Child’s Play

Setting: León, Spain, 2021.

She examined the back of her hands, frail and thin, almost see-through, and it occurred to her that she was turning into a ghost already. Isaura had turned ninety last fall, and it was the saddest birthday she had ever celebrated. Because of the COVID pandemic and the lockdown that Spain had become notorious for in the first months after the outbreak, she spent the day alone in her big apartment. Elena, her Guatemalan caretaker of eighteen years, could not even come to have a cup of tea with her or bring her the chocolate mousse cake Isaura loved so much. She had always had a sweet tooth, and it was one of the last indulgences she could afford at this age.

Isaura sat in an old-fashioned beige recliner chair with a floral pattern. She used to be a tall woman but had now shrunk to average height, thin, with delicate grey hair that she always kept tied in a bun these days, and deep blue eyes that still had plenty of life in them. Her blouse was made of the finest silk and her skirt was old and ruffled, making for a curious combination. She wore a pair of gold earrings and a vintage pearl necklace with such casual ease that they revealed a person who clearly once belonged to high society.

She lifted her head and looked around the living room. Another chair, just like the one she was sitting in, was on her left. A couch with the same design on her right side. In the center of the set was a heavy stone table that reached up to her knees and that she liked to rest her feet on when she knitted or watched television. The room was big and included a long dining table with six chairs she never used flanked by a glass cabinet with pieces of fine porcelain she inherited from her mother. A large shelf filled with books was placed along the wall on her left with a hollow spot where the TV set was placed.

To her right, the whole wall that overlooked the street below was made up of a mosaic of windows, some of which could be opened. In the past year, this high perch on the fourth floor had been her opening into the world. Since people were not allowed to leave their homes, she would come out every night at 9 pm and applaud the efforts of the health workers who were on the front lines of the fight against the pandemic. This was a communal event that took place everywhere across the country, always at the same hour, and it meant the world to the people who had this one opportunity to see their neighbors and feel like they were taking part in something bigger than themselves. Years will pass, she thought, and people will not believe that someone could put a whole nation under house arrest.

Prison. That word came up in her inner monologue quite a bit. When she was young, Isaura was an outgoing person, always ready to go for a walk or have a cup of coffee with a friend. That is how she met Juan, her husband of thirty years. He approached her in a bar on a rainy afternoon in the summer of 1948. He used his sister, whom she had known from the time they were in secondary school, to make his introduction. Juan was a quiet man with determination etched on his face since childhood. Isaura saw right away that she was dealing with someone she could rely on later in life. He was from a wealthy family and a good provider. The only thing he could not give her was a child, something that stung them both in their twenties and thirties, but by the time they came into their forties, they had made peace with it. She always remembered that decade as the best of her life. They did not want for money and were not bothered by the lack of a larger family, and they felt they had the whole world to themselves. They went out with friends, traveled, and bought this apartment in the heart of the city.

Just when she thought she knew what life was, Juan died three days before his fiftieth birthday. He had always had heart issues, but they never thought that his easygoing lifestyle would create problems for him this early. Friends and family helped her pick up the pieces, but they had their own lives and soon she was alone. That was the first time she felt her big apartment was really a tiny cell, a trap she fell into without thinking. The world around her was changing – Spain had transformed from a dictatorship into a democracy – making her more aware of her isolation and a deep sense of ennui.

It took her years before she realized that life could be different. Better even. She reconnected with old friends and started going out more. Her friend Rosa was part of a salsa circle – a group of middle-aged women who came together once a week to dance, often in one of the city’s many parks when the weather permitted – and Isaura joined them, at first reluctantly. As time went on, she let her hair down and gave in to the dance routine that felt liberating and sometimes even childlike in its innocence and simplicity. That led to her first yoga lessons and Friday nights out at the local bar, all as part of circles within circles in the new community she was happy to belong to in her fifties.

She got up and walked to the window. It was a sunny spring day outside. The streets were not as full as they would normally be this time of year because of the pandemic. Those that were brave enough to venture outside were all wearing their mandatory surgical masks. It had been a while since she left her apartment. Very few people her age did these days. She sighed as she turned her head away and started toward the kitchen.

Isaura never worked a day in her life and never had to worry about money. Between what she inherited from her father – a well-to-do businessman – and what she received from Juan, who had interests in various businesses including a dairy factory and a chain of funeral homes, she was always taken care of financially. This did not make her callous as it did so many other people, born into privilege. Isaura always took care of the needy in her neighborhood as she was a well-known presence in the offices of all local charity organizations, both Catholic and secular. She donated money and volunteered, working with refugees and women who fled their homes because of domestic violence. Whatever good luck God gave her, she knew she had to share it with those who were less fortunate in this world.

As the years passed, Isaura noticed her body was starting to give out, little by little. Two days before her sixtieth birthday, she slipped on a patch of ice in front of her apartment building and hurt her back. It took her months to recover, although sharp pain in her lower back never really went away, and she would feel it every time the weather was about to change for the rest of her life. Next came high blood pressure. She had to take medication every day and watch what she ate closely. But the worst blow came in her early seventies when her friends started passing away. The days of salsa and yoga had long passed, but now even the bridge circle at her local bar was beginning to thin out. She accepted it with persevering tenacity with which she had beaten all other challenges in her life, but she knew from the start this was different. There was no going back, just slowing down the inevitable decline. Her world was in full retreat, and the ring around her started to shrink, until it only encompassed two people – Elena, whom she hired to take care of her when she saw that she could not go through the day on her own anymore, and more recently Cecilia, the ten-year-old girl from the apartment across the hall who had been her lifeline since the pandemic broke out.

Isaura was looking at her now through the kitchen window. The kitchen was small, with a dishwasher and a washing machine on one side and a small round table on the other. There was another TV set across the room from the table, and a tiny pantry next to the window where she was standing now, looking at the girl. Cecilia’s whole family came from Peru fifteen years ago, and the girl was clearly indigenous, which made her stick out in a small northern city with few immigrants. Isaura always thought she was the cutest girl there ever was, with her Spanish accent that was so strikingly different from the way the rest of her family spoke. She was a talkative girl with lots of friends her age, but since the pandemic started, she did not go out as much, and she mostly played alone in the atrium. That was where she was now, playing hopscotch and counting her steps out loud. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro.

Cecilia’s family knew Isaura was all alone, and they wanted to help. Every morning, usually between 9 and 11 o’clock, Cecilia would ring the bell and Isaura would open the door with a big smile. The girl would always say “Good morning,” and “Is there anything I could get for you at the supermarket or at the pharmacy today?” Isaura appreciated the gesture because she needed food and medication, but also because Cecilia was the only person she could talk to in person during the day. When she brought the things she had bought an hour or so later, Isaura would ask her to come into the kitchen and she would give her a piece of candy or a glass of orange juice. They would sit together and talk a bit, and after a while both of them got used to each other and felt comfortable being together like that.

The sound of water boiling. Isaura walked over to the stove and turned it off. She sat down at the kitchen table and her thoughts wandered off to March 8 last year, International Women’s Day, the last day she stepped out of her apartment. Her bony fingers carefully placed a teabag into her cup. All the feminists and left-of-center parties were there with their supporters waving red and purple flags, the usual suspects on such a day. The streets were full. It was a beautiful sunny day and it seemed all of León was out celebrating the first warm day after five months of chilly dread. She had seen something on the news about an outbreak of a virus in northern Italy, but it seemed so distant from this scene she was seeing that she gave it no thought. The world seemed bright and full of hope as it always did that time of year.

One week later, to the day, on March 15, all of Spain closed down. People were told to remain in their homes, military police were out on the streets in large numbers, and no complaints mattered. On TV, the presenters that the whole country had grown accustomed to and genuinely trusted were spending countless hours telling their viewers how many people were hospitalized that day, how many died, and how important it was to stay at home. For months, the only people who could go out were those who had an emergency, had to go out to get food or medication, or had a dog to walk. Interestingly enough, she thought, no such considerations were made for small children. But as much as she resented the fear that oozed off of her TV screen, she could not do anything about the fact that this new virus was most lethal for people her own age. In the first three months of the pandemic, two women from her bridge group had died, and another was in the hospital with a bad prognosis. She loathed to admit it, but fear started growing in her heart.

At first, Isaura told herself that there was no use in thumbing her nose at the rules because there were three soldiers on her street that she could clearly see from her window, and she was too old to play hide-and-seek with them. Elena was still able to come over once a week and bring her what she needed and things seemed somewhat under control. But as time went by, and the number of soldiers she could see from her window thinned out, she started to make excuses for not going out. The supermarket was right next to her building, so what would be the use of going such a short distance, especially if she lacked the strength to carry anything heavier than a baguette anyway? And yes, people wore masks for the most part, but they sure liked to touch things at the supermarket, and handling that filthy cart would have been too much to even consider, she thought. Her friends, the few that were left, were just as scared to go out, so any kind of social gathering, in addition to being illicit, was too risky and basically out of the question. And so, little by little, Isaura started retreating from the world.

Uno, dos, tres, cuatro. Isaura could hear Cecilia counting in the atrium again. Suddenly, she felt a pain in her chest rising up. She had been feeling it come and go for a few days now and every time it would spark a tingling at the top of her spine. It was fear of death awakening like a cough she could not suppress. After pausing for a few seconds, she managed to get up and walk out of the kitchen. She made a left turn through a long hallway so common in modern Spanish architecture and walked past two bedrooms and two bathrooms – all on her left-hand side – on her way to her bedroom. How Cecilia enjoyed walking down that hallway! Well, she did not really walk, she skipped, and she always counted or sang something to herself, she thought.

Isaura did not have children of her own, and she had never noticed this before. Children made everything around them part of some inner game they were playing with themselves. If the girl counted books or tiles as she passed them by, they had to be an even or an odd number when she finished. Or she could only step on certain lines on the wooden floors and not others. She was completely consumed by this inner domain of hers and only tangentially connected to what adults called the real world. So interesting, she thought as she went through her jewelry box. This is why they needed constant supervision by adults. They were scared of silly things like the dark or the boogeyman, but they would easily overlook real danger while they were consumed by their play, like when they played soccer in the streets and chased after the ball with no thought given to the busy traffic around them.

Fear was a strange thing, indeed, Isaura thought as she held up her favorite pearl earrings. She offered to let Cecilia try them on the week before, and the girl was hesitant at first. But then Isaura turned it into a game, telling her about how her mother had given her these earrings and made her pose in the mirror a certain way to see if they matched the shape of her face. The girl took to it and tried to imitate the posture. How it made Isaura happy to see her like that! Her bedroom was small – just a twin bed, a crucifix above it, a nightstand, and two old armoires to store her clothes. The sound of the doorbell interrupted her thoughts. That must be her now. But she had already dropped off the groceries this morning. Strange, she thought. She got up, put the jewelry box at the back of the bigger armoire, and headed for the front door.

When she opened the door, Cecilia was twirling around in her beautiful white dress with a large ribbon at her waist. An angel, if there ever was one, Isaura thought.

“Hello, dear,” Isaura said. “What are you doing back so soon? Would you like to come in and look at my old pictures again?”

“Actually, I thought we could go out for a walk. How long has it been since you went out?” the girl asked.

“Well…” Isaura felt like she was gasping for air all of a sudden. “I’m feeling a bit under the weather today. Why don’t we do it tomorrow?”

“You said that yesterday,” the girl replied.

“Tomorrow. I promise,” Isaura said feebly. She knew Cecilia could see right through her lies. 

***

Isaura and Cecilia were sitting at the foot of the bed in Isaura’s bedroom. They were going through old black-and-white pictures Isaura had taken out of a box that was now placed next to her.

“Wow, you were so beautiful when you were young,” said the girl. “I mean, you still are.” She went red in the face.

“Oh, it’s okay. I thought my grandmother had been born a shriveled old prune when I was your age,” Isaura replied. “Look at this one.”

Isaura took out a photo of herself and some friends in Plaza de las Cortes Leonesas, one of the city’s main squares. She was in her thirties, with a big smile and wearing a wonderful white dress with a large flower pattern across her chest. Next to her was a sinewy girl in her late teens, and two young men in their twenties. One had a big moustache and was slightly overweight, and the other one was short and thin with a smirk on his face.

“Speaking of young folks, what do you say to this?” Isaura asked.

Cecilia took the photo in her hand and examined it closely, but Isaura could tell she hadn’t a clue who the other people were.

“You don’t recognize them?” she asked.

Cecilia shook her head no.

“What if I told you that you know all of these people?” she asked.

The girl took a real interest now. She stared at the picture for a long moment.

“This man looks familiar,” she said. “Ignacio?” she said, almost in disbelief.

Isaura laughed out loud. “You got it. He always looked kind of funny, didn’t he?”

“I feel bad now,” Cecilia said, laughing. “Every immigrant in this city knows Ignacio. He helped my parents get residence. He even brought my parents food when my mom was pregnant with me and couldn’t work. He’s an angel. Was he always like that?”

“Always,” Isaura replied. “He studied to be a priest, but he was too left-wing for what the Church was comfortable with back then, so he had to quit. But they let him get a job with Caritas. Personally, I think that was the best thing they could do for him. And this city.”

“Amazing,” Cecilia remarked. “What about the other two?”

“Well, don’t tell me you don’t recognize Manuela?” Isaura said. “You can see her in this same square almost every day.”

“Oh, my God!” Cecilia exclaimed. “She is always out and about. She is so nice, always says hi to us and talks to us for a long time. My mom says she is loaded.”

“Indeed,” said Isaura, looking at the girl sideways. “Her maternal grandfather was the richest man in León. Her father, on the other hand, was an artist. They are… Well, sometimes people in that world are not the most reliable folks out there.”

“What does that mean?” the girl inquired.

“He left Manuela’s mother when Manuela was five,” Isaura said. “She never saw him after that.”

“That’s horrible,” the girl replied.

“Yeah, it didn’t help her self-esteem either,” Isaura said. “She never really had a job or a family, but she gave a lot of money for charity. A lot of the money Ignacio gives to refugees comes from her, you know.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that,” Cecilia said. “And the other guy?” She pointed toward the plump young man with a moustache.

“Don’t tell me you don’t recognize him either,” Isaura said and stretched out her hands toward the girl with her palms up.

“The beggar?” the girl asked.

“Fernando,” the old woman replied. “He didn’t really change that much. Except maybe he gained more weight over the years.”

“Oh, I always try to avoid him,” the girl said. “He comes up to us and starts talking about whatever and won’t leave until you give him some change.”

“But he never mentions money,” Isaura noted. “That’s his strategy. He bores you to death and you have to pay him to leave.”

They both laughed out loud, but Isaura stopped suddenly and put her hand on her chest.

“Are you okay?” the girl asked.

“Yes, just a bit out of breath,” Isaura said. “Do you mind getting me a glass of water?”

Cecilia ran out towards the kitchen. The old woman was alone now, sitting on the bed. She could feel that familiar tingling feeling spring up at the base of her neck.

***

It took her a moment to get her bearings after she opened her eyes. Isaura was sitting in her flower-patterned chair in her living room with her knitting on her lap. She took a long look at the sweater she had begun making for Cecilia, laid it on the couch next to her, and got up slowly. Last thing she remembered was being short of breath and feeling a sharp pain in her chest.

She staggered across the room towards the entrance that gave way to the foyer. Little by little, she felt her strength return. She watched her feet as she moved down the long hallway toward her bedroom. Step by step. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro. She could almost hear Cecilia’s voice in her head. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro. She smiled and tried to make sure her feet never touched the lines between the parquet squares. Just like Cecilia would. When she reached the end of the hallway, she turned around and headed back. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro.

There was no pain anymore, just a fear that it would strike her at any moment. Isaura made a conscious effort not to think about it. She wished she could skip as she glided down the hall, but she knew that would have been a bit much for her age. As she was walking past the two bedrooms on her right, she noticed that it was a sunny day outside. Birds were chirping and spring was once again in the air. Now or never, she thought. She focused on her feet. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro. No lines. Keep moving. She reached the foyer and her gaze fell on the giant wooden front door. Just at that moment, the doorbell rang. It couldn’t be. Cecilia.

No turning back now. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro. She would not disappoint the little girl again. Just before she reached for the doorknob, she hesitated one last time. This was not fear, more an attempt to savor the moment, to recognize just how momentous it was for her to make this step. She turned the key and opened the door. A stream of steady, warm white light bathed her whole body, and she smiled like a child would. It made her think of how her mother used to wrap her arms around her and kiss the top of her head.

***

When firefighters found Isaura later that day, she was still seated in her flower-patterned chair with her knitting across her lap. Cecilia’s family had called them when she failed to open the door and answer the phone throughout the day. She was an old woman, and they saw many cases like hers, so they did not find this situation strange. However, the gentle smile she had on her face when they found her did seem quite extraordinary.