Nothing like a snow day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The last time this much snow surrounded us was the winter before Mom died. The fall preceding that bitter Benton Harbor December marked the last season Mom had hair and the last time Dad yelled at her. Jesse and I were thirteen and fourteen years old, respectively. The neighbors across the street had moved out a month before, and a Penske truck pulled up one October day unannounced. We watched the moving guys take trips back and forth between the truck and the house from our kitchen window. Dad wasn’t back from work, so all three of us finished our chores and enjoyed a few moments of peace while the driveway lay empty.
I saw the way Mom’s eyes shifted from our driveway to the mom across the street. She wanted to meet her. She needed an excuse. She looked at the clock, wondering if she should gamble. I’d seen this look in her eyes before. She had an idea.
Mom opened up the cupboards, pulled out a platter and asked Jesse and I to quickly grab one of each type of fruit from the produce basket in the fridge. Jesse washed the fruit while I found the extra cutting boards stored under the kitchen sink. With all three of us chopping away, we had a colorful ensemble ready in no time. Mom fiddled with the Glad wrap while Jesse and I washed the dishes, threw out peels, and wiped down the counter—experts at getting rid of evidence. Stealing glances between the clock and the movers, I knew that Mom only had fifteen minutes to play with if Dad returned at his usual time of 4:45 p.m. The clock on the microwave flipped to 4:31.
“You two run along to your rooms and do your extra reading,” Mom said. “I’ll be right back.”
Jesse and I exchanged glances, then looked at Mom, wishing her luck with our eyes, and scurried on up to our bedrooms. As soon as we heard the front door shut, we raced back down to watch Mom meet the family through the kitchen window. Seeing Mom make a friend was better than watching TV. Jesse put his arm around my shoulder, and for a brief moment we tasted the crumbs of possibility.
Instinctively, my eyes shifted among three spots: from Mom, to the clock, and to the driveway. “Hurry,” I whispered, as we watched Mom smiling and our new neighbor giving her a side hug.
Dad’s black Acura pulled up into the driveway. Early. The clock read 4:40. And just like that, the sun turned black and the crumbs turned poisonous. Death came a-knocking, and Jesse and I flew like our tails were on fire up to our rooms. We knew better than to be in each other’s room, but I so wished for Jesse’s hand to squeeze. My nails dug into the pages of John Green’s Paper Towns when I heard the front door slam shut. Dad. Seconds later, the door opened and shut again. Mom. The air smelled noxious with uncertainty. Only thing I was certain of: it was gonna be bad.
A little over two years after the closet incident and Mom’s crazed recovery, when the new neighbors moved in across the street, the wind changed direction again—this time into a twister that none of us would ever recover from. I heard Dad’s footsteps making his rounds to his office, then to each room, checking and double-checking our workmanship. When he made his way back to the kitchen, I snuck down to the first floor to peek in, staying hidden by crouching in the stairwell. I could see Mom standing with her hands gripped on the sides of the kitchen sink. The water was running, and someone had pulled the curtains shut.
Dad was at the other end of the kitchen, and I watched his back as he opened the cabinet to remove a stack of Corning Ware plates. He held a single dish up in the air, smashed it against the granite top, and then—to my horror—he turned and threw the jagged, broken plate like a dart at Mom’s back. The dish made a dull sound against Mom’s shirt before it shattered to pieces as it hit the tile floor. She buckled over the sink, then pulled herself back to a stand like a wounded soldier trying to save her dignity. Then a second. My eyes blurred instantly and I couldn’t watch any longer. I bit my lip to keep from screaming and ran back up to my room and waited for the sound of the last breaking dish. They just kept coming. And with each sound wave of broken glass, I punched the carpet floor by my bedroom door, wishing for the impossible. That Dad’s sadistic appetite could be quenched sooner rather than later. For Dad to cut himself on a broken dish and bleed to death. For time to rewind.
Minutes seemed like hours, until the piercing clamor came to a sudden halt. I held my breath until I saw Mom’s head emerge from the stairwell. She crawled up the steps, dragged herself past my room on her hands and knees, and continued toward the hallway bathroom. Blood seeped through the back of her white floral-printed blouse. The flowers were bleeding. And so was my heart.
I needed to get permission to help her from Dad, and I knew it wouldn’t be easy to ask. I just wanted to “clean up the mess,” I’d say, hoping his OCD nature would grant me this one small liberty. I’d pick up the broken dishes first, and then I’d attend to Mom, using the minimum amount of Neosporin, simply to prevent blood from getting on the carpet or bedroom sheets. I had this whole conversation in my head, planning a strategic backdoor rescue, naively thinking I could outwit the tsar.
Little did I know that Dad had his own plan to throw Mom down a well where no rope could reach. He walked past my room, carrying a small, black, leather bag. Dad entered the bathroom and locked the door behind him. I swallowed another ocean of tears as I ran over to Jess’s room. “Let’s clean the kitchen.”
“That’s true.” Jess’s voice was hoarse and his eyes red. “It’ll be on our lists anyway.” Jess headed for the vacuum in the hall closet while I raced down the stairs for the broom.
When I reached the opening to the kitchen, my mouth fell open. Not even an inch of the kitchen tile was visible. Broken glass lay everywhere, and I knew we’d be eating off paper plates until we all saved enough imaginary allowance from our chores to buy new dishes. Nothing happened in the house without Dad’s approval, especially purchases of any kind. He did all the shopping, and new dishes would be added to the wish list in Mom’s head.
We—Jess, Mom, and I—all had our invisible wish lists that we only voiced when Dad was absent. Mine included trendy clothes in place of the thrift shop wardrobe I owned. Jess’s wish list had video games he had only heard the kids at school rave about—the Wii remained his top choice. Mom simply dreamt of hair accessories. She longed for rhinestone slides, colorful hair bands, and silky ribbons for her hair, but Dad never encouraged the expression of either her femininity or her beauty. So I often closed my eyes and imagined rainbows and glitter, silk and stones, when I looked at Mom’s flowing hair.
Thinking of ways to reach Mom and attend to her wounds, I worked with Jess to diligently restore the kitchen. With the noise of the vacuum whirring loudly, neither of us heard the sounds coming from the upstairs bathroom. When we finished throwing out the last double-bagged load of broken Corning Ware, mopped the kitchen floor, and wiped down the countertops of all the shards, I cautiously climbed the stairs and sat at the top while Jess left to return the vacuum to the garage. Dad passed by me on his way down to his den, a look of satisfaction plastered across his face. Not sure where Mom was, I checked the bedroom first. Then I noticed the light in the bathroom where she originally entered. The door remained partially closed, and as I approached, I heard muffled whimpers.
“Mom?” I asked while knocking softly. “Is it okay to come in?”
Silence. More soft moaning.
“Mom?” This time I pushed the door open to see her for myself. To my horror, a trail of long black hair lead up to my mother sitting on the toilet lid. Mom’s long black hair. All. Gone.
“Mom!” I cried as I ran up to her. “Your hair? He didn’t? How could he? Why?” I bent down and hugged her knees. Her mouth had duct tape over it, and her wrists were bound with a single layer of tape, too. The clippers were lying on the edge of the sink, and Mom’s glory surrounded her like fallen petals. She looked naked. Awful. Ugly. She was bald.
I wanted to pull the duct tape off, but I knew waiting for Dad’s approval would minimize further damage. How much more could he hurt her? Or me? If I swallowed a river o
f tears earlier, I looked at my Mom’s bare scalp and pushed through the ocean of my sadness to reach her. I couldn’t get stuck in my shock. There was no time for that. I only had seconds to help her, if Dad gave me even that.
I quickly took the tweezers out of the medicine cabinet and went to work, picking out glass pieces from her cut-up back, finding it impossible not to keep glancing at Mom’s head. Her hair all over the floor. And, all the while, I prayed for a miracle. I prayed for lightning to strike my father dead, instantly. I prayed for revenge. I prayed for awful things. Unspeakable things. I hoped and prayed for all sorts of horrific, drawn-out acts of retribution to fall upon Dad. Dad would have a heart attack if he read my mind. That would work for me just as well.
I redirected my energy to cleaning up Mom’s back, but the immense task before me could not be tackled in the few minutes before Dad returned and punished me for helping her. I thought of how I would transition to picking up her hair when I heard footsteps, and even as I thought it, someone approached quickly. I covered the First Aid kit with a washcloth and moved to a crouched position and began gathering Mom’s long black strands into piles.
Jess came up from behind, and I nearly jumped out of my skin, thinking it was Dad. Confused at the scene, the hair, Mom’s back, the duct tape, Jess went into a rage.
“I’m gonna kill him.” He spoke to no one in particular. “I’m gonna kill him in his sleep. Tonight. I’m gonna find the sharpest knife in the kitchen drawer and slit his—”
“Throat.” Dad finished the sentence as he pushed open the door and sauntered into the bathroom.
I thought Dad threatened Mom’s life that evening. At that moment, I knew Dad planned to destroy Jesse as well. Dad would punish him for breathing words of treason. But Dad controlled us with his unpredictability. He simply snapped his crocodile teeth shut when we least expected it.
The air was thick with murderous intentions, and I wished for the courage to call for help. To call the police. An ambulance. Child Services. Anyone. There had to be laws that Dad had broken, and the law was supposed to protect us. In the real world, fathers protected their offspring. Instead, ours seemed to revel in every chance he had to cut us. Sure, I heard the kids at school complain about their chores. But no one ever mentioned consequences other than being grounded or losing electronics or TV time.
Worse still, Dad convinced us that no one would ever believe any accusations of abuse. He strategically chose weapons that could just as easily be connected with accidents: boiling water, a hot iron, broken glass. Plus he had friends in every profession: cops, judges, politicians. He was the go-to lawyer guy of so many men in authority, the one time we tried to run away, the man in uniform who promised to help us, helped us right back into the arms of the one who hurt us—Dad. So we found ourselves imprisoned, and none of us knew how to escape without abandoning the other, a covenant we would not break. Until that night.
That night Mom left us. Verbally, at first. She never spoke after that night. No more gitas left our bald Gita’s lips after that day. Not even a sad song. She also ceased looking at me in the eyes. She walked around the house like a mobile stone statue, despair permanently chiseled into her form, even her shadow. Her list became shorter and shorter, and mine grew longer and longer.
Not even a week had passed and it became apparent that Mom had mentally deserted us as well. She retreated to her bed for larger portions of each passing day, and one morning, she simply did not get up. Mom laid there, sleeping with her eyes open, not shifting sides. She stopped eating, but I never told Dad. She’d drink from a straw when I forced her to, but only the bare minimum. That’s when my list included Mom’s name on several lines. Wake Mom up. Feed Mom. Give Mom a sponge bath. Clean Mom’s bedpan. The rest were the usual household chores. It was hard back then, but I realize now that I miss back then. I miss Mom. Terribly.
Mom never recovered from her second nervous breakdown. On the night before New Year’s, I went into Mom’s room to do the usual nighttime routine of brushing her teeth, massaging her head and legs, wiping her down with a washcloth, and kissing her goodnight. Her forehead was cold. Her eyes were closed. The fluttering had stopped. I felt her wrist and knew she was free.
Mom died in her sleep, and we buried her on New Year’s Day morning. I made a haphazard wig with her hair save one strand and Scotch-taped it around her face in a futile attempt to cover her shame. I even applied pink lipstick to the thin broken line where her smile once laid. And I dressed her in blue. It wasn’t the sparkly blue sari in her picture she once allowed me to steal a glance of, but it was blue. And wearing blue was how I wanted to remember her. When the mortician told me time was up, I kissed her cold cheeks, the top of her eyelids, and the palms of her hands. Tears rolled down my cheeks onto her open lines of life. I closed her fingers around my final gift to her before I tucked her hands back by her side. If only she could bury my sadness with her.
At the cemetery, Jesse and Dad carried the casket with the help of the funeral personnel. Under a heavy winter coat, I wore a black dress Dad allowed me to buy from the clearance rack. Piles of mud-mixed snow laid all around. The air temperature was so frigid that it hurt to breathe. My tears froze before slipping off my cheeks, as if to engrave the sadness there forever. No one came to her funeral. As far as I knew, no one was invited. When the casket lowered into the frozen earth, I pictured myself jumping in to join her. One glance at Jesse and my feet took two steps back. When the dirt-snow mixture hit the top of the casket, Mom’s words to me when I was seven returned, as if she were right there speaking to me: “No matter what happens, promise me that you’ll take care of your little brother.”
Yes, Mom. I promise. Happy New Year, Mom. And sweet dreams.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
My waterfall willow changes colors right before my eyes. From her naked branches of winter to the pale yellow blossoms of spring, her paint seeps from within her and reminds me of the hourglass. Time stops for no one.
On March 17, a couple months after our snow play day, Lagan and I meet at our designated time, and after a simple dinner of cream of potato soup and turkey and avocado sandwiches, Lagan catches me off guard with a question. Or actually a request. “I need to talk to you about Rani.”
My shoulders tense with the sound of another girl’s name.
“Remember Rani? My cousin?” I bust out laughing at the word cousin.
Of course. Lagan mentioned her time and time again, but I haven’t met her yet. I stop rustling with the ziplock bags and empty paper containers to turn and give him my full attention. He isn’t laughing.
“Sorry for laughing.” I feel stupid. Something terrible might be wrong with Rani, and I’m getting unstuck from the quicksand of jealousy. Sheesh. You’d think knowing Lagan’s W4Y quest would be enough to keep me afloat. Insecurity just feels familiar to me, like the scents of cleaning products.
Lagan shakes his head. He’s at a loss for words for once. So I wait.
I take a seat on our branch bench under the willow, something Lagan and I assembled together with a few saved limbs that Jason allowed, and quickly glance down at my watch. I have about fifteen minutes left to my break. Plenty of time.
Lagan clears his throat and begins to share a story about the girl he calls his best friend. “Since we’re cousins, we grew up together, seeing each other at least once a week when our parents decided to settle in the Chicago area near to each other. Prima, my baby sis, is closer to Rani’s age, but she’s your typical hair, nails, heels, girly girl, so although I know they totally care about each other, Rani never really connected with her. Or any of the other female cousins. But we clicked. Right from the start.” Lagan stopped and squinted his eyes as he looked up at me, as if to gauge whether I understood thus far. “You know how it is? I mean, do you? Know how it is?”
Glad he doesn’t assume, I press my lips together and shake my head no. I have no idea. “The only family I know is Jesse. Maybe I have cousins out there, but I’ve never
met them. My mom’s parents are out there somewhere, on some remote farm in India. Doubt I’ll be visiting them anytime soon.”
Lagan sighs. The look on his face makes me think he’s not sure if I’ll get it. His story. His relationship with Rani. Or whatever he needs to tell me about her.
“Yeah.” Lagan smiles a small but definite smile. “But you’re a girl. So you should be able to relate, I think. Actually...” Another hesitation as he picks up a branch off the ground and moves closer to where I’m sitting. Lagan leans against, breaking off little bits of the branch and tossing them into an imaginary hoop. Always practicing his shot. Can’t seem to help himself. Like this little physical act is helping him to formulate his thoughts, because then he speaks and as the words roll off his tongue, a monster exits a closet somewhere. From within a house of secrets. Lagan’s house of secrets. We all have one. That I know for sure now.
Near the end of his story, tears glisten on his cheeks. He’s never told anyone before. About seeing things he shouldn’t have. Staying silent when he should have spoken up. Failing to defend Rani when she didn’t even know she was being hurt.
“Rani was seven. Only seven.” Lagan punches the bark. Then puts his hand flat on the willow’s trunk, as if to apologize. “What kind of guy does that to a little girl?”
His voice trails off. He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s a debt he can never pay back. His downcast eyes tell me he’s not sure he should have told me. Or maybe his silence says, “Now your turn.”
Not yet. I’m not ready to undress. My heart still has a few layers to get through before we talk about Dad and all the skid marks he’s left across my mind. The kind that even the strongest of street cleaners can’t get out.
“Anything else?” I ask, keeping the focus on Rani. On Lagan. On anyone but me.
“Yes.” Lagan looks up into my eyes for the first time this afternoon and says two words: “I’m sorry.”
Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) Page 18
