New Paths

Author(s): María Luisa Puga and Elizabeth Gamble Miller

Source: Mānoa, Vol. 4, No. 2, New Writing from Mexico (Autumn, 1992), pp. 17-20
Published by: University of Hawai'i Press
Stable URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/4228779
Accessed: 28-03-2021 14:59 UTC

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 MARIA LUISA PUGA

New Paths

WE ARE HERE, WE'RE GOING IN now. Remember how you used to bang on the
door after playing outside with your friends? I must have told you a thousand times
not to bang on it like that; you didn't need everybody in the house thinking about
you. Now we'll have to be patient, you'll see, it'll be just like it used to be. Can you
smell the living room, the dining room? You used to zoom into the kitchen like a race-
car driver; let's go on in, remember the table was here, touch the chair; this is your
chair. You whizzed over to the refrigerator, right in front of the table, and after you
scarfed down the sandwich I made for school, you said-No, the one I ate wasn't
mine, it was my brother's. To put that down, you raise your arm and set the empty
glass here. Now for the milk bottle, we're going to stick two kernels of corn on it,
two. And one on the bottle of water. Remember that. Now, one step to your left,
don't turn; you go straight out-slow now, my goodness, you're so rambunctious-
now start walking, touch your chair again (think about how you like it, so when you
get near it, you won't ever forget), and after three steps you make your decision: I'll go
to the living room or I'll go to my room. Yes, yes, they gave you the radio and you'll
have it right next to your bed. The tape recorder, too. And the tapes, I'll stick matches
onto them: one match, the story of Puss and Boots; two matches, "Cri-cri"; three
matches, Vivaldi's Seasons you like so much ... now if you put "Autumn" on first,
before "Spring," it will be up to you to fix it. You just take it out and turn it over,
don't be calling me every other minute about that. Right there, you remember? The
second door, that's your room . . . hear it? Remember how you hear the water run-
ning in the front apartment, you hear it a lot, at all hours, and in back, the noise of the
traffic? No, not from my room, and we don't need to hear it; my and your father's
room overlooks the garden, remember? You always said: Yours is the prettiest, but I
like mine, too. Your brother's room, on the boulevard, is the noisiest ... I know you
like that, but he does, too, and he's the oldest, he's already nine years old. You're
scarcely six; now don't forget that and start complaining. I know you don't see the
cars from here, but you can go to your brother's room and hear them; let's not argue
about that same old thing; right now I'm showing you around. Let's see if you can
pay attention just this once.
Your toys are where I always put them. If they were where you used to leave them,
we'd both be tripping over them. Let's see, what do I always tell you about the little
cars? All on the table, right? Where is the table, let's see? That's it, that's very good.

Manoa · Volume 4, Number 2 Fall 1992 17

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 And where do the cutout books go, in which box? And the clothes? Very good. Now
let's see if you keep this room in order . . . the straw you were saving, when ... ?
But that was a long time before we took you to the hospital, how should I know
where it is, I probably threw it out. Oh, and let me tell you this, huh, none of my
picking up your room, you'll be the one doing that. In your three weeks in the hos-
pital everybody pampered you. Now your brother, when he was six, already picked up
his things all by himself. So then, if you can't find something, remember what I'm
telling you, that's your problem.
The bathroom is still where it was, come on, did you really think it moved? Go and
find it. By the way, the light is burned out. I'll wait here ... Already found it? Why
are you trying to turn the light on when it doesn't work?
Why am I crying? I can't help it. Because you're back home. We missed you.

II

Now they want me to give him my room. Now that. No. I better just get out of
here, I already made up my mind. I tried it the other night, just to see what happened,
I went and spent the night over at Juan's house. Told his dad I let my folks know.
When I got home the next morning-I had to change clothes to go to school-every-
body was asleep. They came home late and went right to bed. They don't care if I'm
here or not. It's been that way for three weeks. Ever since they took my brother to the
hospital.
At first I was real scared. Dad said my brother could die. They didn't let me go see
him, kids can't go in the hospital. And I was wondering-what if I don't ever see him
again? I had nightmares. About all the fights we had. Most of the time I saw him cry-
ing and it was always my fault. I woke up and thought about all the times I didn't lend
him my things (he's always breaking everything, that's why I don't like for him to play
with my toys). I thought about him being all little and skinny, how he'd ask-can I
look out your window? He liked to watch the cars go by. If I was doing my home-
work, he was always coming in, and he'd say-I'm not going to talk, really. But then,
he'd talk and talk. He'd look through the window and talk about anything-what he
wished he was eating right that second, what song he learned at school, his teacher.
I thought about him a lot at first and tried to imagine him in his room at the hospi-
tal. I asked my mom and dad, but it was like they weren't even here. They got home
late and were tired. Most of the time I was asleep. I hardly ever saw them more than a
little bit in the morning before I went to school. They'd talk about my brother all the
time, but if I asked them, they'd say-it's too early to know, it seems like he's doing
OK. And then they'd just talk to each other again. They didn't talk to me at all. I went
on to school like that, thinking something horrible was going to happen if I didn't
hurry up and get home. School took forever, but when I got home, nothing. Nobody
was home or only one of them was, and was already taking the longest shower or was
lying down for a while. I went to my room (and now I have to give it to him) and like
pretended to do my homework, but I really wasn't, I was waiting, waiting for them to
tell me something, waiting for them to come home, to be through with all of this.
Well, and they finally are home and now they want me to give him my room. I don't

I8 Manoa * A Pacific Journal of International Writing

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care anymore. I'm just here watching them change the house all around, while my
brother listens to his radio in the living room. He tried to show it to me, but I acted
like I didn't hear him. Like I wasn't there. Because he can't see. He went blind when

they took out his tumor. That's why he stayed in the hospital for three weeks. That
seems so long ago-when all three of them went off and left me here alone. Forgot all
about me.

My room-they want it because since he can't see, he wants to hear the noise, but
besides that, because the bathroom is closer. He sure is quiet, just sitting there. He
sure is skinny. Now what's he going to do, when he can't see? He's calling me. He
doesn't know I'm here (it's like I did run away). There they are, my parents, fixing my
room up with his things. I hear them moving the furniture. They're pushing every-
thing against the wall, how weird. He doesn't know I'm here. He's getting out of the
big chair, has his radio, still not going anywhere, of course, how's he going to when he
can't see? And the living room isn't even the way it was when he knew it. He's moving
around real slow, holding his hand out, holding the radio in the other hand. It's funny
he's not calling anybody to help him, seeing as he was such a pest. Now how will he
have any fun? He can't even watch TV. He won't ask to play with my toys anymore.
He's moving so slow, little tiny steps. He's about to run into the table-Here, give me
your hand, I'll show you around the house and I'll tell you what your new room is
like.

III

Oh, you're right there, I knew it! I heard you breathing, but I didn't know
where you were, I thought you were farther away because since I called you and you
didn't answer me, I thought-he probably went to the bathroom and is coming right
back. You like my radio? It's got a good sound. I'll lend it to you if you want. There's
a program every afternoon with stories I like a lot and I know just how to find it right
off. Where are we going? I want a banana, do we have some? We're in the kitchen! No,
now I know! Are we in your room? I can really hear the traffic. Is this where I'm going
to sleep? And you in mine? You can come see the cars whenever you want to. At the
hospital, in my room, I listened and I used to guess-I bet that's a Le Baron, a
Volkswagen . . . no, those are easy, they sound real different, don't they? Where are
you taking me now, to the kitchen? Are there any bananas? Oh, great. In the hospital
they didn't give me much to eat, you can believe it, but everything was so neat and I
talked a lot with the other kids, the ones who weren't very sick, well, but it's sure
great they brought me home, I missed you a lot. They didn't let you come, right? I
don't know why since we were all just kids. Afternoons I turned on my radio and we
listened to stories, and everybody stayed real quiet because then you can hear the story
and you start seeing it all, like on television. And the music ... did you see the tape
recorder? You put it on and it's like a river of colors. When I get big, I want to be a
musician. Now where are we going? Outside? But don't leave me by myself because I
won't know how to get back. You won't let go of my hand, will you? OK. If I go slow
... are we in the sun? We are in the sun, aren't we? I feel it here, look, right here on
my neck. It's like if somebody was blowing hot on my neck. Is this the garden? We can

Puga ' New Paths I9

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 sit on the grass then, boy that's sweet, did you see? Nice and cool. Where are the kids
playing? Did they see us? I don't like soccer; I like to play other things better, like with
little cars, because I can have traffic jams and everything, but why do I hear girls laugh-
ing? They can't be playing soccer. Next door? Oh, sure, because I've never seen girls
play soccer. You have? Are we going in now? But if we're going to walk around, you
hold my hand so I won't fall down. When you go from the grass down to the side-
walk, it's like stepping off a cushion, did you see? On the grass you feel like you could
bounce up and down, wouldn't that be sweet, huh? If you could bounce and, in one
big jump, spring up and through the window ... of course, you would have to be
inside to catch me; no, I know what, we could tie ourselves together with a long rope
and you could send me around like a whirligig, because you are bigger, you weigh
more . . . we could get everywhere real fast . . . what's that plane like that's flying
over? Is it the Concorde? No, it's not, is it? Are we back at the house? Because since I
was in bed all the time, I get tired and hungry and thirsty, real thirsty. You're going to
buy me a popsicle? Honest? Raspberry, I hope they have raspberry. Look-my mouth
is getting all red, I look just like a clown, right? OK, now let's go.
What does it feel like? At first it's like having your eyes shut and you can't get them
open, but now, since I got sort of used to it, it's like looking inside and seeing things
real close up. It's-you hear a lot. And when you touch things, like-they talk to you.
I think the raspberry ones are the best, because they're like-laughing. They are, you
want to bet? And the pineapple ones, they look like a little letter i, don't they? And
the . . . Are we back now? We're back, Mom, where are you, we're back!

TRANSLATED BY ELIZABETH GAMBLE MILLER

20 Mdnoa * A Pacific Journal of International Writing

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