Scarlet Redemption

by Lani Wendt Young

  It’s time for the present unwrapping. A car pulls up. It’s Naomi and Troy. My sister is flushed and happy, even prettier in her post honeymoon glow, blushing prettily as cousins tease her about honeymoon sexy-times. Because of course the only acceptable script here is that she was a nervous virgin being gently instructed in the arts of all things sexual by her masterful husband.

  I’m feeling magnanimous though so I don’t think any mean spiteful thoughts. Nah I put them into storage for another time when Naomi is being bitchy and deserves them.

  Like a dutiful eldest daughter, I am wearing the hideous puletasi Mother had made for me. The satin peach one with gigantic white lace flowers sewed on to it. The one that sticks and clings in all the wrong places – like my belly. But is a voluminous sack where my boobs are. Because heaven help us all if anyone knows I have breasts. It’s the ugliest puletasi ever invented. Even though I just showered, there’s already giant sweat stains around my armpits and the satin is sticking to me in suspiciously wet patches.

  I am fussing with the lavalava trying to make it look slightly less ugly when a rental car pulls up in front. It’s Jackson. Oh shit.

  “Why is he here for?” I hiss at Naomi as Troy goes out to meet him.

  I haven’t seen him or heard from him since that night at the hospital. Two very long days. I thought he had gone back to America and just the thought of that made me sick and sad. Sick and sad enough that I’d been drowning my sad sick sorrows in wedding leftovers.

  She gives me a surprised look. “Because he’s the best man stupid! Why wouldn’t he be here?”

  “The wedding is finished. He’s not needed any more. Shouldn’t he be flying back to America? Doesn’t he have a business to run?” I say grumpily.

  “He’s the CEO of a billion dollar company. I think he can do whatever he wants,” she retorts. “Besides, what’s it to you? Why are you being so mean anyway? I thought he’d been very nice to you. Considering.”

  My eyes narrow. “Considering what?” Hands on my hips. “Considering that I’m a fat bucket?”

  “No you egg. Considering how bitchy you’ve been to him from day one. You’re always snapping at him and being rude. I don’t know why he even still talks to you.” Naomi flounces away with an eye roll. “Excuse me, I have presents to open.”

  I look across the yard to where Jackson is standing with Troy beside the fale. The two are smiling and talking easily. But as if he can sense my gaze, Jackson turns and before I can look away and pretend to be very busy with something else, anything else – our eyes meet. Catch.

  And I am lost. Incredibly, desperately, breathtakingly lost.

  How is it possible that I have fallen so far and so fast for this man who only entered my life – via airplane – a mere few weeks ago? This can’t be right. This can’t be happening to me. It’s not fair. It’s not possible.

  He looks at me like he knows me, like he sees me. All the ragged scattered pieces of me – and makes sense of them. All the rage that smoulders within me – and understands it.

  It’s a shared gaze that could be a moment or an eternity, I’m not sure. Interrupted only when Mother jerks at the sleeve of my puletasi and pulls me back to the present and the swirling bustle of activity.

  “Scar! Hurry up. It’s time to start.”

  It’s wedding present show time.

  In the fale, I go to sit beside the table, wincing at the awkward discomfort of sitting cross-legged. It’s been a long time since we had to sit like this for hours at school during assemblies and culture dance practises. But asking for a chair will tell everyone that I’m one of those useless Samoans from overseas who can’t sit on the floor properly. So even though I am one of those useless Samoans from overseas, I grin and bear it. I sneak a glance over at Jackson who’s next to Troy. The aunties have given him a lavalava to cover up his shorts and it gives me a grim satisfaction to see him struggle for a few minutes to fuss with the tying and wrapping and then awkwardly try to figure out how to sit cross-legged with a lavalava on.

  Ha. You useless palagi.

  It doesn’t make me feel better to insult him though. I remember his words to me at the hospital and I’m trying to get mad at him all over again, but now in the honest light of a new day – they don’t seem that bad anymore. In the light of everything Tamarina revealed to me about my parents, things that I have yet to process, it doesn’t seem so bad for Jackson to tell me that I need to break free of my family? Was he really so wrong to say those things? Because if I’m being honest with myself, weren’t there some grains of truth in them?

  In the festive air of the wedding present fale, I admit it to myself. I’m tired of swallowing the nonu leaf bitterness that my family dishes out. Will I ever be old enough, independent enough, strong enough – to speak my truth? To put up barriers against their shit?

  “Scarlet are you going to help or not?” asks a petulant Lucia.

  Seeing her reminds me with a jolt that she knows things that could get me in trouble. What if she tells my aunties about seeing me with Jackson? I give myself a mental shake. Because so what if she does? I give her a sickly sweet smile and say with my best breathy skank voice, “Oh sorry Lucia. I’m a little distracted. Jackson has me all tired out. He can’t keep his hands off me!”

  She narrows her perfectly accented eyes at me and flounces away to sit beside the other bridesmaids.

  Yes I’m petty. So shoot me.

  The gift-opening begins. This is where the usefulness of having twenty million bridesmaids finally makes itself known. We have to unwrap each beribboned box, and hold it up so everyone can see it as we announce the name of the gift-giver. I feel like one of those chicks carrying the Round notice card at a boxing match. Except of course, minus the high heels and glossy blonde hair. And plus a hundred pounds and a voluminous satin puletasi. (Minor details ha…) The gathered crowd nods their heads appreciatively, sometimes they break into applause at a particularly fabulous present. Like the microwave from the faifeau. And the Plantation House bedspread set with pillows from Naomi’s office team.

  Once we have unwrapped and displayed each gift, then it’s time for the sharing.

  One by one, each senior member of the aiga gets a gift from the assorted feast of offerings. Aunty Valerie is in charge of the divvying up of presents. She points with her stick and we bridesmaids must leap to do her bidding. There are four rice cookers and Aunty Valelia designates the biggest and most shiniest is for the faifeau’s wife. I go to carry it and nearly tear something important in my back as I try to heft and heave the box up off the cement floor. There’s a titter of laughter and I think bad words about my kaea family who – typical Samoan style - would rather sit and laugh at me first, rather than jumping to help me carry this monstrosity.

  And then he is there. Jackson. Strong hands take the box from me. A macadamia honey voice says, “I got it.”

  I straighten up, still holding on to the box. Because I’m stubborn. I can carry it! I’m strong enough! For a moment we face each other across a cardboard box, me sweaty and huffing out of breath. Him, cool and calm and giving me that look I could drown in. Staring down at me, with eyes I could get lost in. He’s not smiling. But there’s a softness in his eyes. Like there’s words he wants to say. Words like…

  I don’t care about your weird family Scar…I still want you…I adore you! I can’t live without you! In fact, I just realised, I love you! Let’s run away into the sunset together!

  Of course he doesn’t say any of that.

  Yes, I have a wild imagination. I write romance novels remember?

  Whatever words he’s really thinking, whatever feelings he’s really feeling – they are abruptly interrupted by Aunty Valerie reaching out with her walking stick to jab me in the backside.

  “Hurry up! E ke valea? Are you stupid?”

  Good old Aunty. I grit my teeth in a smile for her and the waiting crowd. Everything is a performance in faaSamoa after all. Jackson raises an eyebrow at me in quest
ion, but I give him a barely discernible shake of my head. It’s all good Jackson from America. This is normal Samoan family stuff. How we show our love for each other. I let him carry the box by himself to where the pastor’s wife is waiting for her share of the bounty. Jackson makes the presentation the way he’s seen us do it, with a bow and an exaggerated show of humility, like we the gift-givers are incredibly blessed and lucky to be able to give gifts to our betters.

  I may have ogled his backside as he did the bowing and scraping. Just for a moment. Because how can anyone with eyes not admire all of that fine-ness?

  I go back to stand with the other bridesmaids and Malia, one of the nicer girls nudges me and whispers dramatically, “What was that Scarlet?!”

  “What’s what?” I mutter out of the side of my mouth. All the aunties can see us up here. So can my crocodile of a mother.

  “The way he was staring at you. See? He’s doing it again!” she says, vibrant with restrained excitement.

  I look at Jackson, and Malia is right. He’s staring at me. A deeply intense, overwhelming gaze, like he’s thinking about how he can devour me. Savour me. 101 different ways. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen and I suddenly feel faint in this crowded fale.

  “I need some water,” I mumble, and stumble out of the fale. I don’t have to look at her to know Mother is annoyed at my exit.

  Chill Mother. There’s nineteen other bridesmaids. I’m sure the show will go on.

  Cousin Siaosi is outside by the food tent, fanning flies and taking selfies on his phone.

  “What’s wrong sis?” he asks, concerned. “You drink too much last night?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he gets me a plastic chair to sit on, and a cup of lukewarm vai tipolo.

  “I gotchu,” he says generously as he waves me with his fan.

  “Can I ask your advice?”

  The ceremony is ongoing and everyone in the fale is fixated on the presents. Nobody is paying attention to me and Siaosi. I can’t see Jackson from this spot. Good. Looking at him makes my brain a mess.

  “Ask me anything cuz,” says Siaosi. “I’m here for you.”

  He has an earnest look on his face. My cousin is totally committed to being my confidante right now, to giving me advice. I shove aside the voice of caution that says – what the hell does a 23yr old who’s perpetual happiness is marijuana-induced know about relationships?! Or about matters of the heart?

  But I take a deep breath and ask anyway. Because what do I have to lose? Who else am I going to ask?

  “How do you know that a man really cares about you? Like, really cares for you and wants to be with you?”

  If Siaosi is surprised that I’m asking him about men, he doesn’t show it. No, he assumes a sage expression and nods knowingly.

  “Ah yes, that’s an important question. How long have you known this man?”

  Suddenly remembering that Siaosi is one of the biggest faikala gossips in the whole family, I rush to put some qualifiers into the question.

  “Oh it’s not me. I’m asking for a friend.”

  Siaosi isn’t convinced. “A friend huh?”

  “Yes. A friend. She needs some advice and I told her I would ask my cousin who’s experienced in these things.”

  I’m not sure he believes me on “the friend” bit, but he does like the compliment.

  He preens. “Yes well I am very experienced. But that’s what happens when so many girls want me. You know even Analosa the pastor’s daughter, keeps texting me. Oka, I tell you, you wouldn’t even believe she’s a faifeau’s daughter! Look at this…”

  He shows me a text that I wish I hadn’t seen. A message that makes me want to wash my brain out with disinfectant.

  “Siaosi! I didn’t want to see that. Really!?”

  He shrugs. “What? I told you, it’s not my fault. She’s the one messaging me all the time. All the day. All the night. That girl really wants me.”

  We are getting distracted here. I don’t want to talk about Analosa. I now never want to see Analosa again either. Can we get back to my question? My problem?

  “Okay. But what about when you like a girl. What do you do? How do you show her that you really want her. You really care about her.”

  Siaosi considers my question for a minute. “Do you mean, if I want to do the sex with her? Or if I want to marry her?”

  I splutter. “Is there a difference?”

  “Of course. A man can want to do sex with lots of different women. Doesn’t mean he wants his friends to know about her. Or his family.”

  “That’s not very nice,” I say hotly. I didn’t know my favorite boy cousin was such a shit.

  “Yes it is. It’s for her protection. Think about it. You know my sisters. Why would I let them meet every girl I have sex with? Sita and Lina are like the devil. Any girl I go with, if they know about them, they will treat them so bad. Maybe try to fasi them. That’s not fair on the girls. No,” he shakes his head vehemently. “Only until I decide to get married, then I will let my family meet the girl. Because then I can protect her and she will be my wife and I can try to make my devil sisters be nice.”

  He looks rather glum then. Probably thinking about his devil sisters. I look over to the fale where Sita and Lina are sitting, cheering and laughing with the others as new gifts are given out. They look harmless enough but Siaosi’s right. If they knew what was on his phone from Analosa? They would take it upon themselves to teach her how a good Bible-abiding girl should behave…

  This is going to be more difficult than I thought, the cultural context is different!

  “How about if the man is not Samoan?”

  Siaosi immediately wrinkles his nose. Ugh. “He’s palagi?”

  “Yes. My friend likes a palagi.”

  “And your friend is Samoan?” Siaosi really doesn’t like this. Anyone would think from his expression that I was proposing a union between two different species.

  “What’s wrong?” I demand, with a nod to the fale. “Troy’s not Samoan and you like him for Naomi.”

  “That’s different. He came here and lived with Samoans. He knows our ways. And he’s meauli.”

  I wince. “Tama uli. Black man. Not black thing.”

  Siaosi shrugs, whatever. “Troy is not palagi. It’s different. And he knows our ways.”

  “Alright fine. Let’s say my friend likes a palagi who knows our ways. How can she tell if he cares about her?”

  I’m starting to wish I hadn’t asked Siaosi anything. Not only is this a frustrating conversation, he’s also giving me that look. The one that says, ‘I’m not stupid. I know you got no friends. You’ve been banging a palagi and now you’re freaking out…’

  Siaosi purses his lips like the judgey twenty-three year old that he is and says, “Your friend will know he cares if he follows her everywhere.”

  “You mean, he stalks her?” I am doubtful.

  Siaosi is confident in his wisdom. A nod. “Yes. He goes everywhere she goes. Did you watch that vampire movie where he sits in the tree outside her bedroom every night? That’s how you know a palagi likes you. Samoans don’t do that. Only if you’re a moekolo and what girl wants a boy like that? We fasi moekolo’s if we catch them.”

  He’s not finished. “He will buy her presents. And give her flowers. But not ones you pick from the pa aute hedge outside. He will get her flowers you have to buy from a shop.”

  I think of making love in a bed of red teuila, emerald leaves and golden mosooi…and my face flushes as the day suddenly gets hotter.

  Siaosi is really getting into this. I can see he’s put a lot of thought into palagi’s and their romance ways, vs Samoans and their intricacies. I’m storing all this info away in my romance author archives.

  “Samoan boys don’t give girls flowers then?” I tease his theory.

  But he is confidently certain. “Flowers?” A snort of derision. “No. Why would she want useless things like that? They’re growing everywhere. No. A Samoan girl want
s food. You take her somewhere nice to eat. Analosa likes the lunch at Pinati’s.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “Oh really? I thought you weren’t interested in her? That she was sending you dirty messages because she admires your dirty nasty self from a distance?”

  He has the grace to look sheepish. “Maybe I like her a little bit.”

  I think about Jackson bringing me misiluki pudding from Paddles. That counts as buying me nice things that I like, right?

  Siaosi continues. “He will buy things for her family too. He will know that her family is very important and so he will give them presents too.”

  We both look at the gleaming silver car in the driveway. The one that announces proudly that my sister’s husband loves and respects her parents.

  “Anything else? What about if he always wants to lick…” Wait up, this is my boy cousin. We can’t talk about sex with details. “What about if he always wants to be with her. In a physical way. Surely that’s a sign that he wants her?”

  Siaosi looks disgusted. “No! He won’t do any sex with her. Even if he wants to. He will know that her brothers and cousins will fasi him if he touches her. We will send him to the hospital.”

  Now this is just silly. What did Siaosi think Troy and Naomi were doing all year before they got married? I’m about to ask him exactly that question but then I shut my mouth again. Because Naomi’s sex life is none of my business. And it’s certainly none of Siaosi’s business either.

  It’s Siaosi’s turn to ask a question. “Did your friend already do the sex with this palagi?”

  This is a minefield. Is Siaosi going to leap up and start smashing people?

  “Umm, maybe. I’m not sure. She didn’t tell me everything.”

  Siaosi casual demeanour is gone now, replaced by the most serious version of my cousin that I’ve ever seen. He glances at the fale to make sure nobody is eavesdropping, and then lowers his voice.

  “Tell your friend she must be careful. Some palagi are no good. They only want to use you. They think Samoans are easily available. That they can buy you. Or impress you with their palagi ways. I have met palagi women who treat us like that.”