Synopsis: “Preserves” is a short story by Samanta Schweblin, published in 2008 in the anthology La furia de las pestes. The story follows a young woman facing an unplanned pregnancy that disrupts her plans, her routine, her relationship, and the family’s sense of calm. As her body changes, she experiences growing anxiety, insomnia, and a feeling of losing control. Together with her partner, they explore various alternatives: obstetricians, healers, a midwife, and a shaman. Eventually, they meet Dr. Weisman, whose proposal seems to offer a definitive solution to their problems.
Preserves
By Samanta Schweblin
(Full story)
A week passes, a month, and we gradually start accepting that Teresita will be here ahead of all our plans. I’ll have to turn down my scholarship, because in a few months it won’t be easy for me to keep studying. Maybe not because of Teresita, maybe it’s just anxiety, but I can’t stop eating and I start getting fatter. Manuel carries the food to me on the sofa, in bed, in the yard. Everything arranged on the tray, tidy in the kitchen, stocked in the pantry, as if the guilt, or whatever it is, was driving him to meet my every expectation. But he’s losing energy, and he doesn’t seem very happy: he comes home late, doesn’t keep me company, doesn’t like to talk about it.
Another month passes. Mom resigns herself, too, buys us some gifts and gives them to us—I know her well—a bit sadly. She says:
“Here is a washable diaper bag with a Velcro closure . . . These are pure cotton ankle socks . . . Here’s the piqué hooded towel . . .” Dad watches her and nods.
“Oh, I don’t know . . .” I say, and I don’t know if I’m referring to the gifts or to Teresita. “The truth is, I just don’t know,” I say later to my mother-in-law when she drops by with a set of little colored sheets. “I don’t know,” I say, not really knowing what to say, and I hug the sheets and burst into tears.
The third month I feel sadder still. Every time I get up I stand for a while in front of the mirror. My face, my arms, my whole body, and especially my belly are more swollen. Sometimes I call Manuel in and ask him to stand beside me. He, in contrast, looks thinner. He seems distracted. He doesn’t talk much. He comes home from work and sits down to watch television, his head in his hands. It’s not that he loves me any less. I know that Manuel adores me and I know that, like me, he has nothing against our little Teresita—what could he have against her? It’s just that there was so much to do before she came.
Sometimes Mom asks if she can touch my belly. I sit on the sofa and she talks to Teresita in a soft and loving voice. Manuel’s mom, on the other hand, tends to call all the time to ask how I’m doing, where I am, what I’m eating, how I feel, and anything else she can think of to ask me.
I have insomnia. I spend nights lying in bed awake, looking at the ceiling with my hands over little Teresita. I can’t think about anything else. I don’t understand it—there are so many things in this world that seem marvelous to me, like renting a car in one country and returning it in another, thawing out a fresh fish that died thirty days ago, or paying bills without leaving the house. How is it possible that in a world like that, we can’t just make a small change in the order of events? I just can’t resign myself.
Then I stop worrying about what insurance will cover and start looking for other alternatives. I talk to obstetricians, healers, and even a shaman. Someone gives me a midwife’s number and I talk to her over the phone. But they all, in their own ways, present conformist or perverse solutions that have nothing to do with what I’m looking for. It’s hard for me to get used to the idea of receiving Teresita so early, but I don’t want to hurt her, either. And then I find Dr. Weisman.
The doctor’s office is on the top floor of an old building downtown. There’s no secretary, no waiting room. Just a small entrance hall and two rooms. Weisman is very friendly as he ushers us in and offers us coffee. During our conversation he is especially interested in what kind of family we are—our parents, our marriage, the individual relationships between all of us. We answer every question he asks. Weisman interlaces his fingers and rests his hands on the desk, seemingly satisfied with our profile. He tells us a few things about his career, the success of his research and what he can offer us, but he realizes he doesn’t need to convince us, and he moves on to explain the treatment. Every once in a while I look at Manuel: he is listening attentively, nodding; he seems enthusiastic. The plan includes changes in diet and sleep patterns, breathing exercises, medicine. We’re going to have to talk to Mom and Dad, and with Manuel’s mother; their roles are important, too. I write everything down in my notebook, point by point.
“And what guarantee do we have with this treatment?” I ask.
“We have what we need for everything to turn out well,” says Weisman.
The next day Manuel stays home. We sit at the living room table, surrounded by graphs and papers, and get to work. I write down as faithfully as possible how things have happened from the first moment we suspected that Teresita had come early. We summon our parents and we are clear with them: the matter is decided, the treatment is under way, and there is nothing to discuss. Dad is about to ask a question, but Manuel interrupts him.
“You have to do what we ask,” he says, and he looks at them as though imploring them to commit, “on the right day and at the right time.”
I understand what he’s feeling: we’re taking this seriously and we expect the same from them. They are worried, and I think they’ll never really understand what it’s all about, but they promise to follow the instructions, and each of them goes home with a list.
When the first ten days are over, things are already running a little more smoothly. I take my three pills a day on time, and I respect every session of “conscious breathing.” Conscious breathing is a fundamental part of the treatment, and it’s an innovative method of relaxation and concentration, discovered and taught by Weisman himself. Sitting on the grass out in the yard, I focus on making contact with the “damp womb of the earth.” I start by inhaling once and exhaling twice. I draw out my breath until my inhale is five seconds long and my exhale is eight. After several days of practice, I inhale for ten seconds and exhale for fifteen. Then I move to the second level of conscious breathing, where I start to feel the direction of my energies. Weisman says this level is going to take more time, but he insists the exercise is within my reach and that I have to keep working at it. There comes a moment when it’s possible to visualize the speed of the energy as it circulates through the body. It feels like a gentle tickle and it generally starts in the lips, hands, and feet. You have to try to slow it down, gradually. The goal is to stop it entirely and, little by little, start it circulating again in the opposite direction.
Manuel can’t be very affectionate with me yet. He has to be faithful to the plan we made, and so for a month and a half he has to stay away, talk only when necessary, and come home late some nights. He complies diligently, but I know him: I know that secretly he’s better, that he’s dying to hug me and tell me how much he misses me. But that’s how things must be done for now; we can’t risk straying from the script for even a second.
The next month I keep progressing with conscious breathing. Now I almost feel like I can stop the energy. Weisman says it won’t be long now, I only have to push a little more. He ups the dosage of my pills. I start to feel my anxiety diminish, and I’m eating a little less. Following the first point on her list, Manuel’s mother makes her greatest effort and tries, gradually—that part is important and we underline it many times: gradually, it says—to start making fewer calls to our house, and to not be so eager to talk about Teresita all the time.
The second month is perhaps the one with the most changes. My body is not as swollen now, and to both of our surprise and joy, my belly starts to shrink. This change, so marked, alerts our parents. Maybe it’s only now that they understand, or intuit, what the treatment is about. Manuel’s mother, especially, seems to fear the worst, and although she tries to stay on the sidelines and keep to her list, I feel her fear and her doubt and I worry it will affect the treatment.
I start sleeping better at night, and I don’t feel as depressed anymore. I tell Weisman about my progress in conscious breathing. He gets excited, it seems I’m about to reverse my energy—I’m so, so close, a hairsbreadth from the goal.
The third month starts, the penultimate. It’s the month when our parents will play their biggest roles; we’re anxious to make sure they keep their word so that everything comes out perfectly. They do, and they do it well, and we are grateful. Manuel’s mother comes over one afternoon and reclaims the colored sheets she’d brought for Teresita. Maybe because she had thought about this detail for a long time, she asks me for a bag to wrap the package in. “It’s just that that’s how I brought it over,” she says, “in a bag, so that’s how it should go,” and she winks at us. Then it’s my parents’ turn. They also come for their gifts, reclaim them one by one: first the hooded piqué towel, then the pure cotton socks, finally the washable diaper bag with the Velcro closure. I wrap them up. Mom asks if she can caress my belly one last time. I sit on the sofa and she sits next to me, talking in her soft and loving voice. She strokes my belly and says, “This is my Teresita, how I’m going to miss my Teresita.” I don’t say anything, but I know that if she could have, if she didn’t have to stick to her list, she would have cried.
The days of the last month pass quickly. Manuel can come closer now, and the truth is, his company does me good. We stand before the mirror and laugh. The feeling is the total opposite of what you feel when you’re leaving on a trip. It’s not the joy of leaving, but of staying. It’s adding another year to the best year of your life, and under the same conditions. It’s the chance to keep on, unchanged.
I’m much less swollen now. It’s a physical relief and it raises my spirits. I visit Weisman for the last time.
“We’re getting close,” he says, and he pushes the preservation jar across the desk, toward me.
It’s cold, and it needs to stay that way; that’s why I brought the thermal lunchbox, as Weisman recommended. I have to store it in the freezer as soon as I get home. I pick it up: the liquid is transparent but thick, like a jar of clear amber.
One morning, during a session of conscious breathing, I make it to the final level: I breathe slowly, my body feels the earth’s dampness and the energy that surrounds it. I breathe once, then again, and again, and then everything stops. The energy seems to materialize around me and I can specify the exact moment when, little by little, it starts to turn in the opposite direction. It’s a purifying feeling, rejuvenating, as if water or air were returning of their own accord to the place where they were once contained.
Then the day arrives. It’s marked on the refrigerator calendar; Manuel circled it in red when we came back from Weisman’s office the first time. I don’t know when it will happen, and I’m worried. Manuel is at home. I’m lying in bed. I hear him pacing, restless. I touch my belly. It’s a normal belly, like that of any other woman—it’s not a pregnant belly, I mean. Weisman says the treatment was very intense: I’m a little anemic, and much thinner than before the episode with Teresita started.
I wait all morning and all afternoon locked in the bedroom. I don’t want to eat, or come out, or talk. Manuel looks in every once in a while and asks how I’m doing. I imagine Mom must be climbing the walls, but they all know they can’t call or stop by to see me.
I’ve been feeling nauseated for a while now. My stomach burns and throbs more and more intensely, as if it were going to explode. I have to tell Manuel. I try to stand up but I can’t; I hadn’t realized how dizzy I am. I have to tell Manuel to call Weisman. For a moment I manage to get up. I pause and then fall to my knees. I think about conscious breathing, but my head has already moved on to something else. I’m afraid. I’m scared something will go wrong and we’ll hurt Teresita. Maybe she knows what’s happening; maybe this whole thing is all wrong. Manuel comes into the room and runs to me.
“I just want to leave it until later . . .” I tell him. “I don’t want . . .”
I want to tell him to leave me here on the floor, that it doesn’t matter, he should run and call Weisman, that everything has gone wrong. But I can’t talk. My body is shaking; I’ve lost control over it. Manuel kneels down next to me, takes my hands, talks to me. I can’t hear what he’s saying. I feel like I’m going to throw up. I cover my mouth. He reacts then, and he leaves me alone and runs to the kitchen. He’s gone only a few seconds; he comes back with the disinfected jar and the plastic case that says “Dr. Weisman.” He breaks the safety seal on the container, pours the clear liquid into the jar. I feel like throwing up again, but I can’t, I don’t want to: not yet. I heave, again and again. I gag more and more violently and it’s hard to breathe. For the first time I think of the possibility of death. I think about it for a second and then I can’t breathe at all. Manuel watches me, unsure what to do. The gagging stops and something catches in my throat. I close my mouth and grab Manuel by the wrist. Then I feel something small, the size of an almond. I hold it on my tongue; it’s fragile. I know what I have to do but I can’t do it. It’s an unmistakable sensation that will stay with me for years. I look at Manuel, and he seems to accept the time I need. She’ll wait for us, I think. She’ll be okay, until the time is right. Then he hands me the jar, and finally, gently, I spit her out.
THE END
