The Senora comforts Lethe

The next day Lethe stayed in bed. Every couple hours the Senora would come to his room with a glass of orange juice or a plate of crackers. In the evening, Lethe was feeling strong enough to get out of bed. Covered in a blanket, he sat in the kitchen as the Senora cooked dinner. He was like a frail cat that sits by the window of a well-lit home, waiting to be let inside. He gazed at the Senora in admiration.

She handled the cooking with a singular dexterity. Zipping from from one side of the kitchen to the other, slicing vegetables, opening cans, washing potatoes, she was immersed in an energetic flow and guided by purposefulness.  Her cigarettes were constantly burning which imbued her face with a glowing intensity. Either she had a cigarette between her lips, or one that was burning nearby, on the edge of the counter top as she rushed to empty the trash can.

Both of them smoked. Lethe watched her and wanted to smoke more himself. She chided him for smoking so much, especially when he wasn’t feeling well; but it was hard to lecture the adolescent for something she also indulged in. Smoking bonded them; they were both addicts. Due to the inordinate amount of smoking that went on in the Senora’s apartment, the rooms became hazy and she frequently complained about their nasty habit. But it was all for naught, because the next day the two of them would smoke just as much, which generally came out to a pack a day each.

Lethe regarded the Senora with a sort of divine authority. When she recommended Don Quixote to him for a second time, he vowed to read the book and “master every sentence”.

“If the Senora considers it to be the Spanish Bible,” he thought, “then this book should become my life.”

Meanwhile, the Senora told lots of stories to Lethe, some from the novels she had read, some from the tales of Don Quixote; but mostly it was her deep, gravely voice which moved Lethe. He admired her stern wisdom, her stoic sensibility, and equally, her light, frivolous chatter. After dinner she handed him the dishes to dry, and they did other household duties together, becoming like a pair.

One time Lethe blurted out some thoughts while they were cleaning. “I don’t want you to think I’m lazy,” he said.

“I don’t think you’re lazy,” the Senora replied.

“Donte seems to get more done than I do. I mean if I help you it’s not that big of a deal because I’m not going to class. But Donte is taking four classes, reading six books, and he still helps around the apartment.”

“Donte likes to help out. That’s his personality. Don’t begrudge yourself for another person’s character.”

“But I like to help too!”

“I know you do, nino. So if you want to help, then help. Nobody is stopping you. But don’t compare yourself to others. You have a different personality. Just be yourself.”

Lethe felt confused.

After dinner, she invited him to sit with her on the couch. Rain had just fallen on the tin gutters and with the balcony doors open, a sweet breeze was circulating inside the room. Both of them lit cigarettes.

“Are you afraid to go back to school?” The Senora asked.

“No, not really. I just don’t like the building.”

She could tell that he was lying to her. That was one of her abilities.

“I’m lost in the building. It’s cold inside and I don’t know where to go.”

“Don’t you know where your classes are?”

“I do, but . . . I’m in the bathroom a lot.”

“Why the bathroom?”

“That’s just where I go. I can’t think in class. It’s hard for me to sit still and listen to the professor. There are too many people I’ve never seen before.”

The Senora cupped her cigarette to her face. The ash accumulated loosely on the end.

Lethe continued to tell the story about the bathroom. He talked about it with mixed regard.  The bathroom itself was unsettling to him.  He looked down at his knees, averting the Senora’s eyes.  But he also wanted to be free from his compulsions and so he talked brazenly, blaming his attachment to the bathroom on his mother.

“My mother used to spend a lot of time in the bathroom,”  he said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She has some sort of problem.  She says she wants her privacy.”

“I’m sorry nino.”

“No, it’s fine.  I don’t even believe her when she says she’s sick.  Either does my father.”

The corners of the Senora’s mouth grew taut.  She was listening to Lethe while tilting her head, turning it slightly, as if she were thinking very hard about what Lethe was saying.  What was she thinking?  He wanted to know but he continued talking because he was nervous and afraid.  She said nothing, only listened and smoked.  She could be so secretive sometimes, the Senora.

“You’re sensitive, that’s all. Lots of people . . . are sensitive. I remember when I was a little girl my mother had to take me out of school. This was very traumatic for me. I remember feeling afraid, like I had done something wrong. If you showed me where the bathroom was I probably would have hid myself there. You have no reason to feel ashamed. Living in a foreign country is a great challenge not only for a young person, but for a person of any age. It forces you to look at yourself in ways you wouldn’t normally have to. I was lucky that my mother didn’t punish me for my fears; instead she whisked me out of the classroom and came up with a plan to teach me the lessons herself.”

Lethe paused, reflecting on her words.

“What if you had a broken leg? Would you go to school?”

“No Senora Angeles, I would stay home.”