were a day like any other, put her to bed and told her a story in which there was never a wicked step-mother, and turned off the lamp on her bedside table, and kissed her goodnight, images of the day filled the horizon as she closed her eyes, and, just before she fell asleep, Sara realized that she could remember nothing more than odd images in black and white, like figures cut from old photographs, people and objects the color of things that only half-exist,
Sara Gómez would never have declared out loud that she loved children, but she was always emphatically on their side. She hadn’t had any children of her own, and she had never spent much time with any of her nephews or nieces, so she had never experienced even the basics—what they weighed, how they felt, their unique smell—but when she saw a baby in the park as she sat enjoying the sun, she liked to observe the way it became fascinated by its own hands or by the leaves on a tree fluttering in the wind.With babies of friends or family, she was more circumspect; it terrified her that a confident mother might try to please her by depositing the surprisingly warm, light bundle in her arms, a creature with a fragile head and soft skin that scratched the air with its ten delicate little nails and waggled its tiny podgy legs. She preferred older children, who didn’t disconcert her by asking to be helped onto the toilet, but who still faced the world with the wide-eyed puzzlement that optimistic parents took for innocence. Pre-adolescents, with their sudden mood swings and ability to go from hysterical laughter, violent anger to torrential tears all within the space of a minute, scared her as much as babies, but she almost always found a way of understanding the sharp edges of their sadness. Then, when they turned eighteen, she lost interest in them, as she did with most adults.
Although she could almost never do anything for them and might only ever get a weak smile in return for her efforts, Sara stood up for children, defended them, supported them, silently encouraging them as they passed by the periphery of her life. She observed them from a distance, tight-lipped and alert, never intervening but always trying to anticipate their reactions, to guess what sort of questions they were trying not to ask themselves, and what sort of answers they were avoiding, for Sara was searching for herself in their embraces and their quarrels, in their joy and their boredom, in their identity and in all the people they pretended to be. In all the children she encountered, she tried to find the little girl she had once been and to understand what had happened, what it was she had felt when she had so carefully avoided her own feelings, what had become twisted and broken. She was convinced that in the chaotic recesses of her mind there slumbered an answer that she might never entirely decode, a simple formula for hating or for loving her own memories.
Sara was used to other adults interpreting her interest in children as unfulfilled maternal instincts, and she realized immediately that her new cleaner would be no different. Nor was she surprised when Maribel’s initial joy at her son feeling so much at home in a stranger’s house changed into dark mutterings about how all this fuss would ruin the boy forever. Sara never took Maribel’s fears seriously as she felt that her own experiences protected her from any excess, Andrés from any lack, and Maribel from her own jealousy.And she knew that spoiling a child wasn’t the same as paying attention to it, offering to have a long, open-ended conversation about anything under the sun.
This was the connection between Sara and Andrés, a relationship without expensive presents, empty kisses, or showy displays of affection. While Maribel cleaned the kitchen, Sara and Andrés went out into the garden and chatted. She asked him about the winds, how many types there were, the significance of each one, what effect they
Sara Gómez would never have declared out loud that she loved children, but she was always emphatically on their side. She hadn’t had any children of her own, and she had never spent much time with any of her nephews or nieces, so she had never experienced even the basics—what they weighed, how they felt, their unique smell—but when she saw a baby in the park as she sat enjoying the sun, she liked to observe the way it became fascinated by its own hands or by the leaves on a tree fluttering in the wind.With babies of friends or family, she was more circumspect; it terrified her that a confident mother might try to please her by depositing the surprisingly warm, light bundle in her arms, a creature with a fragile head and soft skin that scratched the air with its ten delicate little nails and waggled its tiny podgy legs. She preferred older children, who didn’t disconcert her by asking to be helped onto the toilet, but who still faced the world with the wide-eyed puzzlement that optimistic parents took for innocence. Pre-adolescents, with their sudden mood swings and ability to go from hysterical laughter, violent anger to torrential tears all within the space of a minute, scared her as much as babies, but she almost always found a way of understanding the sharp edges of their sadness. Then, when they turned eighteen, she lost interest in them, as she did with most adults.
Although she could almost never do anything for them and might only ever get a weak smile in return for her efforts, Sara stood up for children, defended them, supported them, silently encouraging them as they passed by the periphery of her life. She observed them from a distance, tight-lipped and alert, never intervening but always trying to anticipate their reactions, to guess what sort of questions they were trying not to ask themselves, and what sort of answers they were avoiding, for Sara was searching for herself in their embraces and their quarrels, in their joy and their boredom, in their identity and in all the people they pretended to be. In all the children she encountered, she tried to find the little girl she had once been and to understand what had happened, what it was she had felt when she had so carefully avoided her own feelings, what had become twisted and broken. She was convinced that in the chaotic recesses of her mind there slumbered an answer that she might never entirely decode, a simple formula for hating or for loving her own memories.
Sara was used to other adults interpreting her interest in children as unfulfilled maternal instincts, and she realized immediately that her new cleaner would be no different. Nor was she surprised when Maribel’s initial joy at her son feeling so much at home in a stranger’s house changed into dark mutterings about how all this fuss would ruin the boy forever. Sara never took Maribel’s fears seriously as she felt that her own experiences protected her from any excess, Andrés from any lack, and Maribel from her own jealousy.And she knew that spoiling a child wasn’t the same as paying attention to it, offering to have a long, open-ended conversation about anything under the sun.
This was the connection between Sara and Andrés, a relationship without expensive presents, empty kisses, or showy displays of affection. While Maribel cleaned the kitchen, Sara and Andrés went out into the garden and chatted. She asked him about the winds, how many types there were, the significance of each one, what effect they
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