IN SEARCH OF SILENCE

The first of six assignments for the Iowa Writer's Workshop THE POWER OF THE PEN

IN SEARCH OF SILENCE (Assignment one)

Alma’s eyes opened to the haze that turned her surrounding into varying shades of darkness, no corners or windows visible that time of day, the eerie blue light of numbers on the ceiling flickered three am. Like every other night every hour she turned to look up to an imagined time of seven am. She anticipated another day where her existence was defined by numbers. The numbers of people she saw, the evaluation they gave her when the email requested a rating for her kindness, promptness, cleanliness of the rooms, the amount of wait time before seen.

A familiar nausea rolled over her. “Do the patients know?” All of her documentation created a pattern for billing, ratings for physicians dipped as their “efficiency” improved. Corporate medicine forced numbers. One of her colleagues already committed suicide, he was disgusted by the billing patterns.

“This employer was more concerned about ratings and corporate image and expansion and prompt reimbursement. We might as well be a large retail grocery store, only we don’t get a discount,” Alma’s recurrent rant.

“It’s like this everywhere,” her best friend said, frustrated with Alma’s complaints. As if to say, “why do you think your life should be any different than anyone else’s?”

She sighed and rolled out of bunched up sheets. Today was different. Ten printed pages, on the kitchen island outlined the morning and afternoon for the next twenty-two days. Maps and papers ordered into protected plastic.

A separate yellow legal pad listed a to do list with little squares. The edges of the yellow pad were wrinkled and the pencil smeared across the yellow sheets, blurring the items on the list. Edges of words escaped:

brkfst,

strbcks,

camp mealsx14d,

ultralt tent,

30F sleeping bag,

poles,

passport,

cash,

ckbook,

crt cd.,

projector,

bdng passes.

Proposal,

 ipod.

10 squares remained to be checked off.

                                                ***

Two weeks earlier her cell phone rang. “Cal? What’s up?”

“I’ve decided to propose to Elise while she is in Santo Domingo on that volunteer trip.”

“That’s great, congratulations.”

“I want you there.”

Alma paused, she was scheduled to work that weekend, that would be a burden to her work place. “Of course, I’ll be there, I’ll text you the flight number in a few minutes.” She frowned as she said it. “I guess we will have something to talk about at the next meeting,” she thought.

“I’ve asked Mitsy too.”

“Elise will be so happy.”

                                                ***

At 4 am the weather was pleasant, in the mid 30s, only a fifteen mile an hour wind. Alma parked close to the front on the left. In white pants and an orange knit top, and a white synthetic jacket, ready for the tropics her fingers clamped around the handle of the suitcase as she shoved her other hand in her pocket and locked the Prius. HECTOR AIRPORT, predictable, an easy out, a great attribute for Fargo, but it   didn’t   open up until 4:30 am. The automatic doors opened to a surprised rush of indoor warmth.  In a morning daze of cold, and guilt about missing work, the escalator floated her up to the empty TSA check in line.

The employees were in a large group at the other end of the scanners for a morning debriefing and would not be at their posts for another fifteen minutes. Alma shook her head. “Just like the morning huddles at every store, even at my work.” This time she smiled, “same everywhere.”

The flight left on time even after de-icing for about 10 minutes and in 40 minutes they were at the Minneapolis gate.

Forty minutes later she boarded the flight to Punta Cana and scrolled through the movie menu, the plane would land at Punta Cana by one in the afternoon.

                                                            ***

“I think Cal will propose this year.” Elise spoke those words over Christmas the year before.

“Oh, you must be happy.” Alma measured the words, rating them from zero to five. She smiled with the word “happy” and looked directly at her daughter’s eyes with the smile. Words must be consistent with facial expressions, “end the visit on a positive note.”

“What!”

“You must be happy?”

“What do you really mean?”

“I love you, I want the best for you.”

“You’ve never liked Cal.”

“Can we stick to the words in this conversation?”

“I know what you really mean.”

“By the words, oh ‘ you must be happy?’” Alma’s fingers curled quotation marks as she looked toward the ceiling.

“You raised your voice, you made it a question, like you don’t think it is possible.” Elise pointed at Alma.

“Please, I want you happy, Cal has matured, he’s good, you love each other, what more is there?” Alma tried to lower her voice, into an “earnest monotone.”

“Okay, then.” Elise shrugged her shoulders.

Alma knew about the sadness, and tried to pull it out of her voice, but it continued on slipping its way in and out of all of her conversations, a sadness she thought would disappear, “if only.”

December was gone and it was the end of April.

                                                            ****

The humidity was thick and with the heat pressed in to surround her, a sharp contrast to twenty-five mile an hour winds and dust from the prairie.  It gave her a sense of security as though she was being held closely by a loved one. The bright sun, the heat, no wind and it all enveloped her, welcomed her to the island.

A four piece Caribbean band started up like a wind up toy, startled Alma out of the semi stupor she felt from the hours of travel. She turned to the tourists behind her: “nice, huh?”  Songs about drinking and dancing and up all night, she hoped she wouldn’t have to comply.   

As she exited through the customs area, she attempted to put her luggage on the conveyor belt, but the customs agent shook his head and waved her through.

Alma smiled, “nada de interes, verdad?” Luggage in tow, bumping on the edges of hard tile with a hard repetitive clicking sound, she extended her left arm forward, “salida?” and uniformed workers nodded. 

“Taxi, senora.” Different voices and pitches layered themselves around her as she reached the transportation area of the Punta Cana Airport.

“Para los hoteles?” She looked for a shuttle with “Four Points” printed on the side.

The taxi stand coordinator gestured to have her sit down.  She made a phone call. “Five minutes” and she pointed to a spot on one of the islands between traffic lanes, “he will meet you there.”

“Gracias,” Alma reverted back to Spanish.

A van arrived and she put her luggage in back. She clicked a seat belt in place. The van careened left and right across the roads. “Just like Mexico,” she thought.

The Punta Cana newspaper on the seat next to her: the Italian billionaire owner of the Airport and Hotel and actually the whole area of the island was in front of a newly opened Punta Cana children’s clinic.

.

The floors in the hotel were marble and slick. Similar to floors she stepped on for years when Alma lived in Mexico and Puerto Rico. The slick substance was probably DDT, the only way to get the cockroach population to avoid infesting anywhere humans walked or ate food or slept. The sweet sour smell of DDT curled up from the floors of the hotel and from the streets she walked on later to look for a place to eat with Cal and Mitsy and her daughter Elise.

“Over here,” it was Cal waving her down.

She dropped her luggage and opened her arms, “Congratulations Cal.”

“About time, right!” An ear to ear smile greeted her as they embraced.

“Is Misty here?”

“Over here second Mom!” Behind Cal the short diminutive brunette embraced them both.

“Ok second, but not lesser daughter!” Alma bent to hug her. “I am so glad you are here!” 

“You know Elise said she wanted you there when I proposed, so watch out for the water works.” Cal’s hand tremor worsened as he checked for the ring in his pocket, his mouth seemed to contort with a similar tremor and his eyelids moistened. Alma had seen tremors like that before, had seen the clipped gait of Cal’s father. She repeated her internal mantra “turn it off, stop analyzing”, and yet her mind drew out the genetic tree of his family, a series of squares the T lines connecting parent and child and grandchildren, and put in all of Cal’s family and her parents. 

Alma reached out, placed her hands on his shoulders, “Thank you so much Cal, I didn’t know, and thank you for asking me here.”

“Kam is taping it from behind one of the palms, Brittany is telling her this long dramatic “emo” story, so she won’t look my way.” His hand tremor lessened and he turned toward the beach.

“How about here? Higher?” Misty moved a gold metallic mylar balloon “love” up and down on the bamboo wall.

“How about this?” Alma set up thick carved wooden letter E & C on the table top.

“Do you think they’ll mind?” said Mitsy.

“It’s six in the afternoon, here Island Time Dinner starts at eight, believe me.”

Misty gasped, “I see them.” 

Alma scanned the beach. “No, everything looks the same as before.”

“Trust me. Let’s hide under the table!” Misty crouched.

Alma bent down next to her. “Is this part really necessary?” 

“Well the table is pretty obvious, shhhh they’re here.”

Alma wondered if she could stand quickly after bending her knees so long and turned on the Ipod and Bluetooth speaker to play Elise and Cal’s most recent favorite music. Misty and Alma stood up together.

Elise stopped, and her shoulders shook and her face smiled and wept alternating between emotions that waved through her body. She finally reached out and all four of them embraced.