84
PARTISAN REVIEW
"The last time I saw him was when I saw you," she answered. '''It's
going to be a long recovery,' you said."
"And you said, 'It's already been a long recovery,' as I recall, Mrs.
Santos. And you were right," Jorge continued. "This has been a long
time. But for stroke victims of this sort eight months is the very begin–
ning. As the incident fades into the past, you cannot believe how much
more in terms of motor function, memory, even personality patients
recover in the subsequent ten months or so. It's miraculous."
Miraculous. Like Christmas. It had been just after Christmas. Their
first Christmas officially "together." Despite that, Alvaro had taken the
children to dinner by himself. Carla, surprised at her own generosity,
had agreed that Alvaro should go alone. The battle with Luce was over
now. Carla was happy, content.
If
the truth had been known, she was
overjoyed, a feeling she hadn't had since the birth of Stephano. She
needn't fight tooth and claw any longer for every possible sign of
Alvaro's loyalty to her. She sensed how hard it must be, even on grown
children, to have Christmas dinner with their father while their mother,
rejected in her marriage, stayed home. Besides, Carla could celebrate
with him when he came home later that night and Christmas day.
Alvaro had returned from the dinner red-faced and tattered. "They're
angry, Carla. They came, and they tried to be themselves, but they're
furious at me." And two days later, it had happened. Alvaro had been
struck down. As if by lightning. Or God.
Like his children a week earlier, Carla's only response had been fury
when Augusto, Alvaro's brother, had phoned. Carla had been in the
kitchen, putting away the last of the gold-rimmed dishes that she and
Alvaro had found at the San Telmo market the Sunday before. "Carla,"
Augusto had sounded apologetic, "Alvaro has had an accident. He's in
intensive care in San Marcos. And Carla, Luce is with him.... " Over
and over again, Carla had replayed, still replayed, Augusto's words,
"Try to understand....She's still his wife. That's why they called her.
Thirty-five years, Carla. I'm sorry. But
I'll
find a way to get you in.
Alvaro would want it."
Carla had listened and said nothing. When she hung up the phone,
instead of collapsing into tears or racing out the door, she methodically
and with dry eyes took each and every piece of the antique china,
intended to be their first shared dishes, and smashed them, bowls, dishes
and platters, against the newly polished wood floor. Only when she
swept up the tiny pieces of white and gold glass did she understand that
it was all over, however many days and nights would follow. As she had
once understood that her first life was over.
