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WHAT PRICE FORGIVENESS?
By Marion Fischman
She was dead. Totally immobilized, I stood over this emaciated,
wretched-looking woman. Her face and clothes were covered with dirt and
vomit. Her long black hair greasy and stringy. She was young, about 40.
She was lying on the sidewalk in the rear of the Hyatt Hotel in
Guadalajara. Scenes like this were not uncommon but I never witnessed one
before. For some inexplicable reason, I knew this was different. Then my
sympathy turned to anger. This should be the Hyatt's responsibility, not
mine. I would report her body to the manager, then leave and forget it. But
I couldn't move. Somewhere in the deep bowels of my conscience I thought
"This could be me." Curious, I bent over to read the letters on her gold
bracelet. Inscribed was the name "Maria."
Just at that moment her eyes opened and she turned and looked piercingly
into mine, then gradually turned her head away. Covering her face with one
arm she weakly motioned with her other one for me to go away. Shocked into
action I knew I couldn't abandon her. I felt she was now in my care. More
than that, she was a part of me, the part I hid from myself and the world.
The me that knew right from wrong yet sometimes made the wrong choices. Or
the me that would sometimes give up and want to die. Now I was going to be
her savior.
How I got her into my hotel room was a miracle. The taxi driver parked in
front of the Hyatt was kind and helpful and carefully put the repulsive,
foul-smelling woman into his nice, clean cab. Like a rag doll, she was limp
and offered no resistance.
During the short ride to my hotel, my mind was spinning with ideas and
questions. Would they allow her into the hotel? I'd manage that somehow,
Then what? Meantime, the driver followed my instructions and explained to
her in a comforting voice that she was in good hands and would be well
taken care of. The woman opened her eyes, then promptly closed them.
I planned to give her a shower, put clean clothes on her, then see that she
had a nourishing meal. But did she speak English? Was she ill? An
alcoholic? Maybe a drug addict or a mentally- disturbed person? Or just a
homeless street person who could recover with some care. I would be her
benefactor. Me - the big heroine.
The taxi driver agreed to wait outside for me while I rushed into my
apartment to get a serape to partly hide my new friend. That's how I was
able to get her into my place with no objections from the manager. Still
not a word from Maria. Every time I tried to talk to her, the only response
was a few words in Spanish.
After I showered her, scrubbed her twice, her hair had to be washed three
times. Some of my clothes were too big for her but when we finished, the
transformation was gratifying. She stood in front of the full length mirror
with tears rolling softly down her cheeks. Mine were inconspicuous compared
to hers. She repeatedly touched her now beautiful glistening black hair.
Then I called room service for some food. But at first she refused to eat.
She seemed suspicious of this abrupt change of her circumstances and me.
When she couldn't resist any longer, she dug in. I caught her glancing at
me in between mouthfuls of food. I figured she felt ashamed and humbled.
But I had seen enough to recognize she was not only a handsome woman but
one with much dignity and pride. When I patted her arm she stopped eating
long enough to pull away from me. That is when I decided it would be easier
if I stopped fussing over her until she was ready to talk. My Mexican
neighbor next door would help.
Next on the agenda was a physical and mental examination and evaluation.
Fortunately I knew of a nunnery in Zapopan where this was available for
only a donation. One of their rules was this service was for women who
would agree to be their guest for ten days. No less, no more. They provided
clean sleeping quarters, healthy food and a professional medical
examination including a psychiatric study. Then, if the circumstances
allowed, they tried to find a job and home for their patient before
discharging her.
Mother Mary Elena first spoke to me, then privately with Maria.
It was determined she was eligible for assistance. One condition was that
she not have visitors for the first three days.
My curiosity and concern would be strained but I could wait. Maria seemed
in a hurry to go to her assigned room. Watching her following the nun and
not even looking back at me, I couldn't help but wonder if she was relieved
to get away from my "do good" behavior. Maybe she disliked feeling beholden
to me. I'd never know.
When I arrived home I stuffed her dirty clothes into a garbage bag, then
disposed of it. Now there were three days before visiting time for me to
detach myself from the drama. My anxiety was sincere but not anywhere as
strong as my relief.
For some reason, I was unwilling to talk to my friends about any of this,
preferring to be alone to reflect on my emotions. Then I realized that my
four carat diamond ring was missing.
I had worn it to a party the night before I stumbled onto Maria and
carelessly left it on my dresser instead of using the hotel safe. My maid
had already cleaned my apartment and left before Maria came home with me.
Who else could have stolen it but Maria? No wonder she couldn't look me in
the eye!
After a second thorough search, my insurance agent in the U.S. told me the
loss wasn't covered because I failed to list the ring in the rider clause
along with my other jewelry.
The hotel manager agreed to report the theft to the police and would also
question the employees. As he suggested, I went to the police station with
my friend and interpreter, Raul. The police completed their initial report
and promised to investigate. They were adamantly against questioning Maria.
Not even a simple inquiry.
Borrowing a sleeping pill that night helped stop the churning thoughts of
suspicion and anger at Maria. Finally I was able to visit her and when I
told the nun the story, Mother Mary Elena took Maria into a private room
and gently questioned her. Hearing Maria sobbing and repeating, "No, no,"
touched my heart. I softened and left without seeing her on the advice of
the nuns. Besides, Maria refused to see me. The only good news was that the
final doctor's report showed nothing wrong with her except severe
malnutrition. This gave me some consolation but not much. The fire that lit
the fury still burned.
Though shamed by my lack of compassion, my suspicions were as strong as
ever. A combustible set of mixed emotions caused me to make another search
of my apartment.
Then in a flash, I remembered. I rushed to the zippered sofa pillow and
there was my ring. My favorite temporary hiding place. How quickly I had
condemned Maria!
Raul rushed me to Zapopan to admit my mistake. But I was too late. Maria
had run away, taking only the clothes on her back. There was little doubt
she was on the cold winter streets again. The sisters searched for her for
days. Even the police made an unsuccessful attempt to find her. We never
saw her again.
Many times I've returned to the spot where I first found her, but I have
seen her frail body only in my weeping dreams.
Perhaps Maria has pardoned me. Surely God has granted me His mercy. Maybe
someday I can forgive myself.
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