Delia's Gift Read online

  “Why are you suddenly so worried about my welfare, Tía Isabela? Why this change of heart since we last spoke? Why is it so important to you that I leave, that I am safe and happy now?” I asked her. “Or is it more important that Señor Bovio be unhappy? You sound angrier at him than worried for me,” I told her. “Should I remind you of the terrible things you said to me at the clinic? You were happy to hear I was pregnant. You thought it would make everything even worse for me. No, Tía Isabela, you are here today because you hate to be contradicted, especially by a man. You are not here out of any concern for me.”

  She pulled her shoulders back and flushed crimson through her cheeks. “You deserve whatever happens to you, Delia. You haven’t changed a bit. You’re still as insolent, defiant, and stupid as ever.” She laughed. “You think you hit some jackpot? You think you are spitting in my face by living here and accepting all this from Señor Bovio?”

  “No, Tía Isabela. As hard as it might be for you to believe or even understand, I am not thinking about you. I am thinking only of myself and my baby.”

  She threw her head back and laughed again. Then she fired a look at me that might stop a charging wild boar. “Your baby? You really are a foolish girl. Maybe you’re even more foolish than Sophia after all. Or,” she said with a wry smile, “do you think having an anchor baby will ensure your legal status here since I’ve disowned you? I know how you immigrants think. What, did that family of Mexicans give you this advice?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “That is not why I’m here. And you are an immigrant, too.”

  “Right. You’re always right. You’re just like your mother, stubborn but stupid.”

  “Believe what you wish. You will, anyway, Tía Isabela. Sophia isn’t so different from you. You twist and turn things to make everything seem to be what you want it to be. She learned from a good teacher.”

  She stood for a moment staring at me, and then her face seemed to soften even more before hardening again. It was as if she were caught between wanting to love me for having such spirit and wanting to hate me.

  “Okay, fine. Do what you want, but I’m warning you, Delia. If you stay here, don’t come running back to me for help,” she said. “I am finally washing my hands of you.”

  “Wash as much as you want, Tía Isabela. You will never get me or the family you left behind off your conscience by taking showers or baths. Every time you close your eyes at night, we’ll be in your dreams.”

  She fumed. “That is surely something your grandmother would say.”

  “Then I’m glad I said it,” I told her.

  She turned and walked out in a fury, but she left the money on the dresser. Something kept me from running after her to throw it back at her. Instead, I rose and put it in a drawer. Then, a moment later, I went to a window and looked out to the front of the hacienda, where I saw Señor Garman, her driver, holding the limousine door open for her.

  She approached with Señor Bovio at her side. They spoke for a few moments. Despite how she had just behaved with me and the things she had said about Señor Bovio, she didn’t appear to be angry at him. In fact, she leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. He stood watching her get into the limousine and be driven off, then turned, gazed up at my window, closed his eyes, said a short prayer, crossed himself, and walked back into the house.

  I watched Tía Isabela’s car wind down the driveway and out the gate. Her words of warning echoed around me as her limousine disappeared.

  I suddenly realized that my heart was pounding and I was holding my breath.

  I was terrified of one thing.

  I was terrified that in the end, she would be right.

  2

  Custom-made

  Not long after I showered and changed, Teresa returned with a tray of food for me. Mrs. Newell, the private-duty nurse and nutritionist, walked in right behind her to introduce herself. She was in a nurse’s white uniform with an RN’s cap and was perhaps in her fifties, although she looked younger. She was an inch or so taller than I was and had a nice figure, bright light-brown eyes, and a firm, straight mouth that would certainly make mi tía Isabela envious, although I wouldn’t call her pretty.

  Anyway, I thought that someone who dictated to others how to eat healthier had better look healthy herself. I was sure it was the same for doctors. It would be hard to take their advice if they smoked or were seriously overweight themselves.

  She flashed a smile at me so quickly it was more as if her face had blinked. Then she nodded at Teresa to serve me my tray on a table in the sitting room.

  “I’m Millicent Newell,” she said. “I understand Mr. Bovio has already informed you that I will be looking after you during your gestation?”

  “Yes, he has told me.”

  “Good. Then let’s start.”

  “Start?”

  “There is much to go over concerning your health and the health of your fetus.”

  From the way Mrs. Newell continued, I assumed Señor Bovio had told her that I knew nothing about how to take care of myself. She had the tone of a lecturer but also of someone who had been given authority over me.

  “I am here to guide you safely through this ordeal,” she said.

  I thought it was odd to refer to pregnancy as an ordeal, but later I learned that although she was married, she had no children. I would wonder why not. Had she and her husband chosen not to have children, or was she simply unable to conceive? If it was for the latter reason, I couldn’t help but wonder if she was jealous of the women she took care of in the maternity ward. It wouldn’t be long before I learned more.

  “Because of your condition, you have a greater need for nutrients such as calcium, iron, and folic acid. I don’t imagine you know what folic acid is.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said, but she acted as if she didn’t hear me.

  Once she had begun her lecture, she was like an unstoppable robot. “Folic acid is a water-soluble B vitamin that occurs naturally in food. We usually recommend that women take a folic acid supplement prior to conception and for the first three months of pregnancy to help reduce the risk of neural-tube defects such as spina bifida.

  “Unfortunately, you conceived without planning and weren’t even aware of it until nearly the third month, as I understand.”

  She sounded disapproving, even a little disgusted. I glanced at Teresa and then back at her, answering with a slight nod.

  “Actually, you’re the first patient I’ve had who’s a prospective unwed mother. Accidentally pregnant, I guess, is the kindest way to put it. Consequently, there is a great deal more for me to do, and there is a great deal more with which we must be concerned, medical concerns, dangers that can destroy your baby.”

  Teresa stood by, gaping at me, her eyes widening as Mrs. Newell proceeded to describe a terrifying scenario.

  “For example, I mentioned spina bifida. Spina bifida simply means an incompletely formed spinal cord. I won’t get into all the consequences of that. You can discuss it with Dr. Denardo later, but we’ll do the best we can to compensate for your poor nutritional preparation.”

  “I ate well before I came here,” I said sharply. She was making it sound as if I had been living in the street.

  “I’m sure not well enough,” she insisted, blinking that smile again. “For example, pregnancy increases the need for iron. The developing fetus draws enough iron from the mother to last it through the first five or six months after birth, so the need for iron is very significant if you want to have a healthy child. As you will see, I will provide red meat and good sources of vitamin C to help absorb the iron. I’m sure that’s something you never knew,” she added. “Most poor rural people have no idea of—”

  “We might not have had formal education, Mrs. Newell, but we knew instinctively what we had to do.”

  “There is no such thing as instinctive knowledge of nutrition, my dear,” she said, this time smiling at me as if I were clearly an idiot. “Did you know that the RDI of iron during pregnancy
is ten to twenty milligrams more than for nonpregnant women? I guess not,” she sang. “I’m sure Dr. Denardo will do the proper blood analysis to see what your storage of iron is. One side effect of this increased iron intake is constipation, so we’ll have to do something about that.”

  “That’s a relief,” I said, looking at Teresa to try to lighten the conversation, but she didn’t smile. She lowered her eyes quickly.

  “To continue,” Mrs. Newell said, ignoring me, “the RDI of calcium during pregnancy is eleven hundred milligrams per day, which is about three hundred milligrams more than for nonpregnant women. Don’t tell me that rural women living in some poor Mexican village are aware of that.”

  “I was quite healthy when I was born, Mrs. Newell. I’m sure it wasn’t by accident.”

  “No, not by accident but by luck,” she countered without skipping a beat. “We’re not going to depend on luck here, Delia. I know that Dr. Denardo is going to keep very good track of your nutritional health, and with the food groups I provide, you should do very well. You shouldn’t require any supplements, in fact. I will warn you against eating late at night, and we will prohibit caffeine and alcohol. You could suffer discomfort, heartburn, because as the baby grows, there’s more pressure on the abdomen. During the later months, I’ll keep your portions smaller.

  “The reason I wanted Teresa to remain here while I spoke with you is that I don’t want her bringing you any snacks or any garbage food from the outside,” she said, glaring at the maid, who shook her head to assure her that she had no intention of doing such a thing. It was almost as if she suspected Teresa already had done so.

  Mrs. Newell turned back to me. “You don’t want to gain too much weight, anyway. Dr. Denardo will tell you about where you should be, but most of the pregnant women for whom I have worked stay around twenty-two to twenty-eight pounds heavier by the time they come to term. Again, that’s not luck. That’s good scientific dietary planning,” she added. She smiled a little more warmly this time. “Any questions?”

  “Yes. Since you’ve kept Teresa here for this, I’m sure she might like to know what RDI means,” I said. I knew what it meant, but I couldn’t resist teasing her.

  “RDI simply means recommended daily intake,” she said, looking at Teresa.

  Teresa immediately started to shake her head again. I could see the almost palpable fear in her face, fear that Mrs. Newell might complain about her to Señor Bovio.

  “One final thing,” Mrs. Newell said. “I am vigilant when it comes to preventing a listeria infection. Again, I’m sure you don’t instinctively know what that is.”

  She had me. I didn’t know.

  “This bacteria, Listeria monocytogenes,” she said pedantically, “can contaminate some foods. There is great danger to an unborn baby, an increased risk of miscarriage, stillbirth, or premature labor. Some foods are more prone to this contamination, and we’ll exclude them, but I can’t follow you everywhere you go outside this house. Avoid precooked or ready-prepared cold foods that aren’t reheated, foods you might get in some fast-food joint you’re probably accustomed to eating in, unpasteurized foods, soft-serve ice cream or yogurt, and soft cheeses. Do you understand?”

  “Clearly,” I said. “And I never ate in dirty fast-food joints.”

  “Good. Teresa, you can go now,” she said, dismissing her. Teresa hurried out. Mrs. Newell waited for her to leave before turning back to me. “This part is more private,” she said. “Pregnancy does not mean a woman cannot have sexual relations, but I have seen pregnant women miscarry because they were, how shall I say it, too vigorous or too compliant when their male partners wanted them to be so. Most men don’t have the control or care to control themselves to protect a woman carrying a baby. Now, if you go out—”

  “Don’t be concerned about it. I don’t intend to have sexual relations during my pregnancy, Mrs. Newell,” I said quickly.

  She pulled her shoulders back and pursed her lips for a moment. “Well, I don’t imagine you intended to be pregnant, now, did you, dear?” she said, blinking her smile.

  I looked away.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m just giving you my best professional advice. What you do and don’t do is your own business, Delia.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “After you give birth, that is. Until then, it is both our businesses.”

  She waited for my response, but I said nothing.

  “Enjoy your lunch.”

  I looked at the salad, the salmon, and the slice of whole-grain bread. There was a plate of strawberries and some walnuts for dessert.

  “I could have just as easily gone down to the dining room for this,” I said.

  “Mr. Bovio wanted it brought to you.”

  “Why? Isn’t it better for me to walk?”

  “I’m not saying you shouldn’t walk. Of course, you should walk. I’m simply following Mr. Bovio’s orders. You’re my patient, but he’s employed me,” she replied, and finally left. I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my chest.

  I ate and thought that the food, although adequate, was basically tasteless. Mrs. Newell was more of a nurse than a cook, I decided. I felt sorry for all the well-to-do married and pregnant women for whom she had served. Like me, they were probably happy to get her out of their homes and get back to eating what they wanted.

  I pushed the bedside table aside and sprawled on the love seat in the adjoining sitting room. I was emotionally exhausted and just wanted to calm myself and relax. I know I dozed off for a while, because when I opened my eyes again, my tray was gone. I closed them again.

  For a few moments, I tried to forgot all that had happened to me since my parents were killed in the truck accident in Mexico. With my eyes closed, I could pretend I was in my and Abuela Anabela’s bedroom back in our little village. Before our family tragedy, I had been a happy young girl who never thought of herself as poor and unfortunate. We had worked hard for the little we had, but we had found ways to be grateful and happy. Nevertheless, I would never deny that I didn’t fantasize about living in a palace and having servants and a beautiful bedroom just like the one I was in now. I would imagine that my and Abuela Anabela’s little room with its concrete floor was suddenly magically quite different.

  There were beautiful velvet curtains over the windows just as there were here. There was a carpet that also seemed like a floor of marshmallows, and my bed was just as big, with pillows as fluffy, and with a canopy and four posters. I had pretended I had a magic wand and could wave it over the old mismatched furniture, the crates and boxes we used for dressers and drawers, the clothes line that served as our closet, and the cracked and pitted walls. I had turned it all into a wonderland for a princess. Imagining that I had enchanting powers, I would travel to places I had seen only in magazines and occasionally on our snowy black-and-white television screen when the electricity worked.

  But as soon as I would hear Abuela Anabela’s or my mother’s voice, I would blink my eyes and come crashing back down to reality. Never did I really believe I would be living in such a luxurious hacienda after I blinked. I had immediately felt foolish even dreaming of such things, such a place.

  Yet here I was, only not under the circumstances I would have included in my fantasy.

  I had been living in a beautiful hacienda my aunt owned, but just before Señor Bovio brought me here, I had been sent back to the dingy, dark, and dirty servant’s room in a separate building, the room in which I had been placed when I had first arrived from Mexico. That now seemed much farther in the past than it really was. All of the recent events in my life were jumbled and twisted in my mind, anyway. I wished it really had all been a dream, every moment. This wasn’t the first time I had made such a wish. Many times, I would have gladly woken to find myself back in that small bedroom I shared with Abuela Anabela. I would trade all the clothes, the glamorous events, the mansions, any and all of it, to return to that simple life, if only my parents were still alive.

  Because this bed
room wasn’t far from the circular stairway that led up to the second floor of the hacienda and because my door was still open, I could hear the voices below echoing up the walls, past the large paintings, and around the drapery. I could hear some joy in Señor Bovio’s voice. Someone who pleased him had arrived. At least mi tía Isabela hadn’t returned, I thought.

  I was sure that in these past weeks and months, Señor Bovio did not laugh or smile very much. I recalled when I had first met him at my friend Fani Cordova’s home. Her parents were holding a fund-raising dinner for his senatorial campaign. It was there I had first met Adan as well. I remember thinking how alike they were, a father and son who were both handsome and charming. Abuela Anabela would have said, “De buena fuente, buena corriente. From a good spring, a good current.”

  Adan had his father’s stature and his elegance. Señor Bovio looked as if he really should be a U.S. senator, someone who could be a protector of the less fortunate and less powerful. He reeked with confidence but not arrogance, and he had a smile that would calm a raging bull. Adan was more than reflection of all this to me. I could see he would grow into such a man himself. Even though he had lost his mother as I had lost mine and Señor Bovio had lost his beautiful wife, they looked solid, successful, and full of promise. Seated between them that night, I had felt safe and honored. How different now was the Señor Bovio who had brought me to his home. Sad and broken by Adan’s death, he was a shadow of himself, so any sound of happiness coming from his lips cheered me as well.

  I heard footsteps on the stairway and rose from the love seat in anticipation, wondering who could be coming to visit me so soon after mi tía Isabela. Could it be Fani?

  “Hola, Delia,” Señor Bovio said. “Did you enjoy your lunch? Isn’t Mrs. Newell a terrific and efficient nurse?”

  He had changed into a light-blue sports jacket and was now wearing his trademark silk cravat. Seeing this resurrection of light and happiness in him, I didn’t want to start off with a complaint about the food or about Mrs. Newell, so I said, “Sí, señor. Gracias.”