Rice and Beans

Rice and Beans

by Eva Reyes

It was a Saturday morning when I got the call. Shortly after 10am Dr. Allam informed me that you tested positive for Coronavirus. Our relationship had frayed years ago- the result of bitterness, angry love, and each of us being just a little too headstrong. I had just come back into your life after finding out you had lung cancer. Honestly, the lung cancer was a relief- something I came to expect after a lifetime of watching you smoke a pack of Marlboro Reds for days.  

Funny story, when I was a kid I remember my mom collecting the box-tops. Buying multiple Costco size cartons in order to collect the proof-of-purchase. Before it was outlawed, cigarette companies used to have rewards programs. You know, collect 20 box tops from cereal boxes and you get a pencil case or some shit- except this was with cigarettes and instead of a pencil case you got a Marlboro bomber jacket, a small tool kit, or one of those Billy Big Mouth Bass fish that sang “don’t worry be happy.” Somehow even as a child, I felt that smoke would be the death of you.

It was the lung cancer that brought me back into your life; the virus that pushed me to stay. 

Before all of this, I was content with never seeing you again. I was prepared for someone to tell me you died. I wasn’t ready for someone to tell me you were dying. Now, I felt this almost unreasonable anger brought on by what could have been unanswerable questions. 

Why me? Why us? Why now? 

When Dr. Allam called he thought you were dying. All he could do was give me statistics. He said your father tested positive for coronavirus and it doesn’t look good. He said because he came in with the lung cancer his chances of surviving are low. Then he said the mortality rate of coronavirus for people with pre-existing lung conditions was 92%...then he asked me about a do-not-resuscitate order, advance directives, and power of attorney. 

I don’t know if it was supposed to comfort me or slap me in the face with reality but all I felt was shock. I tried to keep my composure but how do you do that when you thought your dad was dying and then someone tells you, “actually your dad is dying a lot sooner than you expected?” 

So I called my mom. Then I called my mom again. I think I had to have called her about 13 times before I had the idea to call my brother. When he finally answered I didn’t say more than “I need you to go to mom’s house and tell her to call me right now” 

After 2 hours of missed calls- she called me back. 

In the following hours I felt something like water slowly rising at my feet. Information seeped in through the phone and flooded my apartment. When it was at my knees I paddled my feet; my toes wiggled through coagulated blood. Each time I picked up the phone there was an outpour of ghostly matter that expanded through the room. As it rose up to my chest I felt the world stop. Maybe it was something about the density that made my lungs constrict-I wanted to cough, weez, gasp for air that just wasn’t there. Instead an information sludge filled the space. As it peaked above my nose as my flesh held onto the tiniest morsel of clarity. The hope that this would soon be over. 

On day 21, I took my next breath. 

You were released from the hospital. I packed my things, boarded an empty train, and went by your bedside.  

The first thing you ask for was “rice and beans” - a plate rooted in our Jamaican background. I tell you I don’t know how to make that dish. Still, you asked that I message my aunt for the recipe. I tell you it’s 6am in Los Angeles and you say “puta madre” and settle with not having it. Then we have breakfast and you go for your morning nap. At 8am on the dot California time I message my aunt on Facebook. 

 

Eva Reyes: Hi Tia Lesvia, como e estado?

Le estaba mandando un mensaje porque mi Papa está pidiendo rice and beans y me mando a preguntarle si es posible que me de la receta para que se los puedo hacer. Por favor y Gracias

Lesvia Campbell: Hola buenos días, te voy enviar los ingredientes el problema de esa receta que tendrías que ver hacer ese arroz y calcular la cantidad te voy a escribir para una libra de arroz

1 lb de arroz

2 tazas de frijol colorado

2 latas de leche de coco

5 hojas de laurel

Tomillo

2 dientes de ajo y 2 tomates

Sal al gusto 

Pones a cocer el frijol una media hora con el ajo y el tomate no le pongas mucha agua cuando veas que está medio cocido le agregas la leche de coco el tomillo y el laurel lo sazonas con la sal le puedes poner 1/4 de taza de aceite para que no te quede reseco   Cuando haya hervido unos 10 minutos le echas el arroz y lo cocinas a juego lento. Si antes de echarle el arroz ves que tiene mucho líquido saca un poco en una taza y si ves que lo necesita se lo vas agregando poco a poco.

Eva Reyes: Muchísimas gracias Tia. Se lo agradezco

Lesvia Campbell: De nada amor cuídate, y dale mis saludos a tu papá

That morning while you slept, I ran to the store for the ingredients and made the rice and beans for you. As I followed the recipe my mind began to wander. I thought about how few women in my family know how to make it (only 2 I can think of off the top of my mind) and now me. Somewhere in my ruminitions I wandered off. I fell down the looking glass. I caught my reflection on every painting that lay hung in the maze of mind. A family playing poker at a large mahogany table. Children ran the tapestry lined halls as curls bounced behind them. There I saw my grandmother. A portrait of her hugged the wall. She was cooking, conjuring really. A spoon in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Plumes of smoke stained the wall. I smelled the faded clouds of black and grey exhaustion as they stained her hand and now my memories. 

Shit. 

I burned the rice and beans. 

While my mind played out a carousel of family portraits, I got dizzy on remembrance and lost track of what I was doing. 

When you awoke we sat at the table together. I served you the least burned portion of rice and beans but you complained about the taste of smoke. Something about the fog took over any desire you had to eat. Still, you ate the steak and platanos I paired with the dish and called me your favorite personal chef. Inside, I promised myself to do better next time. 

After a few weeks, things started to feel normal again. You were eating well, sharing stories, and of course, complaining about everything.  One day when your nurse Dina came, you insisted she sit with you so you could flip through old photo albums and tell her about the man you used to be. Small but mighty. Rebellious and Independent. Though your voice had lost some of its strength you somehow mustered up the energy to perform an old version of yourself. You so wanted to be the man in those old pictures again. “Dile que yo era alegre!” “Tell her I was happy!” 

Dina knew you were happy, but she also knew you were very sick. After that visit your doctor called and insisted I take you to the emergency room. Dina found your blood pressure low, an elevated heart rate, and a fever. Dr. Allam explained when Dina called it prompted him to check your recent blood work, it turned out your hemoglobin level was dangerously low and would need a blood transfusion. I took you to the emergency room the next morning and you were hospitalized that day. It turned out that not only did you need blood, but you still had the virus. 

Today is your birthday... and your 6th consecutive day in the hospital. 

Your doctor wishes you a happy 70th birthday.

I want to tell you that I learned how to make the rice and beans without burning it. I also found a place to get you the cherimoya fruit you asked for. I want to tell you that our family is coming to visit, and that I’m supposed to be graduating from NYU this week. And that my brother is coming from California to visit you in 2 weeks. He’s never been much for words but he wants you to know that he will be present for you. But when I call your hospital room no one answers. Your cell phone is dead. “The person you have dialed has a voice mailbox that is full and can not take messages” 

The room begins to fill with blood again; triggered by the fact that your “voicemail box is full and can not take messages” This time I swim. Body roll. Gasp for air. My lungs fill, hold, and find peace in patience.