Scarlet Redemption

by Lani Wendt Young

  We bonded over our fractured families and shared hurts. We knew first-hand that the people who love us are the ones who hurt us the deepest because we let them. Because we care. Because they know all our vulnerabilities and our flaws.

  But Nina was also different in the ways that made our friendship richer. While I hid my insecurities with food, she dressed hers up in an impeccable sense of style and a cloak of professional confidence. Her razor sharp intellect combined with her street smarts made her the perfect advisor in all things. And she had an intuitiveness that I lacked.

  She’s the one who first pointed out what I had missed about my aunties. She only needed to come home for toonai with me once and on the drive back to the apartment she said, “It’s so sweet to see them still so in love. I want that.”

  “What are you talking about?” had been my befuddled response.

  “I want to be seventy years old and still in love, and have my lover look at me the way they look at each other,” she sighed.

  WTF?? “What are you saying about my aunts?”

  It was her turn to be confused. “What do you mean?” Then as comprehension dawned on her, “You don’t know? Are you kidding me? How long have you lived with them?!”

  “I don’t know what you’re on about. My aunts are sisters who live together…” I trailed away as I realised that wasn’t true. I’d seen their passports, I’d helped fill in forms for them numerous times. They had different last names and I knew they had different parents. But I’d always assumed that like all the rest of my “aunties” in Samoa, they were cousins or some kind of aiga.

  “They’re aiga,” I said feebly, even as I knew my words to be false. And then in a rush of memory so many details over the ten years that I’d lived with them all clicked into place. They shared the same bedroom and the same bed. But everyone in Samoa shares beds and living space… is what I’d always thought so I’d thought nothing of it. The time Aunty Amalia had been rushed to hospital with a burst appendix. Aunty Mareta weeping by her bedside, clutching her hand, brushing her hair with tenderness. The love in the room a palpable thing you could reach out and hold it in the palm of your hand.

  Nina had laughed all the way home, and it was still something she loved to tease me about. Of course once I’d had it pointed out to me, it was all I could see and I didn’t know how I had missed it all these years. My aunts were wholly and completely in love. Is that why they moved away from Samoa I wondered? Did the rest of the aiga know? Mother must be clueless about their relationship because otherwise she would have said something about it long before this. Father wouldn’t have sent me to live with the aunties if he’d known they were lesbians. Would he?

  Back in the present, the shadows lengthen and Nina can see she isn’t going to be changing my mind any time soon about breaking up with Jackson.

  “I’m not ready,” I say sadly. “I want to be. But finding out this stuff from Naomi and my parents? I thought I’d sorted all my shit out, y’know? But this hit me hard and dragged up all kinds of stuff that I thought I’d fixed a long time ago. I can’t be in a relationship right now.”

  Because she knows me. Because she loves me, Nina doesn’t argue. “Okay. I get why you shouldn’t be in a relationship with anyone right now. Not even an incredibly hot man like Jason Momoa’s twin brother. Promise me you’ll go back to therapy and talk through the new developments on the fucked up parents front? I’ll call and make the appointment with Dr Franklin if you don’t!”

  I shake my head and laugh, “I’m perfectly capable of calling the therapist myself thank you very much.”

  Nina has to try one more time though, “Couldn’t you have no-strings-attached sex with Jackson though? In the meantime. Until you sort your shit out?” A laugh and then she gets serious again, giving me a searching look, with her head tilted to one side. “You’re not the same person who went to Samoa Scarlet. I’m not quite sure how or in what ways you’ve changed, but I’m excited to find out.”

  Forgiveness.

  I’ve thought a lot about my father’s last word to me. I’ve asked myself, how can that possibly be an answer, a solution to anything? It’s made me angry. The trite failure of such a word to fully absolve a lifetime of shame, guilt and fear. Erase the wrongs that have been done. Make everything new again.

  No. Impossible.

  Forgive he who hurt me? Forgive she who ignored my plea for help? Forgive he who was blind and deaf to it all, because he was too busy saving souls? (Or as it turns out, he was also too busy with acting on his Biblically lustful adulterous heart!?) Forgive the woman whose bacteria-ridden hands took away a thousand possibilities for cheeky grins like Stella’s, sticky kisses and hugs like Tim’s, for a belly that swells with hopeful anticipation? Forgive the cutting words and sideways glances, the suffocating judgement that played its part in everyone’s choices?

  No. That’s too many. Too much for one word to handle.

  Instead, I seek to forgive two only.

  Me.

  You are not to blame. You were a child. You did nothing to cause it. You were not responsible. You are innocent. There were those charged with your safety and wellbeing. They were remiss in their responsibility and they will bear that. ‘Better that a millstone be hung around their necks so they drown in the depths of the sea, than they should harm a hair on the head of any of my children.’

  And God.

  Sacrilege I know. For who am I to forgive God? Is God not above reproach? Beyond my reach? I am imperfect. My mortality is but the whisper of an eyelash in the face of eternity that God is. But I cannot accept God as some vengeful spiteful being who metes out wrath and extracts penance. He doesn’t block suitable husbands from single women who should be home taking care of their aged parents. He doesn’t send cancer to sexual predators. Or punish fourteen year olds who have abortions. God doesn’t demand an eye for an eye. The life of my mother’s son for the unborn baby of her daughter.

  And it’s not God’s fault that I was raped.

  I have hated God for what was done to me. For not saving me. For not striking Solomon down with the lightning strike of righteous judgement. For allowing hypocrisy to flower, scarlet fields of unchecked poppy rot, in our home, and within the leader of our congregation. I have borne this hatred for too long and it’s time to lay it down.

  Because, maybe God isn’t as omniscient as we imagine he is. Maybe he doesn’t see all. Know all. Maybe God doesn’t build walls and cast sinners into outer darkness. Thunder from pulpits and call down fire and brimstone on scarlet whores.

  Maybe God is not what Father proclaimed himself to be. Maybe God isn’t what Mother believed him to be.

  I wonder, maybe God is like Aunty Filomena. One who loves unselfishly, without compromise. With her whole heart. One who hopes all things for you. Makes you koko rice and pineapple pie when you are sad. Throws stones at taxi drivers who are rude about you. She weeps when you hurt, when she can’t shelter you from all that would harm you. Maybe God believes the best of you, through all things. When you screw up, there is hurt and sadness in her eyes, but more than that, there is reassurance that yes, you can pick yourself up and keep going. You can try again. You can move forward. You can let go.

  Because maybe like Aunty Filomena, God lets go. Of our shortcomings and imperfections. But she never lets go of us. Instead, She holds you in her arms and whispers, ‘Be a good girl. Be strong.’

  Forgive? It’s taken me a long time. But yes I forgive.

  It’s fragile. A dusting of kapok in the wind. Who knows where it will go, if it will last? But it’s a seed. And in seeds, there are untold possibilities.

  For now that’s enough.

  It’s my first day back at work and it’s a welcome relief to be in my comfort zone, my happy place. I stand there for a few minutes breathing in deeply of the familiar – vanilla, cinnamon, the bite of chili, the possibilities in the smell of rising yeasty dough, the delight of buttercream, maple sugar and pecans, cocoa and caramelized sugar, ch
ocolate and orange ganache, the bubbling of peaches on the stove for a fresh batch of pies. Every delicious aroma is all the more clear because I know there’s a deadline now on how long I’ll be here to savor them.

  “You missed us, didn’t you?” says Anna as she gives me a quick hug. Brisk and brusque, she steps back and gives me an appraising look. “But you’re not staying long.” It’s not a question and I’m caught by surprise.

  “What do you mean?”

  She shakes her head, a half-grin on her face and hands on her hips. “You’re leaving us. Finally.”

  I gape at her. “Who told you?”

  “Nobody. I could see it as soon as you walked in that door,” she says.

  I stumble over my words apologetic and not making much sense. She stops me with one hand up. “Scarlet, you weren’t supposed to work here forever. When you first came here for a job, it was meant to be temporary. You’re not a baker. You’ve got a few skills, but this isn’t your life’s work.”

  Her matter of factness bruises my baking pride. “It could be. I didn’t realize that you weren’t happy with my work.” I’ve got baking skills dammit!

  She waves away my protests with her usual brusqueness. “Ah stop it. You do fine and you know you’re a great employee. But answer me this – does the bakery give you joy? Well, does it?”

  I give her a rueful grin and shrug. “Eating your custard pies does?”

  “See? Life is too short to waste on that which doesn’t give you joy. We all have to do things we don’t want to sometimes. A girl’s gotta eat and survive! But then, survival mode should only ever be temporary. Not forever. A stepping stone to something else, something better. The bakery was always my dream. This is my passion. What’s yours? I hope you’re quitting to do something that gets you closer to your dream.”

  “Actually yes, I am. I’ve been writing novels under a pen name. Sales are good and I’m quitting the bakery so I can write fulltime.” She’s only the second person I’ve told of my new decision. It feels good to speak the words out loud and give them realness with every time I say it.

  Anna beams at me. “That’s excellent news. What kind of books do you write?”

  “Romance. Trash books,” I say apologetically, steeling myself for the dismissive sneer that romance often gets.

  Anna’s face lights up. “My favorite! You bring me some of your books before you leave. Your going away present for your boss. The best boss you ever had.”

  I am doubtful. “Umm, they’re a little…racey. Y’know, sexy.”

  “The more sex the better,” says Anna. “I’ve read Fifty Shades of Grey eight times. Me and Boris are always looking for inspiration in the bedroom.”

  And with that she stalks back into the kitchen, barking over her shoulder, “Take care of the customers. Hurry.”

  Okay then. I guess Anna won’t be devastated to see me leave! I have to smile though as I grab an apron and head out to the front. Because Anna’s right. Life is too short to waste on that which doesn’t give us joy, and thinking about my latest novel work in progress back at the apartment, I have joy waiting for me.

  My smile lasts only as long as it takes to see what customer is waiting at the counter.

  Fuck.

  Kevin gives me a huge smile. “Look who’s back! Scarlet baby, I missed you. Sandra doesn’t offer the same great view when she’s boxing up my order.”

  From across the room Sandra mutters acidly, “You mean Sandra doesn’t put up with your shit like Scarlet does.” We exchange looks of shared disgust.

  Kevin ignores her as he leans on the counter so he’s at eye level with my chest, making an appreciative HMMMM noise. “A dozen of my usual sweet buns honey. And a coffee. With extra sugar and cream.”

  He keeps up the commentary as I make his coffee and pack buns into the box. He’s ladling on the praise today as if to make up for weeks of my having a break from his sexual favor. My eyes are deep pools of mystery and my ‘island lusciousness’ adds extra spice to his morning.

  He asks, “Did you put on weight on your Saamowah holiday? In all the right places?” (A leer.) Because he says my uniform is looking extra snug and inviting today. When I turn to grab him extra napkins, he compliments my ass. ‘So much to hang on to! Ha, ha. Are all the island women back in your country as curvey and delicious as you?”

  I plaster a polite smile on my face as I give him his order, wishing for him to just hurry up and leave now. Get the hell out of here. I’m cutting a piece of carrot cake for another customer. But he’s not done. He gets a five dollar note from his wallet and reaches across to tuck it into my top, casual and possessive. “Here you go babe, a tip. Always a pleasure seeing you.” And then his hand pat-brushes my breast. No accident, no apology.

  I freeze. Sandra’s hiss of shock from somewhere behind me is the only sound in the bakery in what seems like an endless moment. My vision blurs . Is it rage? Or fear? Or both? I only have one clear thought stamped in my mind, like a flashing billboard that won’t be ignored.

  Aunty Pativaine was right. I need a sapelu.

  I stare across the counter at this man who has plagued my every working week since I started at the bakery. The smirk on his pasty face. Every time the sight of him sent my stomach into a tail spin of dread. Aunty Pativaine wouldn’t put up with his shit. She wouldn’t. And she would be disappointed in my silence.

  “I’m not here for your sexual pleasure,” I say, soft and slow. Barely believing that I’m saying anything. Hoping that maybe he doesn’t hear me and leaves before the spirit of my penis-chopping great-grandmother completely possesses me.

  Too late.

  “What’s that darling?” he asks.

  I raise my voice. Loud and clear. “Every time you come in here, you make disgusting remarks about my body. About Sandra’s body. We don’t like it. Stop it. Buy your buns here but shut the fuck up about our breasts and bums.”

  Everyone in the store goes quiet. Everyone is listening. Watching. Avidly. Even Sandra’s gone quiet, her eyes wide open.

  Kevin shifts uneasily, looks around and laughs a forced laugh. “Come on, it’s a bit of fun. No harm done. Most women like some attention. Relax!”

  I grip the cake knife tightly and channel the matriarch of Savaii as I brandish it in front of his face. “No. You listen and listen good because I’m only going to say this one time. It’s not fun. Or funny. We don’t want your nasty attention and the next time you reach across this counter and grab my breast? I will stick this knife through your hand. Like this.” I stab the knife deep into the innocent cake, spearing it into the platter with a sharp thud.

  Kevin’s mouth gapes open, shocked and he jerks instinctively away from the counter. There’s an ocean pounding in my chest and a cyclone crashing through my veins. Fear at war with courage.

  The store erupts into applause as the line of customers cheer loudly. “You tell him girl!”

  Kevin looks around once and then swivels and half-runs out of the store. Two women at the doorway hiss and boo at him as he races by.

  I take a deep breath and try to calm my inner tempest. “Right, “ forced cheerfulness. “Who’s next?”

  In that moment, I think about the person that I try not to think about every day. Jackson. I want to call him, tell him what I’ve done. He would be so proud and happy for me. I clamp down hard on the thought and go about my work. Because Jackson is a door that I shut, a road I blocked off. The sooner I accept that and stop thinking about him, the better.

  Two weeks fly by and my job at the bakery comes to an end. It’s official. I’m now a fulltime writer. My agent is excited. “You’ll get so much more writing done now! Your publisher is rapt about getting more books from you. And your readers are hungry for more.”

  Her excitement should make me happy but it only makes me anxious.

  That morning Nina notices and pauses before leaving for the office. “What’s wrong? Your dream starts today doesn’t it?” She fakes a drumroll and the roar of an im
aginary crowd. “Aaaaannnnnnd let’s hear it for the world famous New York Times bestselling author from Samoa, Nafanua Dane in the house!”

  I have to smile, which is her intent. “I’m nervous. What if I can’t do it?”

  She puts her hands on her hips and gives me the raised eyebrow. “But you’ve already done it. You’re not new to this game. You’re not some newbie writer trying to break into the industry. You’ve written a romance series that’s hit the USA Today and New York Times bestseller lists already. You have an agent who’s out there selling you on three continents. And you have a Big Six publisher. You’ve already done it.”

  “No, Nafanua Dane’s done all that. This will be my first time stepping out from behind the pen name. Writing as me. What if my readers don’t like me?”

  Another eye-roll. “Oh please. I think all your readers care about is getting to read more about Blade’s magic cock. I know I want more of it. So get to work and give us some more books please!”

  With that kind of encouragement, how can I possibly fail?

  But before I open my laptop, there’s one thing I need to do. It takes two trips but I’m determined, and within fifteen minutes of sweaty traipsing up and down the stairs, I’ve lugged all my father’s books out to the trash. I don’t hesitate or even indulge in a single twinge of guilty farewell before hurling the boxes into the dumpster. There. It’s done. Now when I go back to the apartment, I feel light and free, a load lifted from my chest.

  Naomi’s right. I didn’t need to be worried. For the next month, I bury myself in the writing. Words, paragraphs, chapters spill out onto the page in an almost desperate race to be unleashed. Like the past few years of writing in secret have been a dam of rigid control and now, there’s nothing holding me back. My days are filled with stories, so many stories. I write about love, pain, heartache, joy, ecstasy, delight and struggle. I send pages to my agent and she raves about what she’s calling the ‘new direction’ that my writing has taken. ‘These are more real, raw and powerful!’