Letters to Montgomery Clift by Noël Alumit

Author:Noël Alumit [Alumit, Noël]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-59692-927-2
Publisher: M P Publishing Limited
Published: 2002-05-20T16:00:00+00:00

It was late and dark when Amada came into my room. “Something’s wrong,” she said. The only thing I could see was the outline of her body as she stood in the doorway. I switched on the lamp beside my bed, and Amada was scared shitless. Her nightgown was stained red. Her hands were bloody.

“Oh, God. Oh, God,” I said rushing to her. She leaned against me. Her feet were locked together, blood streamed down her legs.

“I have to get your parents. I have to,” I said, laying her on the floor.

I called for Mr. and Mrs. A. They shuffled down the hall. “What’s the matter?” Mr. A asked. He saw Amada and gasped. Mrs. A ran to her, screaming: “Amada, Amada, AMADA!”

I called 911.

In my bedroom, Mr. and Mrs. A huddled around their daughter, rocking her. Amada kept hitting her stomach, yelling over and over again, “STOP! MAKE IT STOP! STOP BLEEDING!” Mr. A yelled louder: “CALM DOWN!!! GODDAMMIT CALM DOWN!!!” And Mrs. A yelled, too. She said nothing in particular.

In the distance, a siren approached, a whirring whistle—ongoing and unceasing. Dogs in the neighborhood reacted by barking, howling. All around me was noise. A cacophony of wailing.

•

At the hospital, Amada slept. She had been there for twenty-four hours. We camped out in the hospital waiting room.

“Do you know what happened?” Mr. A asked again.

I pretended not to hear. I thought about Amada and how she handled Lou going AWOL, disappearing. Disappearances are hard, I knew. Something I began to comprehend was the fleeting nature of human beings. We have the remarkable capacity of leaving others far behind, severing any or all relations. Sometimes by force like my parents. Most times by choice like Lou. Like Robert Bulanan. Like J. Like Auntie Yuna.

“What happened?” Mr. A asked again. I shook my head I don’t know. Mrs. A clutched a rosary, reciting Hail Marys, praying. I wanted to tell her that prayers get tangled up like balloon strings.

I stared at the wall, desperately wanting a book. I wanted to wander the hospital, look for a thick medical book, and blotch.

A doctor walked into the room. “Your daughter will be fine,” he said. “She will have to stay in the hospital for a few days. She began to hemorrhage from her abortion, but she’ll be fine. If you have the name of the doctor, I’d like to have it. He did very shoddy work. He should be reported.”

Silence.

“Abortion? We did not know she had one,” Mr. A said.

The doctor took a deep breath realizing what he’d done.

“May we see her?” Mrs. A asked.

“Certainly, but let her rest,” he said, and led us to her room.

Amada was unconscious. Her breathing was slow and even. Mrs. A caressed her face with incredible warmth. Mr. A looked solemnly at her, sitting on a chair by the bed, shaking his head. I stood against the wall, barely breathing, afraid of upsetting the quiet of the room.

I closed my eyes, letting my mind wander away, far, far away.

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