-“Lucy, it’s called ‘Crib Death Syndrome’ it is relatively common in newborns up to a year old.” Ana said this in a soothing tone.
Ana was the therapist visiting Lucy at the county hospital where she had been taken after her meltdown, which had occurred at the fish processing plant.
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Lucy was programmed to soldier on; to simply forge ahead even under the harshest physical and psychological hardship.
Just the ride north had tested her mettle, and that she had survived.
She thought that she would go insane during the non-stop, twenty-four trip originating in Puebla inside a delivery truck.
In this truck one-hundred illegal immigrants were pressed together like sardines in an overheated, insulated environment without access to water, food, adequate air supply, or a chance to relieve themselves on a toilet.
The experience was forever ingrained in her psych - it was unforgettable. It had been a sauna. A stinking, claustrophobic calamity, drenched in human sweat, misery, and odorous human despair.
The women took their blouses off, along with their last remnants of dignity.
How can one grasp to the last shreds of dignity when you are transported like cattle, and one had to pull down one's pants in front of ninety-nine other people to defecate? What can one say? “I’m sorry, I gotta go, please don’t mind the stench?” as she wrapped the redolent, steaming turd in a plastic bag, just like the dog walkers do for their pampered canines.
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The rude reply the coyotes offered when too many complained was, "Shut up cabrones! We are almost there!"
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Yes, Lucy was a trooper. She had worked through extreme temperatures, hunger, sexual molestation in the fields of Salinas, worked two jobs during her pregnancy - she had tested her mettle.
Naturally she assumed that she could go back to work, just after she buried her baby. If she took more time off, she was afraid to lose her post. Besides, one came here to work - one lived to work, what other reason was there to leave behind home, loved ones, and the sense of belonging?
After three weeks of automatic pilot mode, something triggered her meltdown. There was a collection at the plant for a baby shower for one of the women about to pop.
Suddenly, Lucy stopped her work, which was to be part of a continuum flow, to keep abreast of the rhythm of production.
When her supervisor came to her side to inquire what the matter was, Lucy seemed to gasp for air, as she clutched at her chest, seemingly unable to breathe or talk. She was shaken by the arm and prompted to respond while someone called the paramedics.
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Lucy was able then to formulate an incomprehensible and primal cry. The piercing cry of a wounded animal, inarticulate yet fierce; this originating from the very core of her palpilating womb. As if from the depths of mother earth, debilitated and sickened by man; these cries made the hair on the back of the neck stand up.
Lucy screamed incessantly while falling to her knees, until her throat was hoarse, and the paramedics injected her with a tranquilizer.
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Mario could not be more solicitous. He picked up Lucy from the hospital stay, and told her that she did not have to go back to work, until she was ready to. He said that he would pay for her share of the room, food, and utilities.
Lucy did not reply. She was an automaton.
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She did not resist when Mario took off the barrier which separated their small room. Mario took down the dividing curtain. He took to her bed also. At first, it was only to hold her spoon-like fashion. Ultimately, his baser instincts took over and he took what he wanted. He took her leaking milk; he took her from behind, uncaring that her lights were off, or that she was as dry as a paper towel.
Lucy did not care either; the lights were off.
To be continued….
