reheated in the microwave. He was also the one to scour the pharmacies for her tricolored chemical fix. When my sister and I forgot to replenish Mother’s pills she would start humming, writhing like a cat in a bag and scratching herself (one Tuesday I was impressed to see red marks crisscrossing her neck), but we never thought it was anything terribly urgent. Until one afternoon something scared her, and she started talking in a voice borrowed from the little girl in The Exorcist about how much better off the rest of the Miró-Puig family would be if she just kicked the bucket. According to Dr. Strangelove (I’ve lost track of all the doctors we visited), the center governing her consciousness (as if those idiots knew where that is, or what the hell they were talking about) switched off when its demand for lithium went unsatisfied. Then her lips just started moving independently, uninhibited by affection, to transmit the viscous poison that stirred in the secret depths of my mother’s brain — a woman who, two years earlier, could justify spending an entire day sweetly sewing on a button. Dr. Death’s proposed solution wasn’t bad: make her dependence chronic. And we were so frightened, so naive, that we received the proposal like good news. We were a hair’s breadth away from throwing a welcome party for the zombie state that lasted for the next fifteen years. Anyway, after that my father also took care of organizing the capsules into a pillbox that distributed doses by days. Then he’d help her fix her hair, and then he’d leave.