Chapter 16
I’m sitting in Doctor Lobo’s carriage, sobbing into my hands.
The driver asked me a question, but when he realized I was crying, he turned away.
I refuse to be inside that house a minute longer.
I need Doctor Lobo to come out soon and take me away.
I have nothing of myself there anyway, even these clothes aren’t mine.
I’ve never been so humiliated in my life.
Mother’s voice pulses in my mind, red and hot: He’ll say it isn’t his.
It was her very first thought. So odious. Her immediate assumption and expectation, which had seemed so preposterous at the time.
And it turned out to be prophetic.
How dare he. I am a fool.
He just stood there and watched the cake be engulfed by flames, then scooped up the ashes into a pail. No doubt he’ll keep the ashes and never dispose of them. I mean less to him than the ashes of that cake, and the baby means even less still.
I’d like to toss him into the flames.
A silhouette of a man appears at the front door. Before I can make out who it is, a little bit of hope flares within me: Maybe it’s Leandro, coming out to apologize. Maybe this has all been a big misunderstanding.
But the figure is tall and broad shouldered. It’s Doctor Lobo. Of course Leandro isn’t coming out to talk to me. I start sobbing again.
A moment later, Doctor Lobo opens the carriage door.
“I’m not staying in this house a moment longer,” I say. “Take me home.”
Just like that, I’ll be gone from Leandro’s fazenda, and maybe from his life forever.
I cry the whole way, as we traverse the moonlit roads under a blanket of stars. But at least this time there is no storm threatening our lives.
I am now at Mother’s mercy. My baby’s fate is no longer within my control.
I am powerless to protect either of us. The despair is all-consuming, envelops my whole being in a pit of black.
I start to feel that I’m falling, and a familiar, sickly pain comes over my muscles.
The corners of my vision go dark, and my limbs feel weak, my head spins.
I welcome the pain this time, and I wonder if I die, will the baby die, too, or if they can—
I feel an arm wrap around my shoulders. I open my eyes.
Doctor Lobo presses me gently to him, and this simple, soft touch brings me back to the present and makes me feel better.
I let out an exhale; the scent of bay leaves wafts over me and I allow my head to rest on his shoulder.
Warmth spreads through my body and I almost feel good.
“All will be well, Madalena.”
His voice is comforting because there is no sadness or pity in it. It carries just the right amount of lightness and is sure of itself.
“It is Leandro’s baby.” I look up at him. “I’m not lying.”
“I know.”
“So you believe me?”
“I believe you.” He brushes the tears off my cheeks with his thumb.
He sounds like he means it, too. It makes me feel less alone, knowing that he believes me. That he understands how I have been wronged.
“Look,” he says, “we’ve arrived.”
My body goes rigid at the prospect of having to face Mother. But as I look around me, I see a row of houses I don’t recognize. Then the carriage pulls into the driveway of a mansion I’ve never seen before. Regal glass windows with their own individual porches line the polished lime-white walls.
“This isn’t my house.”
“I know. It’s my house.” Doctor Lobo steps out of the carriage and opens the door for me.
“This is…your house?”
“Your mother will be worried if you show up at such a late hour and with swollen eyes,” he explains as we cross a stone-paved path toward the front porch. “And this affords you time to cool your head prior to speaking with her.”
He opens the door and I glimpse an elegant foyer with a bronze statue of a Minotaur and a lustrous rug. It is vibrant and brightly lit; the opposite of the dreary Fazenda Santa Tereza.
“Do you mean…that I would stay the night?”
“If you wish. Your mother is not expecting you back until tomorrow.”
I hesitate. Mother would be furious to know I went into a man’s house without her knowledge or approval, but that fills me with rebellious satisfaction.
A fire burns in my gut, the kind that wants to consume all in its path.
The fact that Mother’s abysmal predictions about Leandro came true only makes me resent her all the more.
My heart wants nothing more than to escape into this bright, lovely mansion for the night.
“If you prefer,” he adds, “I can have the driver take you home now.”
“No. I’d like to stay here, thank you.”
We step inside. Doctor Lobo speaks to an ancient woman who looks to be a governess or housekeeper.
She hardly acknowledges me, which makes me wonder if him bringing a lady guest over at this late hour is a common occurrence.
This mansion has a European feel with its numerous oil paintings depicting bare-chested river nymphs, epic celestial battles, pastoral scenes, and stale fruit; velvet fabrics lined with tassels; statuettes of Greek gods; rugs with complicated patterns; and a defunct fireplace.
A dog with one blue eye and one green eye looks up at me from a regal cushion.
Probably a snow-sledding breed. Doctor Lobo starts up the stairs when I spot what appears to be a life-size sarcophagus.
“Is that a sarcophagus?” I ask.
He nods. “It also doubles as a cabinet.”
Upstairs he leads me to a guest room that is much nicer than my parents’ room in my own house.
The walls are covered in a ruby patterned wallpaper and heavy drapes brush the ornamental rug.
At the center of it all, a tall bed with a canopy and the softest blankets I’ve ever seen.
Doctor Lobo is offering me a beverage—Tea?
Water? Wine?—and asking how I’m feeling, and all I can think is that I don’t want him to leave just yet.
“You told me that Leandro just needed some time,” I say. “But you saw how he disavowed the baby?”
“This has been a challenging time for both of—”
“Why do you keep making excuses for him? He is the problem, not me.”
“I don’t see you as a problem at all.”
“Sometimes it seems that you do.”
“But you did hit him.”
I reel back. I almost forgot about that.
It felt so right at the time. And I don’t regret it one bit.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll regret it, maybe next week, or next month, but right now I only wish I could go back and slap him again.
I want to slap Doctor Lobo while I’m at it, to shove him with both fists and back him against the wall.
There’s a terrible pressure building inside my body.
“He rejected our baby. What am I going to do now? I am ruined.”
“It may seem that way,” he says gently, “but you can never be ruined.”
I look up at him. “What do you mean?”
“You are so much more than those things. A husband, a suitor, approval of your family, your church, society…When I look at you, Madalena, I see someone torn apart by the demands of the world around her. Someone who’s been living by external rules for so long, she no longer knows herself.
She no longer remembers who she is or what she really wants. ”
The words sink slowly into my bones.
After a moment I say, “A woman does not have the luxury of wanting things outside of what’s expected of her.”
“If you did have the luxury”—his voice lowers, as if he’s about to share a secret—“what would you want?”
Yesterday, I would have said I want Leandro to propose. But now I know Mother was right about him.
“I want to keep my baby,” I say, “and have a good life. Not the life of an ostracized woman, a woman who brings shame to her family, a mother without a husband. I don’t want my child to be called an illegitimate bastard and I don’t want to be at the mercy of my family…”
I run out of breath, suddenly realizing that he’s right: All my wants and fears are wrapped up in the world.
I sink onto the bed, and the mattress is soft. “I don’t know what I want besides that. There is no me besides that.”
“Of course there is.”
“If there is, then I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
He sits beside me. “It does matter. Knowing yourself is the most important thing of all.”
He looks so tender and thoughtful. Sometimes when he looks at me, his bright umber eyes bear into me in a way that makes me feel truly seen.
I don’t know what he means by this, yet at the same time I do.
I don’t think I have ever been asked what I want before, nor have I even asked myself that before. It has never mattered what I want.
What I want…
A thought slips through. I gasp and push it back down, back into the abyss from which it came and must never be allowed out. There are some thoughts that must never be permitted to surface.
I feel him watching me, and I get the sense that he can read my mind. That he knows even my darkest thoughts, the ones I dare not think myself. At times like this I can’t bear to look at him.
“Sometimes,” he says, “we censor a part of ourselves so severely that it becomes repressed in our minds, trapped in some deep crevice of our subconscious. This is our shadow self. Without knowing, we destroy our true spirit to become someone who is accepted, respected, and admired in society.”
“What about you?” I ask. “You are a man admired in society. Do you have a shadow self?”
His eyes widen slightly in surprise. “Yes.”
“You do?”
“To some extent, we all do, but…” He pauses for a moment, pensive. “Yes, I do.”
I smile at his honesty. I did not expect this answer. “So the person you are as you walk around in your daily life isn’t the real you?”
He considers this, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I suppose you could say so.”
“Then how can I meet the real you?”
He laughs. His smile is brilliant, and there is a slight flush to his cheeks. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this expression on him before, it’s almost coy.
“May I?” He lifts his hands in my direction. I have no idea what he’s asking, but I nod and say yes. My blood tingles in anticipation.
He brings his hands to my shoulders. His touch is gentle as he takes off my coat-basque. He pulls my hair aside, carefully, as he does. I become aware of my own breathing. Then he gets down on his knees before me and slowly takes off my shoes one by one. I stare in stunned silence.
“Take off your petticoat.” I do as he says, trembling.
I wonder what he must think of me, of my body.
When I have my petticoat in hand, I hesitate awkwardly, unsure what to do with it, then he takes it from my hand and sets it on the chair by the wall.
Now I’m down to my chemise. I can’t even look at him.
“Sit.”
I perch on the edge of the bed. He tells me to sit back against the pillow and drop my shoulders. I then realize that my shoulders were almost to my ears. Then he sits on the bed, too, facing me. I can’t help but notice he hasn’t taken off any articles of clothing.
He pulls a copper watch from his vest pocket.
He clicks open the cover and holds it up by the chain.
The watch’s hands are thin, delicate silver spades pointing to black, rounded numbers.
He swings the watch gently and directs my gaze to the steady side-to-side motion.
He draws my attention to the ticking sound.
There is something different about his voice.
It’s quieter, fuller. It makes me feel that we are the only two people that exist in the world.
No…It makes me feel that he is the only one that exists in the world.
“You hear nothing but my voice.”
His voice is like a breeze, a soft light in a dark room.
“Imagine that you are ascending a staircase…”
A dark expansive place where I am ascending a staircase.
At the first level, I see myself sitting in Mass a few days ago, nervous and scared that everyone was going to find out my secret.
I resume my ascent, leaving that version of me behind.
At the next level I see myself as a teenager, in my community, sitting in lessons.
I leave that version of me behind also as I go up, and I know it is gone.
At each level I see a new version of me, which I leave behind.
I come to a level where I see myself as a child, playing, and everything I learned in school falls away, gone forever, as I move up the staircase.
At almost the top level, I see myself as an infant with my parents, being baptized. They are giving me a name.
That name, too, stays behind as I move up.
At the top, what is left is the real me.
“You feel different,” he says. “The images and voices of the past do not have the weight on you they once had. They are more like faded photographs. They are distant. You are untethered. You feel an urge to follow your instincts. Your legs and hands lead the way. And you hear my voice. You hear nothing but my voice.”