Tu Madre

Luis,
I know you can not hear me. But what if you can hear me? Mama said that ghosts speak to us through old fashioned televisions. Once, late at night, when I was supposed to be in bed with my sisters, I crept into the kitchen and caught her watching the static on the ancient black and white set which she rescued from the trash dump. From my hiding place beneath the table, I heard only random noise. But Mama must have heard and seen more, because she began to talk to the television, using that soft, sweet little girl voice that she only used with Papa, when he was still alive.

I was ashamed of her superstitions. When she tied a red thread around my wrist to protect me from evil, I could not wait to tear it off. But what if she was right? If ghosts can move through electric lines and speak to us through static, why can't they read what is written on a computer screen? Can you hear me, Luis? I miss you. I cry all the time, but you are not here to wipe my tears away. Please, Luis, tell me that you hear me. Give me a sign.

I know, I know. I have to trust. I must have faith. Just like that disc you showed me on our third date. The film about Carnival in Rio. The musician's girlfriend was killed. He tried to speak to her through a voodoo priestess, but he did not have faith. He did not believe. That was what you told me the movie meant. I thought that Orpheo had lost his sanity and was clutching at straws, but you made me see that not all superstitions are stupid.

Luis, dear Luis. I believe that you can read the words that I am typing on your old lap top computer. I have to believe, otherwise I would go mad from grief.

Luis,
You will not believe what has happened. I thought my cycle was off because of grief. I thought food tasted bad because you were not here to enjoy it with me. I thought the ache in my breasts was longing for you. But it was not grief, it was a baby. I am going to have your baby! Luis, can you hear me? You are not really dead. A part of you is still alive inside of me.

Luis, my darling.
I know you said that you would never move to the dome. You said it was soulless, all plastic and chrome. You said the city has no heart and that those who live within the dome lose their heart. But the air outside is so dirty. It makes me cough. And my eyes sting and burn. And now I am breathing for two.

Last week, drug addicts murdered the family down the street. Poor Mr. Wilson and his two grandchildren, you remember them. Their throats were cut while they lay sleeping. The police say the children probably never knew what was happening. But what if it is our baby that those evil men try to kill next?

It is safe here within the dome. The air is clean and sweet smelling. The streets are smooth and the only dirt is in the gardens. The roof of the dome looks like the sky used to look , blue during the day and black at night with lots of little lights like stars scattered across the ceiling and a moon that waxes and wanes with the month.

I have a room behind the garage of the woman I work for, cleaning and looking after her children. The work is easy, much easier than my old job as a data-serf, typing information into the Bureau's computer twelve hours a day until it seemed that my eyes were on fire and my hands would fall off my arms. And when I want to recharge this old computer of yours, all I have to do is plug it into the wall. No need to feed coins into the electric meter. No trip down the corner to trade food rations for electricity from the Nigerian's portable generator. Life here in the dome is the way it used to be back in the twentieth century, when the states were united, before the rich people retreated to their domes and left the rest of us outside to work and rot.

I wish you could see it, Luis. It is like paradise. I wish you were here with me--

But you are here, in the swelling of my belly. Our baby is growing, Luis. In another month or two, I will begin to show. What will I do then? Women like me are allowed into the dome to work, but they do not want our children. What if they discover that I am pregnant and kick me out? I do not want to go back there to the dirt and noise and crime. I want to have my baby---our baby in a spotless hospital. I want him to play on clean streets and wear a blue uniform when he goes to school each day. I want him to grow up so that one day I will look up at him and see you as you were the day we married, your eyes dark but bright against your tanned skin, the little lines at the corner of each eye when you smiled, your nose like the beak of a proud eagle.

Luis
You will not believe my good news. Remember those little figures I used to make from scraps of fabric and glass beads? I have been making them here, in my spare time. A horse, a dog, a cat, a chicken, a dove. Catlia, the woman I work for, saw them. She asked me where I got them. When I told her that I made them, she got excited. "Can I show them to someone?" she asked.

"Someone" turned out to be her partner. My boss runs an art gallery. Her partner liked them so much that Catlia wants me to make more of them to sell in their shop. You will not believe how much money they are going to pay me for each of the little animals I make.

And Luis, there is more good news. Catlia is sure that she can get me a permanent resident card. She says the Counsel never asks questions when it comes to artists. I am an artist, Luis! Me, little Keisha, the data-serf. I hope she is right. I never want to leave this place.

Luis
I saw a doctor today. A real doctor, not an old man with a shelf of battered medical textbooks like the quack who lived above us. Catlia took me. After I got my residence card, I told her about the baby. She was so excited. And relieved. I think she understands that I will never leave the dome, not while I have a child to think of. And my little animals are making a lot of money for her partner and her. And for me. I can hardly keep up with the demand.

The doctor was a woman with skin even darker than mine. You were wrong when you said that only fair skin is admired in the dome. There are people of all colors here. And they all get along. No gangs, no fights, no cursing, no graffiti. People do not lock their doors here. Some houses do not even have doors.

The doctor's name is Mali. She asked me a lot of questions about you and me. She wanted to know what you were like, if you had ever been in trouble. I was ashamed to tell her about the time you went to jail for hitting that man, so I just said that you had a quick temper. She typed it into her little databook. Then she listened to the baby's heartbeat and I got to hear it, too. Luis, I almost cried at that moment, because I was so happy that the baby was healthy. And so sad that you were not there to listen with me.

Last of all, they drew some blood from my arm and a tiny little tube of fluid from my womb. The needle was six inches long and it scared me, but it did not hurt a bit. I am taking vitamins now, to make the baby stronger. I will return to the clinic once a month until our child is born. Catlia is calling me. She probably wants to know when the next batch of animals will be ready. There is another woman doing the house work now. I feel like a queen with nothing to do but sit in the garden and make my little figures. I think I will make a few children. People who buy art do not want it to look like their neighbors' art. They want it to be unique. I will make tiny little boys and girls, and I will think about our baby as I am sewing, that way a little bit of real baby spirit will be sewn into each doll . People will sense it, and it will make then want to buy the little babies and take them home to care for them.

Luis
Did you try to contact me? When I turned on the computer this morning, there were words on the screen. I accidently erased them when I was trying to save them, but I am pretty sure they were in spanish. No one here in the dome speaks spanish. English is not just the official language, it is the only language. You were right about that. I wish now that I had taken you up on your offer to teach me spanish. All I could make out was "tu madre". That means "your mother", right?

You spoke spanish, Luis. Were you trying to talk to me? If it was you, why speak to me in a language that you know that I do not know? If I was you, try again. In english this time. Except for our baby, nothing could make me happier than knowing that you can read these words and that you know how much I love you.

Luis
People love the little babies. So now I am making little people. Catlia's partner wants me to hire helpers so that I can make more dolls, but Catlia says that if we "saturate the market, the value of the merchandise will plummet." Since I am now "an artist" and artists are not supposed to care about money, I pretended not to know what she was talking about. What would Catlia say if she knew that I am better educated than she is? I spent thousands of hours reading and typing when I worked for the Bureau, and I remember a lot of what I copied into their database. But part of the appeal of my little figures is that they are made by a "peasant" who was born outside the dome, so I keep my mouth shut and smile a lot when I meet her clients.

You would never be able to put up with their condescension, would you? You were so stubborn. And so opinionated. I know we used to argue a lot about how you could not keep a job because you were always standing up to the bosses. I know I used to beg you to just bite your lip. But I was wrong.

Remember when my supervisor told me that I was not working at the Bureau to better myself? She said I could enter data twice as fast if I would stop trying to make sense of what I was reading and just copy the characters. And for a month she made me transcribe Russian, knowing that I could not read Russian. I wanted to hit her. I wanted to tear off her ridiculous wig. But I kept my mouth shut. Now, I wish I had been more like you. You were not afraid to stand up and say "This is wrong."

Or maybe you were afraid, but you were more afraid to keep quiet. We had so little time together. There were so many things about you that I never got a chance to learn.

One good thing about the dome, Luis, I am safe here. My life is no longer ruled by fear.

Luis
The baby kicked last night. I was rolling over and I must have startled him because he jabbed me here, right under the ribs. At first I was terrified that I was going into early labor. But then he kicked again and again and I knew that it was just our son, saying hello. He is doing it again, right at this moment. I think he is saying hello to you, Luis. He has strong arms and legs, just like his father.

Luis
I do not know what I will do. My hands are shaking so that I can hardly type. My doctor, Mali had such a sad expression on her face that I knew before she even spoke that something was wrong.

"Your baby," she began.

I covered my stomach with my hands.

"Your baby has a genetic disorder. Do you know what that means?"

I knew what it meant, but I wanted to be sure that what I thought it meant was what it really meant. So I shook my head . "No."

She laid down the databook and took my hand. "Keisha, your baby is not going to survive." I squeezed her hand so hard that her bones creaked but she did not take her hand away. "He has Hoffmeyer's syndrome. He can not maintain his own blood pH. He will grow normally inside you, and when he is born he will look normal for a few hours. But that is only because you are normal and you make the chemicals he needs to live. As soon as he is no longer connected to your blood stream, he will get sick. He will be in excruciating pain for a few hours or a few days and then he will die."

I had read about Hoffmeyer's Syndrome. A horrible disease. I knew that it did everything that Mali said it would do--

But Luis, they want me to give up the baby. They say that it will be easier for me to let him go now than it will be to watch him die after he is born. They do not understand that he is all that remains of you.I will not give him up. I can not give him up.

But how can I doom him to be born if that means that he will know only suffering?

Luis, help me!

Luis
The words were there again on the computer screen, this morning. This time I was careful when I saved them. I even copied them down on a scrap of fabric, just in case.

I am supposed to go to the clinic today to have the procedure. That is what they call it. Catlia says that she will stay with me until I am ready to go home. Mali says I will not feel a thing. But that is what I am afraid of. Right now, if I lay my hand against my womb, our son pushes against my palm. I do not know if it is his fist or his foot, but I know that it is him. I sing to him and he relaxes, floating in his little ocean. I talk to him ,and he turns as if trying to hear me better.

What do these spanish words mean, Luis? Are you trying to tell me something? I must know. Before I can make my decision, I must know what these words mean.

The sensible part of me says that I am just stalling. If I wait much longer the baby will be born alive and then he will suffer.

But the words are important. What do they mean? I must find someone who can translate them for me.

Luis
You were right. About everything.

I searched all day, but I could find no one in the dome who spoke spanish. Even people who looked like you and your family just shook their heads when I showed them the words on the computer screen. They have lived here so long that they have forgotten the language of their ancestors, just as the clean sweet air and the false blue sky above has blinded them to the truth.

The dome is not paradise. It is Hell.

Late in the afternoon, when the dome's fake sky was turning pink and shops began to close, I spotted an old woman heading toward the southern exit. She was dressed in a dark blue cloak that covered her head but fell open at the waist, revealing an embroidered dress like the one your grandmother used to wear, the one you saved. On her arm was a basket. Her skin was dark and leathery and covered with little skin cancers, a sign that she had spent her life outside the dome, exposed to the UV radiation.

I realized that she was one of the peddlers who came to the dome each day to sell arts and crafts in the market. The guards will often let women into the dome for the day, especially if they are old and if they have something to sell.

On a hunch, I approached her. "Please, ma'am. Can you help me?" She looked me up and down. As she examined me, I examined her. Her eyes were the same bright dark brown as yours. Her nose was the same hatchet. She had the same little laugh lines at the corner of each eye, though hers were deeper. Her skin was the color of brick dust. When she spoke, her voice was low and hoarse "You do not need me, senora," she said. "You need a midwife."

"No. Not that." I held out the lap top computer. "Can you tell me what this says?"

She laughed. The sound was like the cackling of the geese which the Chinese woman used to keep to scare away snakes. "I do not read, Senora."

"But you speak spanish?"

"Si."

"Then I will read it for you." I tried to pronounce the strange words. "No es-toy yo akwi kwa soy two ma..."

Cackling, she cut me off. "No estoy yo aqui que soy tu madre?" The words rolled from her lips, sweet and rich, they way that you spoke, Luis, when you used your mother tongue. "'Am I not here, your Mother? Are you not under my shadow and protection? Am I not your foundation of life? Are you not in the folds of my mantle, in the crossing of my arms? Is there anything else you need?' These are famous words, my child. The words of Our Lady." Seeing my confusion she added "The Virgin of Guadelupe. She has spoken to you." She reached into her basket and drew out a little clay figurine. "Here. No one in this dome is interested in the Virgin. They think their world is a miracle, but they have forgotten what miracles truly are. You take her."

The statue was made of cheap black clay, but the figure was exquisite, a beautiful woman wearing a long, hooded cloak, her head slightly bowed, her hands clasped together in prayer.

"Tell me again what the words mean. In english."

She repeated them for me, slowly, so that I could type them. Then, staring at my swollen belly she advised "Stay away from their doctors, Senora. And whatever you do, do not got to one of their hospitals to have your baby."

"Why not?" I was so startled by her words that my voice broke.

She looked over her shoulder to make sure that no one was listening.

"Closer," she said.

Though I am short, I had to lean down so that she could whisper in my ear. Her breath smelled of roses. "You were not born here, in the dome, were you?"

"No."

"Why did you come here?"

I covered my belly with my hands. "Because my husband was dead. Because I was pregnant, and I wanted to raise my baby somewhere safe."

"Safe. " She nodded her head. "The dome is safe. Anyone can see that. No police, no crime, no one ever steals my statues or my money. No one ever curses me or tells me to get out of the way. There is no murder. If a married woman takes a lover, her husband moves into a hotel, to give her more room. If a married man takes a lover, his wife assists in the birth of his bastard child. Yes, the dome is safe. But at what cost? So much civility is not natural."

I felt chilled, even though the temperature within the dome never varies. Once again, the old woman glanced over her shoulder. "Tell no one what I am about to tell you," she whispered. "This is a city built on lies. It is true that there is no crime. It is true that a young woman can walk the streets at night without fear. But the Counsel does not tell its people why. Years ago, when the dome was built, the first Counsel began to check all babies before they were born. Those whose blood contained fire, those who were destined to grow up fierce, macho, wild---these they killed, sometimes before they were born, sometimes after. Do you understand?"

Yes, Luis, I understood. Better than that old woman. In the years I copied texts into the Bureau's computer, I had read many medical articles. Enough to know that scientists had found the genes which make a man (but not a woman) more likely to become a criminal. If I needed proof that she was telling the truth, I only had to look around me. There are four women for every man in the dome. And yet all the pregnant women I had met at the clinic were praying for a boy, so the people had not selected female children. Something--or someone had made that decision for them.

"The father of your baby, he was a wild one? A proud one? He would fight for what he believed?"

She was describing you, Luis. "But he was not a criminal." And meanwhile, my mind was still racing. Why is Hoffmeyer's Syndrome so common inside the domes and so rare outside, I wondered. The scientists explained it as a genetic problem, related to inbreeding among the inhabitants of the dome. But you and I are from the outside, Luis. How did our baby get it. Another cold chill passed through me. What if Mali had lied to me?

" Not all wild men are desperadoes. Some are heroes. If your boy takes after the father, the doctors will take him from you at birth and tell you that he died. Or they will tell you that the child is diseased and must be ripped from your womb." Her bright eyes missed nothing. "That is it! I see it in your face. They have told you that your baby will not live. But something told you not to believe them. Something sent you here to me. To learn the truth." She laid her hand on my belly. " Your baby is strong. He will be a fighter, like his father. The world needs fighters to lead, just as it needs sheep to follow. Come with me. The doors will soon be locked for the night. If you want your husband's child to be born safe, come with me."

She loaned me her cloak. The guards at the gate were trained to scrutinize people trying to enter the dome, to keep out thieves and drug addicts, and they paid little attention to the two women peddlars who wanted out. Outside the sky was grey with soot and smog. As night fell, the pale grey darkened to charcoal grey and finally to black.Somewhere behind the dark clouds there was a moon and a universe of stars. Though I could not see them, I believed in them, in a way that I could never again believe in the imitation night sky within the dome.

The old woman, Manelita, took me home with her. I am typing these words by the light of a kerosene lantern. The battery is running low. I will have to find something to sell or trade so that I can recharge the batteries. Until then, I love you Luis.

Luis
It has been so long. But time is not the same where you are, is it? Our son was born early. Almost a month early. But he was already big and strong. Manelita says if I had waited much longer to have him he would have been too big for my little hips, so maybe it was meant to be.

He is healthy, Luis. He has your eyes and my kinky hair. He has your hatchet nose and my thick lips. Already, I can see that he will be a fighter, like you. He kicks against his blankets. He craves light and noise and can not sleep if it is too still or too dark.

I have talked to other women in Manelita's neighborhood. Many of them work as maids for the rich people in the dome and they have heard the same stories. The doctors of the dome kill children "for the sake of the common good." But how can any good come of killing an innocent child? How can they live with the guilt? How can they live at all, with half of their human nature cut away like a tumor? Nature gave us fire and water, and both are beautiful and both are frightening. And both are necessary for life. Thank you, Luis. Thank you for our son.

Bio:McCamy writes speculative fiction with elements of science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Besides Aphelion, she has published stories in Dragon's Lair and Little Read Writer's Hood.

E-mail: taylorjh@nationwide.net

URL: http://www.nationwide.net/~taylorjh

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