“And if I had noticed, would I tell you?” Celia teased. “You think I have forgotten the time you threatened to run one of my A-cup bras up the flag pole if I kept flirting with some creep you had a crush on?”
Laughter filled the kitchen like sunshine as they reached across the table and clasped hands, needing that physical contact to reflect an emotional closeness that had survived loves serious and false, found and lost. For a few minutes it seemed like old times, their discussing the physical attributes of whatever boy or man had turned up their hormonal thermostats. In the old days such an opening would have been followed by interminable analyses of attendant emotional issues. But Franci and Philip did not appear to have any issues, and Celia was reluctant to mention her noticeably long engagement to Luis. Celia could tell that Franci expected it, but when nothing was forthcoming, she tactfully changed the subject.
“What is your presentation on this time?”
“The damaging effects of second-hand smoke on the respiratory system of small children, infants in particular. And government avoidance of the issue.”
“Madre de Dios! Are you looking for sainthood as a martyr, or what?”
“I doubt it will come to that,” Celia protested with an uneasy smile. “We have plenty of data. Somebody has to go public with it.”
“If you say so.” Franci rose and began clearing the table. “Go take your shower. I can already smell you, and the pressure you’ll be under in that lecture hall will have you sweating like a horse. No, leave the dishes; I’ll have them done by the time you’re dressed. I hope you brought something cool?”
“A summer dress my mother would have approved of,” Celia said primly, heading for the bathroom.
“It’s going to be a scorcher,” Franci yelled through the bathroom door. “Forget the stockings. In fact, forget your underwear too.”
“Neither of our mothers would approve of that,” Celia called back. “And mine I hope will be watching. Guardian angel with a flaming sword, waiting to strike down anybody who gives me a hard time.”
Once on the medical school campus they went their separate ways, Franci to her office, Celia to the auditorium where the conference was being held. She slid into the front-row seat reserved for speakers just as the first one was adjusting his microphone.
Celia listened attentively to statistics that confirmed that broken bones and serious head injuries were becoming increasingly frequent as more bicycles competed with more cars. The only fault she found with the doctor’s approach to his subject was that he neglected to note that the prevention of such injuries was more a matter of public policy than medicine: helmets, safety classes, more bike lanes, and hard dividers on existing bike lanes. They all cost money, of course. But surely the cost of prevention compared to the cost of treating such injuries was worth mentioning?
Next was a presentation by a doctor whom Celia knew slightly. It was on the subject of non-drug alternatives that could be substituted for drugs not easy to obtain because of the embargo. The results of a study that showed that hyperactivity could often be brought under control by a combination of physical exercise and massage therapy gave Celia a ripple of satisfaction. For the past five years she had been prescribing just that for children suffering from any disorder that she suspected might result from or be exacerbated by tension.
The next presenter, as if fearing that too much focus on children’s health problems might lead to negative publicity, rehashed studies showing Cuba’s children to be among the healthiest on earth. The statistics were well known and had repeatedly been verified by the World Health Organization. Celia allowed her mind to drift. Or rather, it drifted of its own accord, to a plan she had begun to formulate on the train ride. Her attention snapped back when her name was called.
She moved to the podium and presented the results of her own study on what she believed to be the most prevalent health issue presently facing Cuban children: asthma. The assembled pediatricians listened politely. Given the number of asthmatic children they were treating, they hardly needed her review of the statistics to tell them how serious a problem it was. “Asthma and most other respiratory ailments in children are aggravated by, if not precipitated by, smoking parents,” she summarized.
When Celia could see that they were in comfortable agreement, heads nodding, she dropped her bombshelclass="underline" “Government policies exacerbate the problem.”
There was a rustle of unease as she went on to make points no one could deny. Cuba was a smoking culture. Tobacco was a major generator of foreign exchange and something for which Cuba was famous. But which was more important—healthy sales or healthy children? When she completed her presentation of the data, Celia concluded, “I agree with our colleague, Dr. Caicedo. Without an adequate supply of drugs to alleviate the symptoms of certain illnesses, we must place heavier emphasis on prevention. The government has demonstrated its concern by raising taxes on cigarettes, causing many Cubans to cut back on smoking. But is it not the government’s responsibility, and ours, to educate parents on the harmful effects of second-hand smoke, particularly as it relates to their children’s respiratory problems?”
Letting the question hang in the air, Celia picked up her notes to indicate the conclusion of her presentation. The discomfort of the audience was palpable. All of the previous speakers had been peppered with questions, but for Celia, there were none. She waited a long minute, then said, “Gracias para su atención” and left the stage.
The schedule indicated a lunch break so Celia did not return to her seat but followed the audience out of the auditorium. Doors to the dining hall were not yet open, but coffee urns had been set up in the lobby. Perhaps, she thought, it was too personal an issue. Smokers, who included at least half of the doctors present, were embarrassed to speak up and non-smokers were reluctant to pose questions for fear of offending their smoking colleagues. Perhaps they would find it easier to discuss the issue in private.
Celia took a cup of coffee and moved to a quiet corner. No one approached her. By the time she had finished the coffee, the lobby was blue with cigarette smoke.
Impatience welled up in her. She wanted to shout, Shame on you for resting on the laurels of what our health system has accomplished and flaunting statistics to prove that our children are the world’s healthiest! Children are not statistics and some of ours are not healthy! Why are we not discussing what we can do for them?
Celia did not shout, of course. She remained silent, and alone, in her semi-quiet corner. But she knew what she was going to do. She just had not known until this moment that she definitely was going to do it. She flung her paper cup into a trash container and headed across the medical school campus to Franci’s office.
The door, bronze-plated to identify it as the office of Dr. Franchesca Cumba, head of the school’s psychiatric department, stood ajar. Celia paused, again undecided. If she was going to seek professional help, who better than Franci? But Franci would only tell her what she already knew: that the hallucinations were being generated by her own subconscious and she needed to pay attention to what they were trying to tell her.
Twice Celia put her hand on the door to push it open, and twice hesitated. Two other things gnawed at her. First, that she did not want to be seen as “not normal” by her best friend, and second, barely admitted to herself, she was not sure she wanted the hallucinations to go away—at least, not yet. Disturbing though they were, she felt that they were leading her. But where? Into an imaginary past, which might be another way of saying into lunacy? Or toward something unknown but infinitely tantalizing? Quickly, before she could be immobilized by indecisiveness, Celia pushed open the door.