Scarlet Redemption

by Lani Wendt Young

  I shut myself away in my room and write some more, only emerging when hunger drives me out. Maybe its being away from the bakery, maybe it’s the freedom from finally writing as myself, but food has become something secondary to me now. It’s fuel, for my body. For my stories. Nina complains that she never sees me, bugs me to go out dancing with her and then leaves me alone when I tell her all I need is a few more weeks to get this writing madness out of me.

  If my days are filled with stories, then my nights are filled with thoughts of Jackson. I hate it when the writing stops, when the stories hit the PAUSE button. Because then I can’t keep the thoughts of Jackson at bay. I lie in bed and wonder where he is, what he’s doing. Is he out on a date with some perfect corporate girlfriend? Maybe he’s at the gym, doing a late night workout? Or is he in Texas visiting his family? I imagine what Elizabeth and Mark look like. His brothers. His family when they’re all together. The house always has a white picket fence and there’s an apple tree in the backyard. (Do apples even grow in Texas? I have no idea.) Jackson and his brothers sit around the table while their parents are at the opposite heads of the table. They eat roast steer and heaped bowls of cornbread. Elizabeth’s made apple pie for dessert. With apples from the tree in the yard of course. Jackson and his brothers probably picked them and helped her in the kitchen.

  Some nights thoughts of Jackson get me hot and bothered. I remember supply closets, plantations and sizzling hotel rooms. Then I have to get up and go take a cold shower. Which usually ends with me crying silent tears and softly slamming my clenched fist on the wall. I don’t want Nina to know that I’m grieving. Or that I’m even thinking about Jackson. I’m doing a good job of pretending that I’m over him, that I don’t care, that I’ve moved on, that I don’t regret turning him down, that I’M NOT THINKING OF JACKSON AT ALL. EVER.

  Some nights I torture myself by stalking his Facebook and Instagram. Which are sadly bereft of updates because Jackson is a man of few Facebook words. He hasn’t posted anything new in over six months. I have to content myself with scrolling through his old tagged photos and posts. Honestly, why must the man be so damn reticent?! Why can’t he be an over-sharer like the rest of us?

  There’s a lot of photos from two years ago. All posted by an ex-girlfriend called Francine Rogers. A petite ice blonde who barely comes up to his shoulder. She looks rich and there’s lots of pics of them at fancy parties. Jackson wears a tux and he looks so delicious that I download some of the photos (and crop her out of course). A little voice in my head says that I’m indulging in behavior that can only be described as – stalker’ish. But I tell the voice to shut up. This is me grieving, I say, a necessary part of the process. Besides, doesn’t everybody stalk their ex-lovers?

  Jackson looks like he stepped out of a GQ magazine. Or he belongs at the Oscars. With a woman like Francine of course. I try with my very powerful imaginative powers, to insert myself into the pictures, into the gleaming dazzle of the fancy parties – but it’s a dismal failure. No matter how hard I try, I can’t see myself on his arm, smiling and chattering light chatter at the glittery events. Even in the most glorious evening gown that Nina has ever forced me into, I still cant imagine myself with Jackson, in his life. Just like I couldn’t see him in my Samoa life either.

  “See Scarlet?!” I mutter with damning intensity, “You did the right thing. There’s no way you could have been Jackson’s girlfriend. No fucking way. You would have been miserable and he would have ended up resenting you and dumping you. So there. You did him a favor. And saved yourself a bucket load of heartache. Be glad. You dodged a bullet.”

  So why am I so sad then? I bury my face in my pillow and cry some more.

  I wonder – does he think of me at all? Does he miss me – ever? Probably not.

  I thought I would be able to walk away from Jackson and not look back. I was wrong. Because the cold hard truth stabs me anew every night. I’ve fallen in love with him.

  There’s some benefits to the heartache though. The sadder and more lonely my nights are, the richer and more passionate my writing days become. I’m blogging too. Funny, fabulous, sarcastic and witty blogs about everything from my trip to Samoa, to my journey writing romance novels incognito as the daughter of a faifeau.

  My agent Becca scores me the media opportunity of a lifetime. An interview feature piece with the New York Times. It makes me breathless just thinking about it and as soon as she tells me the news, I have an anxiety attack.

  “What am I going to say?” I whine to Becca. “I can’t do this!”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course you can,” she snaps back. “I’ve sent you a list of questions she might ask so you can prepare because I know you like to be over-prepared for everything. But even if you didn’t prep, you would rock this. Listen to me Scarlet. You’re funny and brilliant and you’ve written some kickass books. Just imagine that you’re talking to your blog readers and you’ll be fine.”

  Becca is mean and pushy and everything that my agent should be, or else I would never leave my cave.

  The interview goes well and I actually enjoy it. Becca sets up a session with a photographer for my author photo. Nina has a field day doing my hair and makeup. She makes me wear the scarlet wrap dress and I have a nervous attack of the giggles as I remember the wardrobe malfunction at Naomi’s wedding.

  “Make sure you keep your boobs in your dress during the photo shoot,” cautions Nina with a cheeky grin.

  I’m a nervous wreck waiting for the article to come out, because what if I sound like a pathetic loser in my interview? But again, I needn’t have worried. The write-up makes me sound funny and fabulous. (Totally not like me at all.) And sure I look like an orange pumpkin in the photo but Nina loyally pronounces me gorgeous and sensual, so I choose to focus on her words and allow myself to enjoy the thrill of being featured in the fucking New York Times baby! Who me? Yes that’s me!

  The day before the article comes out, my mother calls from Samoa. She makes no mention of our final conversation. Or any of the tortured details that we covered in that last gut-wrenching meeting. No, she prattles on like everything is still the same. Like we are still the same family we’ve always been.

  For a few minutes I am angry, disappointed, stunned. I want to interrupt her, force her to confront the ugliness we last uncovered. But as she rattles on about Naomi, Tamarina, the babies, Father’s newest book in progress, her church sewing group, Aunty Filomena…I know that I won’t. Because this is the only way that my family knows how to be. This is the only way that my parents know how to love me. From a distance. With walls. With shuttered secrets safely bound in careful wrapping. And sure, I can refuse to accept that reality, and force them to remember and acknowledge the unspoken. Or I can go with it.

  Do I need them to be what they aren’t? Can I push forward without them?

  Yes I can. Because this is my journey. Of healing and survival. Peace and renewal. And I don’t need them to take it with me.

  So I listen to Mother and make the non-committal sounds that she needs to keep going. When there’s gaps in the conversation I ask the questions that we are used to. About the children, and my sisters. About Aunty Filomena and can Mother please give her my love.

  We finish the conversation as we always do. With Mother asking me about my weight, my eating, and whether I’m going to enroll at Stanford in the Master’s program.

  But today I do something different. I have news for her.

  “I quit my job at the bakery.”

  Mother’s gasp of shock gives me a buzz of pleasure. “E a? Really? So you’re going back to school then!”

  I let her dance along the path of assumption and happiness. Then I smash it to smithereens. Okay and maybe I take some pleasure in it. I’m only human. I’m not a fucking saint.

  “No,” I say. “I signed a publishing contract and I’m going to work fulltime as an author.”

  Mother is happy. Bubbling even. “Oh your father is going to be so proud. Walking i
n his footsteps.”

  Don’t be too sure.

  “I’ve actually been writing novels for two years now. Under a different name. My agent has been wanting me to go public so I can do promotional work for them and I finally agreed. So she’s scored me a new three book deal with a big New York publishing company. Next month I’m doing my first book signing at the National Romance Writers Convention.”

  I can hear my mother’s confusion and dread through the phone. I’m smiling to myself as I wait for her response.

  “Romance? You write romance novels?”

  “Yes. I have an erotic romance series and a sports romance series. My book deal is for my new plus size romance series. All the books have a gorgeous fat lead who finds love.”

  There’s a long pause. “Erotic romance? I thought when you said you’d written a book, that you’d written a book like your father.”

  I laugh. “A religious theory book? Really Mother. I’m not a theologian.”

  “No, I mean a book that we could be proud of. Maybe an inspirational story. That we could put on the shelf and show to our friends and to everyone at church.”

  I’m cheerful and enjoying myself as I blaze ahead. “The covers aren’t too trashy Mother, don’t worry. I’ll send you copies. You may not be able to display these in the church library but trust me, the women at church are going to love them. They’ll bring some excitement to their lives. The first one in the new series is about a woman who works in a bakery. She’s Samoan.”

  I can feel Mother’s cold fear seeping through the connection. “You wrote about us? Your family? How can you do this to us?”

  Right there is the crux of it. She’s terrified that I will big mouth shout our family’s secrets to the world. Break every Samoan rule on public face, shame, and reputation above all else. Expose us all.

  “No Mother. The book isn’t about our family. It’s not about me either. Sure, there’s some bits in there that are inspired by real experiences and real people, but that’s what we writers do. We get inspiration from our life story and everyone in it, then we write fiction. Don’t worry.”

  But she’s not convinced. “You should have asked us first before you write these things and then let people read them!”

  “You’ve been bugging me for years to stop wasting my potential and write something. You should be proud,” I say without any apology. No fear. No shame. “My books are on the New York Times bestseller list. A Hollywood producer has optioned two of them for a movie. I was using a fake name before, but now I’m putting my real name on every book I write. Everyone will know it’s me, your daughter!”

  Then before she can fumble for an adequate response, I say goodbye and disconnect. Laughing. It feels good.

  I’m singing to myself as I get back to work. I had thought for so long that it would be difficult to tell my parents that I write romance books, but now that I’ve done it? It feels great. Why didn’t I do this sooner? Who cares if they don’t like it?

  As usual, I want to tell Jackson about my conversation with Mother, and my delighted relief to have the conversation done with. I allow myself a few minutes to imagine how that conversation would go. What I would say and how I would feel. The look in his eyes when I tell him.

  I did it Jackson! I told my parents about my books. And the crazy thing? It wasn’t hard at all. You were right. Thank you.

  But I don’t tell him. Because we aren’t together. Because I broke up with him before we were even a couple. Because I asked him to leave me alone and give me space to sort out my shit. Because I’m an idiot.

  I log on to Facebook again so I can stalk him. And again I’m disappointed because he still hasn’t updated. What the fuck is the point of having Facebook if you never post anything?!

  Big, Brown and Barefoot Blog

  I have an announcement. It’s not earth-shattering, but it’s something I’ve kept hidden for several years now and so it’s a secret that’s gotten more unnecessarily secret with each passing day.

  I write romance novels under a pen name. Specifically, romance novels with lots of sex in them. The first few were self-published and then I got a publishing offer from a great New York company.

  I was too scared to publish them under my real name so I used a made up one. Why was I scared? Lots of reasons that include privacy and the romance genre usually getting a bad rap. Because I have a degree in English Literature and my parents always wanted me to do a doctorate and be a Professor of English at some Very Important University and write Very Intellectually Profound books about Very Important and Intellectually Profound (Boring) things.

  But the main reason would be, simply because I’m a Samoan woman.

  For a long time, I worried what my extended family aiga they would think of me if they knew I had written a sexy-time romance series. And everyone else.

  I worried what my church would think. I worried what the woman at the bread shop would think, my second grade teacher, the policeman directing traffic, the bus driver who used to take us to school every morning, the man who hangs off the back of the rubbish truck and throws our bin every rubbish day and spills garbage all over the front of our house, the girls who called me meauli lapoa in 6th grade, and the list goes on…

  The librarian who let me borrow ten books at a time when I was a teenager. I worried she would shake her head in disapproval and say, ‘What a disappointment that girl is! She read so many books, she could have done something important and useful with her life. Instead of writing this trash!’

  The Sunday School teacher who smacked me with a ruler every time I got the words wrong in a scripture verse. She would nod knowingly and say, “I knew it. She was always a wicked girl…”

  The English teacher who confiscated illicit Mills and Boon novels from me in class when I was twelve. She wouldn’t be shocked at all. But she would purse her lips, push her glasses back and make a hacking spit sound of disgust at the back of her throat when she discussed it with everyone at my old school. “She had unnatural tendencies from a young age. I tried to correct her, get it out of her. But it was impossible…”

  You get the idea right? Basically I was scared of what every single person I had ever known/seen/heard/ or even breathed the same air as would think if they found out.

  But I have finally had a revelation. At the grand old age of thirty. (I’m a slow learner!) I have realised that

  Most of the people I was worrying about – don’t give a fuck about what I write, do, say, look like, or think. I need to get over myself!

  And even if they did have an opinion, it doesn’t matter.

  Simple words but it’s a massive weight rolled off my shoulders.

  So this is me, Scarlet Thompson announcing to the world that I am the Big Brown Barefoot blogger. And I’m also ‘Nafanua Dane’, the author of the Sweet Passion series, the Red Card Rugby series and more. I’m pleased to meet you!

  As I knew it would, any hope I had of keeping my books a secret from anyone in my family back home, is blown to smithereens by the New York Times article. The local newspaper picks up the story and Tamarina sends me a screenshot of my scarlet self on the front page of a stack of newspapers at the bread shop.

  “The children said to tell you they’re proud of their famous aunty. Tina wants to read them but I told her she has to wait till she’s older. I’m proud of you too. Bought all your books on Amazon and started reading the first one last night. It’s good. I couldn’t stop reading till it finished. Jacob had to look after the twins. But your book inspired me and he got his reward so now he likes your book too.”

  Her message ends with winking and smiley face heart emojis. Somebody got busy last night!

  Mother calls. I nearly don’t answer. But then decide that it’s best to rip the Band-Aid off quickly.

  “Hi Mother. Another call so soon? Is everything alright?” Blasé innocence.

  Her voice is a shaved ice cone when you bite down and get that unpleasant stab of pain in your forehead. “Scar, did
you have to wear that dress? The one that shows your susus to the whole world? Didn’t you think of your poor Father and how this newspaper story would affect him? Or me your poor Mother? You could have worn your nice puletasi that I had made for you.”

  “Sorry Mother, I forgot that puletasi at the house. I left so suddenly you know?” Snarky hint at the dark things I know she doesn’t want to talk about. It has the desired effect. Mother instantly backs off and there’s no more talk of the indecency of my susus. Instead she switches to a much more important issue.

  “So did you get paid by your publisher? We have a faalavelave coming up. Your cousin Malele is getting married and we have to put in a thousand tala.”

  Just like that we have smoothed over the tricky topic of my writing about S E X in trashy romance novels, as Mother takes refuge in the safety of the familiarity of faalavelave.

  I promise to send some money and hang up with a combination eye roll and hi-five, glad for the millionth time that Mother can’t see me through the internet. Who said money can’t give you happiness? If you’re Samoan, then money solves many problems and bridges all divides. Why didn’t I figure it out sooner? As long as I keep making my contributions to the family, then it seems my parents can endure anything of me.

  Beyonce calls to congratulate me, to shower me with praise and love. “I knew it girl! I always knew you would be rich and famous one day!”

  “I’m not rich and I’m not famous either. The highest my books have ever hit on the list was 12th. That doesn’t get me on any famous lists!”

  “That makes you famous on my list,” counters my cousin. “So have you tracked down Jackson yet?”

  It doesn’t matter how many times I tell Beyonce that I’ve broken everything off with Jackson, and all the reasons why – she refuses to accept it. “Don’t be stupid. He doesn’t care about any of that stuff. Besides, why should he have to suffer because of your family dramas? Call him. Tell him you’re sorry and you want to make it up to him. In lots of sexual ways.”