Not Enough

Pilar García Guzmán

The tilted pole outside your apartment building let off stray beams of light from the gaps of its shattered shade, some of them zigzagging across the apartment floor. You had been one of the few people that insisted on fixing it, claiming it was un peligro to the community, exposing dangers and hiding them under the folds of its shadows. But then Mario needed glasses, and the fancy ones, no less, with special tint and thick frames to protect his eyes from the sun, or so you understood from the scribbles the doctor made in his prescription.

Yelling for them to settle down, your wife brought dinner to the living room, wobbling with all the plates she carried on her hands and arms, and you were sure for a moment there that she would drop them. Your head pounded as images of cracked, glass plates engraved themselves on your mind as they covered the kids’ toes with small, paper-thin scars that would haunt them for life. But your wife had never dropped the plates before, her effortless poise forced the world to bend to her will and any obstacle in her path to simply move aside.

Her unwavering certainty alone kept you afloat, most of the time, but you still flailed and failed at everything you did, and succumbed once again to dread, the possibility of catastrophe an ever-present weight on your back that made your heart stop — all the time — and you could see it on everyone and everywhere though no one else seemed to notice. So it was up to you to stop your lives from unraveling, just in case, because the alternative—the uncertainty—was intolerable and impossible to bear.

Sitting around the couch, the kids gobbled their food, eyes trained on the TV, voices thundering over its hum as they argued about what to watch, completely oblivious to their parents’ whispered conversation.

Norma says her stomach hurts, your wife said, looking at your youngest as she dragged her mangu all around the plate, not bothering to eat it. I gave her some jarabe, she said. I’m not sure if it’ll work, she said.

As the only girl, her brothers often mocked Norma for being mañosa, complained about her room, which she had all to herself, and about her toys, none of which they ever neared. You told them they were welcome to use them, the toys weren’t only Norma’s, and they had as much right to them as she did. They complained about that too. Norma never did though — about anything — and it astounded you sometimes how soothing her rationality was, even for her age. The things she noticed sometimes escaped you, and you wondered if she ever kept things secret, quiet in her heart and private from everyone else. So you did your best now to notice how her shoulders sagged and the droop in her eyes, and your chest squeezed but you could not pinpoint what was wrong.

You took the plates to the kitchen while your wife put the kids to bed, them moaning, dragging their feet and slumping their bodies against the walls. Diego made sure to venture into every room as he did every night — the bathroom to wash his teeth, the kitchen to have some water, Norma’s room to find his missing slipper, the living room to turn off the light, back to the bathroom to pee, the kitchen to drink some more water — and eventually you got tired of his wandering and carried him to bed yourself.

Your wife sat at the dining table, her feet dirty from walking with them bare across the tiled floor after forgetting her chancletas along the day. She peeled yuca for tomorrow’s breakfast, the knife confidently slicing through the shell, barely missing the tips of her fingers. Pulling out the chair beside her, you let your body fall into it, muscles aching, stretching though unable to release the pent up stress that kept you alert.

When she asked about your day, you told her about the employees who had turned in the reports later than expected, and how el jefe asked you to deal with the issue, although it had nothing to do with you and you most certainly had no clue what needed to be done. Still, you had no choice but to figure it out and ignore all the extra hours spent away from home because you just had to do your job or else te botan, and then you would have failed yet again because it was up to you to keep them all safe. That’s your job, your boss would say, el gerente.

They don’t pay you enough, your wife argued.

And no, they don’t, but they pay you the most.

**

Sometimes you thought the ceiling fan might fall on top of you both, as it cycled at its rapid pace, shoving at the humid air, swinging around and threatening to untether from the single cord it seemed to hang from. There were so many small things to fix, like the light switch by the kitchen, which no one was sure what it was supposed to operate in the first place, or the water heater, because although the hot air could be unbearable, freezing cold water had a way of unleashing all the mierdas and coños someone could offer.

The shrill cry, pitiful and despairing, made you jump out of bed as your heart clogged your throat and your feet slid across the floor, guiding you in a rush towards Norma’s room. Vaguely, you knew your wife was right behind you, but you were already kneeling by Norma’s side as she clung to her tummy, her nails biting through her nightgown into her skin. Your hands fumbled along her curls, as if you could caress the pain away, as if that were any good, but the idea of touching her and making it worse made your eyes blur and your head spin. Your wife hurried you, deciding for the both of you that you would take Norma to the hospital.

No, take her to la clínica instead, your wife yelled. I’ll stay with the boys, we can’t pay Doña Rosa to take them again, she screamed. And don’t take el elevado, she demanded as you left through the front door, go through la Duarte.

And you did, your hands sweating and clutching the steering wheel with a force and determination that had disappeared with years of experience, but you wouldn’t dare sit back on your seat or turn on the radio. Instead you focused on the flashing blurs darting across your vision, the odd person metiéndose in your path as if they had every right, and the unshakable sense of dread that had gripped you and wouldn’t let go, surrounding you and everything around until you thought and were certain it would be impossible to stand the pressure, the tension, that hung to your head your shoulders your neck and your hands.

**

The blinding lights startled you as Norma writhed and cried in your arms, her chubby fingers gripped your shirt, tugging it away from the sweat pooling in your chest, calling out for her mommy and begging you to make it all go away. When a nurse came over, her eyes tired and cushioned by inch long, purple bags, she didn’t smile or acknowledge either of you, but mutely led you to an open bed, evidently bored and immune to the anguish that clung to the curtains and the doors and the walls and the floors of la clínica.

The clock ticked away, a whole round and three quarters, and your daughter still laid in a makeshift gurney, her knees tucked into her body and clinging to your arm, and you almost toppled down on the bed with Norma because maybe, just maybe, replacing your body with hers might quench the burning behind your eyes that intensified with every second that passed.

A doctor at last came up and pressed against her tummy, asking Norma stupid questions about her favorite toys and Santi Cló. But your eyes could not focus on anything besides the doctor’s palpations, and how Norma flinched with every small touch, as if it were spikes instead of nubby, ink-stained fingers that led to a much too shiny watch—probably worth more than what you made in a month. The doctor read a chart and mulled over it, humming a song under her breath, tapping her pen against her thigh, and after jotting down one last word on the paper, she put down the chart and left, nodding once at you on her way, a smile on her face.

Another half a round later, a second nurse came in and told you, in a rasp and unemotional tone, that Norma had appendicitis, and the nurse was clearly indifferent to whatever circumstances those around her faced, as if these conditions should be as normal to all as they were to her. But Norma needed surgery, so they took her away without saying goodbye, and you could only see the nurses’ head-buns as they hurried through the doors, rigid and stable as if the world weren’t crumbling around them. You tried to anchor that image in your mind because maybe that would keep you from floating away as they left you behind, unimportant and forgotten. You slid to the floor and rested your head on the wall by the doors they had taken Norma through, with nothing else to do but think. The insurance would cover part of it, if any, though the rest, along with the medicines, the room, and whatever time your wife was forced to take from work to stay with her, would all come out of your pocket.

You could now picture restless nights looking down at Norma’s frail body, unsure of her recovery and worrying about mistakes the doctors might’ve made, because that happened all the time and you saw on the news how often people died. And even if she didn’t, you wondered how it would all affect her—would the pain be bearable enough that she would be excited to play again or smile again. Norma would never tell you if there was something to worry about, so you had to stay up and keep watch just in case her chest stopped moving or her heart raced too fast. Your wife would weep next to you and cling to your arm, praying to Dios to make everything go away, though those efforts would be in vain. And the children would know what was going on, and they would try to help and they would worry while making things worse with their untimely maturity.

It was your job to worry about Mario’s uniform, which didn’t fit well enough anymore, though that would have to do for a while. And Diego’s dentist appointment was in a couple days, but that wouldn’t happen either. No chiripa would help you now, and so your limbs trembled and twitched with unspent energy, adrenaline that pumped through your veins with nowhere to go but to your brain, driving countless thoughts to shoot off and slam against the inner walls of your skull as you realized that none of it was enough and would never be enough.

The lights in la clínica blinded you, and your eyes strained under the unwavering glow, engaging in an unspoken battle, checking for the strongest of the two. And sitting there, still though bewildered, you could not help but falter under the cold, ever-present scrutiny of the raging world within you.

Pilar García Guzmán

Pilar García Guzmán

Pilar García Guzmán is a writer and occasional poet from Santiago, Dominican Republic. She has a Bachelor of Arts in English with minors in Creative Writing and Finance from University of the Incarnate Word. She is currently working on her first novel and aspires to be a book editor at a publishing house. This upcoming Fall semester, Pilar will begin a new journey at Florida Atlantic University to pursue a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing.

Upcoming Projects: At the end of April, my short stories “Remembrance” and “French-Tipped Nails” will be published on Quirk Literary Journal. My poems, “Our Bedroom Mementos” and “things I learned while working at the deli (as an illegal immigrant)”, will also be included in the issue.

Instagram: @pil4rgg

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