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Fiction

Open Hands

By Cheri Lewis
Translated from Spanish by Pamela Carmell
Panamanian writer Cheri Lewis observes a household inexplicably deluged with infants.

The babies started arriving that summer. I remember the first one so well. I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth when, in the mirror, I spotted the reflection of a shadow making its way down the hall. I leaned out the door and saw a baby, naked and covered in dirt. He crawled right down the center of the living room and headed straight for my sister, who was sitting on the couch, reading a book. He rested against her knees and hugged her. She tenderly lifted him off the floor and, for the rest of the day, they were inseparable. When my mom came by, she immediately treated him like a member of the family. She and my sister set up a makeshift cradle in my sister’s bedroom and that’s where he slept that night.

One morning, a few days later, the twins showed up: a boy and girl. Like the first baby, they arrived naked and dirty. We found them sleeping in the garden. None of us had spotted them entering the garden, so they must’ve slipped in at night or in the early morning while we were sleeping. My sister insisted that the new babies sleep in her room too, so she and my mom got to work settling them in. She said that they kept her entertained and that she’d take care of all three of them. I have to concede that, as babies go, they were almost no trouble. I never heard them cry, or fuss, or laugh. They didn’t topple vases or break anything valuable. They just crawled all over the place, as if they were searching for something. When they were overcome by exhaustion, they went straight into my sister’s arms. She looked after them without a word of protest.

A week later, four more babies showed up: three boys and a girl. Sitting at the breakfast table early one morning, we felt a cold breeze. We turned and saw four silhouettes standing in the doorway, sunlight at their backs. Four faceless shadows studying us from outside. These babies were older, and they entered the house walking upright. They fanned out around us, opened the cabinets, and rummaged through them. My mother picked up the basket of bread and butter sitting on the table and offered it to them along with some oranges. The babies grabbed the oranges with their grubby hands and devoured the fruit in just a few minutes. Their fingernails were long and caked with dirt, so we figured they’d been wandering on their own for quite a while. That night we rearranged the furniture and bedded them down on the living room floor. My mother, sister, and I went upstairs to my room to talk.

“This situation’s getting out of hand,” I told them. “We can’t have all these babies in our house.” 

My sister disagreed. “Since they’ve come to our home, we should make them feel welcome. How can we turn our backs on those innocent children?”

Mama kept her thoughts to herself as she listened to our arguments. She looked worried. She had lit a cigarette and was standing by the window, smoking and staring outside. “More are on their way,” she told us with conviction, “and that can’t be good.”

My sister and I looked at each other with fear in our eyes, but we didn’t say a word. That night the three of us slept upstairs in our mother’s room, huddled together in her bed, like we’d done when we were kids: Mama in the middle and my sister and me on either side of her. I didn’t sleep well. I thought the dawn would never come. I felt sick to my stomach, but I didn’t want to get out of bed. I knew that, even if I did get up, the nausea wouldn’t go away.

My eyes were still open when the sky changed color. When I heard noises downstairs, I bolted upright in bed. My mother and sister reacted the same way. I could tell they’d had a bad night, too. As the sun’s first rays were filtering through the curtains, we resolved, with just a look at each other, to get out of bed and go down to the living room.

The house was silent. The only sound was our footsteps creaking on the wood floors. My heart was pounding so loud it drowned out my breathing.

When we reached the staircase, we saw the seven babies we’d put to bed in the living room the night before. They were standing stock still in the front of the room, next to the bookshelf, looking up, waiting for us. Behind them were twenty, thirty, maybe even fifty babies. Too many to count. Through the big picture window that looked out at the garden, we saw even more, their eyes trained on us. The house wasn’t in disarray, but judging by the way the drawers hung open, it was clear the babies had searched through them.

We slowly descended the stairs under the children’s implacable gaze. When we reached the last step, one of the babies approached us. He was the first baby to arrive at our house. I recognized him from the dark birthmark close to his left shoulder. As he walked toward us, I was surprised to see that he wasn’t crawling anymore. He passed between my mother and me, took my sister’s hand, and drew her away from us and over to his group. The other babies immediately encircled her and grabbed hold of her skirt. The girl baby who had been the last to arrive the day before latched onto her other hand. My sister gave us a frightened look. A single tear pooled in her eyes and, without rolling down her cheek, splashed onto the carpet. That was the way my sister cried; it always seemed strange to me. Gradually, the babies started to leave, taking her away with them. I tried to stop them, but when I took my first step, they all stopped, turned their heads and fixed their gaze on me.

My mother grabbed my shirt and yanked me back. “It’s inevitable. There’s nothing we can do.”

“I want to say good-bye to her,” I told her. “Let me say good-bye to her!” I shouted to them, louder and louder, but they pretended not to hear me. My sister left with them without so much as a backward glance. Her shoulders were shaking so I knew she was crying. When they’d all left the house, I broke free of my mother’s grip and ran outside. The last memory I have of my sister was her silhouette fading in the distance, surrounded by those tiny heads.

That was the last time we welcomed anyone into our home.


“Abrir Las Manos” © Cheri Lewis. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2018 by Pamela Carmell. All rights reserved. 

English Spanish (Original)

The babies started arriving that summer. I remember the first one so well. I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth when, in the mirror, I spotted the reflection of a shadow making its way down the hall. I leaned out the door and saw a baby, naked and covered in dirt. He crawled right down the center of the living room and headed straight for my sister, who was sitting on the couch, reading a book. He rested against her knees and hugged her. She tenderly lifted him off the floor and, for the rest of the day, they were inseparable. When my mom came by, she immediately treated him like a member of the family. She and my sister set up a makeshift cradle in my sister’s bedroom and that’s where he slept that night.

One morning, a few days later, the twins showed up: a boy and girl. Like the first baby, they arrived naked and dirty. We found them sleeping in the garden. None of us had spotted them entering the garden, so they must’ve slipped in at night or in the early morning while we were sleeping. My sister insisted that the new babies sleep in her room too, so she and my mom got to work settling them in. She said that they kept her entertained and that she’d take care of all three of them. I have to concede that, as babies go, they were almost no trouble. I never heard them cry, or fuss, or laugh. They didn’t topple vases or break anything valuable. They just crawled all over the place, as if they were searching for something. When they were overcome by exhaustion, they went straight into my sister’s arms. She looked after them without a word of protest.

A week later, four more babies showed up: three boys and a girl. Sitting at the breakfast table early one morning, we felt a cold breeze. We turned and saw four silhouettes standing in the doorway, sunlight at their backs. Four faceless shadows studying us from outside. These babies were older, and they entered the house walking upright. They fanned out around us, opened the cabinets, and rummaged through them. My mother picked up the basket of bread and butter sitting on the table and offered it to them along with some oranges. The babies grabbed the oranges with their grubby hands and devoured the fruit in just a few minutes. Their fingernails were long and caked with dirt, so we figured they’d been wandering on their own for quite a while. That night we rearranged the furniture and bedded them down on the living room floor. My mother, sister, and I went upstairs to my room to talk.

“This situation’s getting out of hand,” I told them. “We can’t have all these babies in our house.” 

My sister disagreed. “Since they’ve come to our home, we should make them feel welcome. How can we turn our backs on those innocent children?”

Mama kept her thoughts to herself as she listened to our arguments. She looked worried. She had lit a cigarette and was standing by the window, smoking and staring outside. “More are on their way,” she told us with conviction, “and that can’t be good.”

My sister and I looked at each other with fear in our eyes, but we didn’t say a word. That night the three of us slept upstairs in our mother’s room, huddled together in her bed, like we’d done when we were kids: Mama in the middle and my sister and me on either side of her. I didn’t sleep well. I thought the dawn would never come. I felt sick to my stomach, but I didn’t want to get out of bed. I knew that, even if I did get up, the nausea wouldn’t go away.

My eyes were still open when the sky changed color. When I heard noises downstairs, I bolted upright in bed. My mother and sister reacted the same way. I could tell they’d had a bad night, too. As the sun’s first rays were filtering through the curtains, we resolved, with just a look at each other, to get out of bed and go down to the living room.

The house was silent. The only sound was our footsteps creaking on the wood floors. My heart was pounding so loud it drowned out my breathing.

When we reached the staircase, we saw the seven babies we’d put to bed in the living room the night before. They were standing stock still in the front of the room, next to the bookshelf, looking up, waiting for us. Behind them were twenty, thirty, maybe even fifty babies. Too many to count. Through the big picture window that looked out at the garden, we saw even more, their eyes trained on us. The house wasn’t in disarray, but judging by the way the drawers hung open, it was clear the babies had searched through them.

We slowly descended the stairs under the children’s implacable gaze. When we reached the last step, one of the babies approached us. He was the first baby to arrive at our house. I recognized him from the dark birthmark close to his left shoulder. As he walked toward us, I was surprised to see that he wasn’t crawling anymore. He passed between my mother and me, took my sister’s hand, and drew her away from us and over to his group. The other babies immediately encircled her and grabbed hold of her skirt. The girl baby who had been the last to arrive the day before latched onto her other hand. My sister gave us a frightened look. A single tear pooled in her eyes and, without rolling down her cheek, splashed onto the carpet. That was the way my sister cried; it always seemed strange to me. Gradually, the babies started to leave, taking her away with them. I tried to stop them, but when I took my first step, they all stopped, turned their heads and fixed their gaze on me.

My mother grabbed my shirt and yanked me back. “It’s inevitable. There’s nothing we can do.”

“I want to say good-bye to her,” I told her. “Let me say good-bye to her!” I shouted to them, louder and louder, but they pretended not to hear me. My sister left with them without so much as a backward glance. Her shoulders were shaking so I knew she was crying. When they’d all left the house, I broke free of my mother’s grip and ran outside. The last memory I have of my sister was her silhouette fading in the distance, surrounded by those tiny heads.

That was the last time we welcomed anyone into our home.


“Abrir Las Manos” © Cheri Lewis. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2018 by Pamela Carmell. All rights reserved. 

Abrir Las Manos

Los bebés empezaron a llegar en el verano. Recuerdo bien al primero. Yo estaba en el baño cepillándome los dientes cuando una sombra pasó por el pasillo, reflejándose en el espejo. Me asomé a la puerta y lo vi. Iba desnudo y sucio. Atravesó gateando el medio de la sala y se fue directo hacia mi hermana, que en ese momento estaba en el sofá leyendo un libro. Se apoyó en sus rodillas y la abrazó. Ella lo levantó del piso con ternura y no volvieron a separarse en el resto del día. Cuando llegó mi mamá, lo acogió de inmediato en el seno familiar. Le improvisaron una especie de cuna en el cuarto de mi hermana y esa noche durmió con ella.

A los pocos días llegaron los gemelos: un niño y una niña. Al igual que el primero, venían desnudos y sucios. Los encontramos una mañana durmiendo en el jardín. Nadie los vio entrar, supongo que lo hicieron en la noche o en la madrugada, mientras dormíamos. También los ubicaron en el cuarto de mi hermana porque ella lo pidió. Dijo que la entretenían y que se encargaría de los tres. La verdad es que, para ser bebés, casi no molestaban. Nunca los oí llorar, ni quejarse, ni reír. No agarraban los jarrones, no rompían cosas valiosas. Solo gateaban y gateaban, como buscando algo. Cuando el cansancio los rendía, se iban directo a los brazos de mi hermana. Ella siempre los atendía sin protestar. 

Una semana después, aparecieron cuatro más: tres varones y una niña. Era temprano en la mañana, estábamos en el desayunador cuando sentimos una brisa fría y vimos las cuatro siluetas en el marco de la puerta trasera, a contraluz. Cuatro sombras sin rostro, estudiándonos desde afuera. Estos bebés eran mayores y entraron caminando. Se dispersaron a nuestro alrededor, abrieron los gabinetes y los registraron. Mi madre tomó la canasta de pan con mantequilla que estaba en la mesa y se la ofreció junto con unas mandarinas. Los bebés las tomaron con sus manos sucias y a los pocos minutos ya habían devorado todo. Las uñas largas y llenas de tierra sugerían que habían estado vagando solos mucho tiempo. Esa noche movimos los muebles y los pusimos a dormir en el piso de la sala. Mi madre, mi hermana y yo subimos las escaleras y conversamos en mi cuarto. Les dije que la situación se estaba saliendo de control, que ya no podíamos tener tantos bebés en nuestra casa. Mi hermana pensaba diferente. Decía que, si habían llegado a nuestro hogar, debíamos recibirlos, que cómo íbamos a rechazar a esas criaturas inocentes. Mamá escuchaba nuestras razones y callaba. Se la veía preocupada. Había prendido un cigarrillo y se había puesto a fumar en la ventana, mirando hacia afuera. «Vendrán más —aseguró—, y eso no es bueno». Mi hermana y yo nos miramos. Había temor en nuestros ojos, pero no dijimos nada. Esa noche nos quedamos arriba, en el cuarto de nuestra madre. Nos acostamos en su cama las tres, como solíamos hacerlo de pequeñas: ella en el medio y mi hermana y yo a cada lado. No pude dormir bien. La madrugada se me hizo interminable. Me sentía con náuseas, pero no quise levantarme de la cama. Sabía que, aunque lo hiciera, no se me iban a quitar.

Aún tenía los ojos abiertos cuando el cielo cambió de color. Escuché ruidos abajo y me paré de un salto. Mi madre y mi hermana reaccionaron de igual manera. Se notaba que ambas habían pasado la misma mala noche que yo. Los primeros rayos de sol empezaban a colarse por entre las cortinas cuando, con solo mirarnos, acordamos salir de la cama y bajar a la sala.

La casa se había quedado en silencio. Solo se escuchaban nuestros pasos crujiendo sobre la madera. Mi corazón latía muy fuerte.

Podía escucharlo, incluso, por encima de mi respiración.

Cuando llegamos a la escalera, los vimos. Estaban parados en la sala, mirando hacia arriba, esperando por nosotras. Los siete bebés que habíamos acostado en la noche estaban en un primer plano, cerca del librero. Detrás de ellos habían más, veinte, quizás treinta o cincuenta, no había forma de contarlos. En la gran ventana de vidrio que pega al jardín había otros más, observando desde afuera. La casa no estaba en desorden, pero por la forma en que habían quedado las gavetas, se veía claramente que las habían registrado.

Descendíamos por la escalera con lentitud, bajo la mirada implacable de las criaturas. Cuando llegamos al último escalón, un bebé se nos acercó. Era el primero que había llegado a la casa. Lo reconocí por la mancha oscura que tenía cerca de su hombro izquierdo. Me extrañó que ya no gateara y que viniera caminando. Pasó por entre mi madre y yo, tomó la mano de mi hermana y la alejó de nosotras, acercándola a su grupo. Los demás bebés la rodearon enseguida y se agarraron de su falda. La última bebé que había llegado el día anterior le sujetó la otra mano. Mi hermana nos miró muy asustada. Una lágrima salió de sus ojos y, sin recorrer su mejilla, cayó directamente en la alfombra. Mi hermana lloraba así, era muy raro. Poco a poco, los bebés se empezaron a marchar, llevándosela con ellos. Traté de detenerlos, pero, al dar el primer paso, todos se pararon y voltearon sus cabezas mirándome fijamente. Mi madre me haló hacia atrás por la camisa. «Es inevitable —me dijo—, no hay nada que podamos hacer». «Quiero despedirme de ella», dije. «¡Déjenme despedirme de ella!», les gritaba, cada vez más fuerte, pero se hicieron los desentendidos. Mi hermana se fue con ellos sin mirar hacia atrás. Yo sabía que estaba llorando por el movimiento tembloroso de sus hombros. Cuando hubieron salido todos de la casa, me solté de mi madre y corrí hacia afuera. El último recuerdo que me quedó de ella fue su figura desvaneciéndose a lo lejos, rodeada por esas diminutas cabezas. No volvimos a recibir a nadie nunca más.

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