How Not to Drown in a Glass of Water (9)

These other strange people who come in and out of the building, what do they bring? Bedbugs and criminals. I tell you—crime is up like never.

This is more reason why Lulú and I have to be like guards. Except that, for the past few days, Lulú has abandoned her post. Last week we were in my apartment and her son Adonis appeared on Channel 15. He was in the entrance, but he did not ring the door. It was like he forgot the number of the apartment of his own mother.

Cara, open the door! Lulú yelled.

I pushed the button to let him in. We saw him enter the lobby and walk to the elevator.

Lulú, like a chicken without a head, ran down to her apartment to wait for her prince. But when Lulú left, I saw Adonis walk in and out of the camera, in and out. But he didn’t go up. He left the building.

That was so strange. Why travel all the way from Brooklyn to just stand in the lobby?

Pobrecita Lulú. After, she emptied like a broken balloon in my kitchen table.

I said, Let me make you un café. Maybe he’ll come back.

I was trying not to show that I was a little bit happy. Ay, yes. It’s so bad, but I was a little bit happy. Finally, she could feel the misery of a son abandoning his mother. I hope you don’t think I’m a bad person. I love Lulú. I do. I never make something in my kitchen without putting something on the side for Lulú.



* * *



When did we meet? ?Uf! Everybody knows everybody in the building. But Lulú and I didn’t really know each other. We worked all the time. But we shared a tube that runs from the ceiling through the floor in our kitchens. We can hear everything that happens through that tube of metal. When the children still lived with her, the fights, ay, the fights. Of what? I don’t know. She pretends her children are perfect. I know the reality.

She thinks that because her son went to the good school and has the bank job, he’ll take care of her when she gets old. Good for her; I want good things for Lulú. But really? Why can’t she keep all that inside her mouth? She knows I can’t count on Fernando to take care of me.

Lulú has a daughter too: Antonia. She never visits. She studies and studies and studies. Has a mountain of diplomas. And guess what? She doesn’t even have a job with benefits. She writes poems. All about Lulú. And not very nice ones. Antonia wrote a book and dedicated it to her mother—after all, Lulú did raise her, with no help from the father. But now Antonia spits on her mother. That’s what therapists make you do. They make you spit on your mother. Everything is the mother’s fault.

Look, if Lulú had not been strong with her daughter she would have baby with some atrabanco. She would have never gone to the college and could never write that poem that supposedly won her a $1,000 prize. One thousand dollars! She should be publishing a thank you letter to her mother’s chancleta. It saved her life!

I bet Fernando went to therapy. I bet he spits on me.

Do you go to therapy? Yes. Ah. Interesting. Do you spit on your mother?

Ay, I’m sorry. No, no I don’t need more water. But thank you.

Lulú and I became friends after my son Fernando left. I was a disaster. I stayed in bed, forgetting to eat, to bathe, to brush my hair. You know the rag that we use to mop the floors? Stained, with holes and loose threads? That was me when Lulú became my friend.

One day, I opened the door of the elevator and she was there. You know when someone shocks you like a ghost? My purse flew up and my lipstick, my change, my Kleenex, my wallet, my keys, my aspirins, my banana for when I got hungry, all the photos of my son that I carried for when I asked strangers if they had seen him—all of that fell to the floor.

Sorry! Sorry! I was saying, because I couldn’t gather my things, which is something not normal for a Capricorn. Capricorns are solid like a tree. But I was so lost without Fernando.

Do you need help? ?Un café? Lulú asked.

Imagine me, on the floor, looking up to Lulú with her big orange hair. I did want un café. I didn’t want to return to my empty apartment. The neighbors said Lulú thought she was better than other people because, like I told you, her son went to the fancy college and her daughter was a writer. But that day she was very nice to me. And because Lulú’s not organized like me, and I like to stay occupied, while she made the café I took the broom and swept her floor. Then I saw a photo of Adonis on Lulú’s wall, and I became a fountain.

Lulú gave me a box of Kleenex. She turned on the radio. She turned on the stove to make me dinner and told me that I can stay there as long as I needed, para desahogarme.

You never heard that word? You said you’re dominicana. You don’t understand Spanish? Oh, just a little. OK. Desahogar: to undrown, to cry until you don’t need to cry no more.

Anyway, when Fernando left, Lulú did something for me that not even my sister ángela would do. When ángela saw me cry, my sister said, You’re drowning in a glass of water.

I tell you, ángela is cold. But cold! Pfft! She has no feelings for me.

Not Lulú. She understood that I had to cry until I undrowned from the inside.

I see you’re taking notes. So many notes. It’s true, you can write a book about me, because what I’ve lived has a hundred chapters.

In truth, all this, being here, with you, talking so much, it has taken me by surprise. I don’t like to talk about my problems. People talk and talk and talk and I say nothing. Punto final.