How Not to Drown in a Glass of Water: A Novel

SESSION ONE

My name is Cara Romero, and I came to this country because my husband wanted to kill me. Don’t look so shocked. You’re the one who asked me to say something about myself.

Before we begin, can you permit me to have a glass of water? Ay, yes. Thank you. Why am I so nervous? I know, I know, we’re just talking. And this water, is it from the bottle? Does it taste strange to you? No?

I’ve never done something like this before. I didn’t think I was going to have to look for a job at this point of my life. La Profesora from La Escuelita said that you’ll help me. You’re dominicana, no? She said if you know a lot about me you can find me a job. Is that true? Ay, good, because I need a job. The factory closed in 2007, right before Christmas. Can you believe that? Almost two years I don’t work.

In reality, El Obama has been very generous. After the factory closed, I received fifty-three checks, then El Obama gave me thirteen checks, then twenty more. Did he have a choice? No. There are no jobs—my factory left to Costa Rica! You know they’re never coming back. And after these twelve weeks that I meet with you—I’ll receive no more checks! Like my neighbor Lulú says, El Obama is good, but not God.

I’m lucky because I’m fifty-five years old—wait, did I say fifty-five? I’m fifty-six! I stopped counting. If I don’t, I’ll be in a coffin sooner than I’m ready. The point is that I qualify for your Senior Workforce Program. Me, a senior? I told Lulú I’ll be a senior for the checks but not for the canas. Ha!

You want to know how I found out about La Escuelita? OK, I can tell you. One year ago we received this letter from the government that we must report to La Escuelita to take classes. If not, no more unemployment checks. I did not want to go to La Escuelita because it was far away in Harlem. So, in the first day, I paralyzed. I had to fight to get out of the bed. I sleep maybe one hour or two, almost nothing. I couldn’t even drink my café that morning. It was like I forgot how to dress. Does that ever happen to you? When the easy is impossible? But you have to understand, I stopped working in the factory and for twelve months I only wore my inside clothes. My belts, my blazers, my dresses—lost in the closet.

Thank God for Lulú who came to get me that morning. I tell you, on the first day of La Escuelita, Lulú appeared in my apartment with banana bread she makes at home, with nuts and chocolate, warm from the oven and said, You have fifteen minutes.

I didn’t want to make Lulú late, so I speed up. She knew I would never go to La Escuelita by myself. And for this I pay the price, because for the rest of my life she will say, What would you do without me?

But don’t worry, I don’t need Lulú to take me to work—I’m ready to confront life. Look, already I’m losing some weight so I can fit into my blazers. Don’t you think I look good with this one? You like it? Of course you do.

I never wear brown. My color is black. With my black eyes and hair, black makes me look elegant. This brown blazer is Lulú’s. She looks good in this color because she dyes her hair blond—well, it’s more like anaranjado because she does it from the box. But the color still looks good on her because her skin is like a penny. Not like a brilliant penny, more like an old penny. And she’s only fifty-four. I tell her to drink more water so she gets more glow. But she doesn’t listen. She is also more fat than me. But that doesn’t matter. We’re all more fat since losing our jobs. Lulú more than me. In fact, this blazer doesn’t fit her anymore, even when she wears the faja. She never takes off the faja. Never. Not even to sleep. OK, maybe sometimes to sleep. But even in the dreams she wants to look like a botella de Coca-Cola. But when I tried the blazer, you should’ve seen her face: arrugada. But it’s OK—jealousy. I’m accustomed to it. I know I was born with sugar in my pockets.

I loved La Escuelita. It opened my mind a lot. But it’s not easy. When we started, La Profesora said she could teach us to keep numbers. How to use the computer. Even to read and write English! Ha! I have been in this country twenty-five—wait, no, almost twenty-seven years. I speak English good. You understand me, right? OK. But to read and write English? ¡No me entra! How you say a word in English is not how you write it. Why is that? You laugh, but it’s true.

I told La Profesora—she dresses like a teacher from the TV, with the blusa buttoned all the way up to her neck—I’m too old to learn.

No, Cara. If you apply yourself, you’ll learn to write English. I promise you. You can even go to college.

Ha! I laughed so hard I peed in my panties. This is what happens to women who have their babies natural. I carry extra panties in my purse and never leave my house without a Kotex.

How many children do you have? ¿Cómo? What are you waiting for? You don’t want to have children? Listen to me: Don’t wait until you get too old.

Lulú says that a person is never too old to do anything, especially to study. She said our neighbor La Vieja Caridad can go to college if she wanted to.

She’s ninety years old! It makes no sense.

But why not? Lulú says. In New York, a lot of old people go to college.

Imagine if I live until ninety like La Vieja Caridad. I could go to college and work for another twenty years in una oficina or something.

In the Dominican Republic it’s not easy to progress, but in New York La Escuelita is making me think I can dream. I learned many new things. I even have an email now. Did you know that?

Lulú is LuLu175 and I am Carabonita.

Hola, Lulú. ¿Cómo estás? Soy yo, Cara.

Ding! The computer tells us we got email.

Hola, cabroncita! Soy yo, Lulú.

Ding!

It’s Carabonita!

Ding!

I know, cabroncita.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

And now I get many emails. Most of them are from Alicia the Psychic. One day, when I looked for my horoscope, I found Alicia through a button: FREE PSYCHIC READING. Of course I clicked it. It was La Profesora who said that the best way to learn how to navigate the internet is if we explore our interests.

Dear Carabonita,

I am delighted to hear from you. I can see that you are anxious for news to unblock all the obstacles in your path. Open my invitation to learn more about what awaits. For a small fee …

Your loving friend,

Alicia

In the beginning, Lulú read them for me, but the emails kept coming every day, and so Lulú showed me how to translate the email from English to Spanish. So easy. Click.

I am enchanted to know about you.

I have news from your personal protector.

When I get that email, I swear to you, the lights on the ceiling went on and off like in a discoteca.

Alicia the Psychic wrote to me even though I never sent her money.

She’s a robot! Lulú said.

Impossible, I said.

Every time I checked my email there was a message from Alicia the Psychic who told me she was losing sleep because my protectors were keeping her awake at night.

La Profesora said to be careful of scams. Email is full of them. She said people like us are the perfect target.

People like us?

I told her and Lulú that I know what is real and not. I am not a pendeja.

Tell me, you educated dominicana taking all those notes: What do you really think about me? You think there’s hope for me? Ay, qué bueno.

When La Escuelita recomendó I join this program so I can do interview practice, I said, Interview for what? And La Profesora said, For all the jobs you’ll try for! Ha! Between you and me, she’s very positiva, so she’s hard to trust. Be honest: Do you really believe there’s a job for me? Really? I’ve never heard of people that find a job without a key.

The news said this country is in a crisis! Nobody has jobs. It’s the most great recession since the Depression, when the people didn’t have cars and still made pee in pots. Well, maybe our building had toilets, but you understand what I’m saying. La Vieja Caridad, who lives in my building, remembers. She came from the revolutionaries of Cuba, José Martí and all those people. They lived in New York before the telephone and the electricity. For sure, they had no toilets that flushed. Our building didn’t exist. She says there were more trees than people.

Yesterday in the news, I saw a lawyer with two children and a wife, so desperate that he took a job in Wendy’s around here—not even downtown. Things are bad. More bad than bad. It’s just like in Santo Domingo: when there is no fresh bread, you eat casava. I never thought the banks in the United States would rob people. But now I see that this country is like that fisherman with fast hands on the beach who shows you the big fat fish, but when he cooks, he says it shrink.

My money situation? It’s OK right now because I get El Obama checks, but the only people I know who are prepared for the crisis are my sister Ángela and her husband, Hernán. They saved money for many years to buy a house in Long Island. Hernán doesn’t want to leave our building because he can walk to work in the hospital every day, but Ángela, she detests Washington Heights. Pero detests. So every weekend they go to look for houses.

Remember early in the nineties, when things were so bad that you could buy an apartment downtown for $100,000? Maybe you’re too young to remember. What age do you have? Thirty-five? Forty?

Wait, I didn’t mean to offend. Of course, you look like a teenager.

What I wanted to tell you is that in the past Ángela and I, every weekend, went to look for apartments to dream. Now she dreams with Hernán. But I remember seeing an apartment in the street Eighty or Eighty-one, in front of Riverside—you know, where the rich live? You couldn’t put an entire bedroom set in those rooms, only a bed, maybe a queen, and one of those tall bureaus. But the windows looking to the trees: wow. In those days, there were so many apartments like that, cheap. Now that same apartment costs more than one million dollars. I’m serious. Look it up!

Ángela talks about those apartments like they’re the man who got away. From the day she arrived to this country she was determined to leave Washington Heights. To do this she counted her money and calculated how many years it would take for the down payment. And when she met Hernán, she told him immediately the plan. She said, If you want to be with me, saving is a family project.

Every day for breakfast, they talk about their goal: a down payment for the house. With a yard. A room for each child. A porch for the swing. She writes the progress on the refrigerator. Every time they save $1,000, they buy a small cake from Carrot Top and celebrate with the children. That way, the children learn that dreams only become real with hard work and saving money.

Hernán and Ángela save $50 a week. That’s $200 a month. And that’s $2,400 a year. In ten years, they saved $24,000. And we think ten years is a long time. But look at me, I worked in that factory for twenty-five years. And my son, Fernando, has been gone for ten.

Why do you say sorry? Ay, no. My son is not dead. He abandoned me. Maybe one day, si Dios quiere, I will tell you about Fernando.

But what I was saying is that time passes in a blink. If I would’ve saved even $10 a week maybe I wouldn’t be in so much trouble now. The little bit I put aside I sent to the banks in Santo Domingo. I converted my dollars to pesos because the interest was higher. Yes, of course you shake your head. It was stupid! What a mistake. Overnight, the change rate went from RD$13 for $1 to RD$45 for $1.

Talking to you makes me remember the days Ángela and I got along. Now I can’t remember the last time we were in the same room without her getting angry with me.

How old is she? Ángela is fifteen years younger than me. She’s my sister and we look the same age, but she could be my daughter. Maybe that’s why, like my son, Fernando, she thinks everything I say is wrong. For example, tell me you—was I wrong to say that we should relax Yadiresela’s hair? That’s my niece. It looks like a broom when I brush it. Ángela gave me a lecture about chemicals and the damage it will make. She told me not to brush the children’s hair. But how do I get out the knots? The fury she puts on me could burn down a forest. So now I say