by Sonia Patel
I feel like she ripped off a large scab, then poured a beaker of sulphuric acid on it.
I turn and jog, weaving between the tables. I can hardly see past my tears. I can’t seem to get enough air, even though I’m breathing fast and hard. When I’m out of the restaurant, I start running.
I make it to the parking lot. I find the nearest pay phone. I call Mark. He answers, but he doesn’t sound like himself. Between sobs and labored breaths, I unload everything that happened. He tells me to stay put. That he’ll be right over.
I crouch on the grass next to a black Ford Fiesta and bury my head in my knees. I can’t stop crying. I can’t think straight. Minutes pass. My tears slow down. An engine roars nearby.
Next thing I know, Mark’s arms are around me. “Rani,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”
We get in his truck. I lean my head against the window and close my eyes. We don’t drive far. He parks at the Paniolo Hale lot.
I follow him down the narrow dirt path to Make Horse Beach. He’s carrying a small cooler and a backpack. The path ends and opens up to a seemingly untouched cove. The wide deserted beach with its white sand is a sharp contrast to the dark blue and foamy white waves.
We walk to the far right side of Make Horse. I’m numb. Like I’m not really here. Like I’m a robot. He pulls out a blanket from his backpack. I help him spread it under the shade of a couple of kiawe. I settle down at the edge. He sits behind me, enveloping me in his arms.
Even in his strong embrace, I feel detached. I become absorbed in the waves crashing onto the shore.
He kisses the back of my neck. “How’re you doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sorry about your dad.”
“Yeah. Thanks. And thanks for coming to get me.”
“Anything for you, Rani.”
Those words.
I don’t move, but my tears flow.
Mark notices and says, “Hey, it’s ok, it’s ok.” He squeezes me tighter. After a few minutes, he asks, “Want something to drink?”
I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “Sure, why not.” He hands me a Bud Light. I crack open the can and guzzle it down.
“Can I have another one?” I down half the second can and then take sips. Feeling a little better I stretch my legs on the blanket. He lays down with the back of his head on my thigh.
His eyes track down mine and seem to offer consolation. And so do his words. “You wanna hear some haole jokes?”
“Ok,” I reply. He tells me a bunch. At first I chuckle. I chug my third beer and the jokes get even funnier. Soon he’s telling me stories about his days on the mainland. All I can think is how hilarious he is. By now I’m on my sixth beer and alternating between rolling on my side in laughter and trying to listen attentively.
Suddenly I have to pee really bad. It takes me awhile, but I finally find a hiding place behind some rocks. I cop a squat. After I’m done, I stumble back. Mark’s facing away from me as I approach. I see him shove a pipe and a small plastic bag into his backpack. He doesn’t realize I’ve returned until I kneel down on the blanket behind him and sling my arms around his shoulders and chest. He touches my arm, then pulls out a bottle of Cuervo from his backpack. I plop down onto the blanket, facing him.
“How about it?” He holds up the bottle. His smile is huge. He seems more awake. Like he drank ten cups of coffee.
“Sure.” I study his face as he unscrews the cap. “Cheers!” he exclaims and takes a big swig. Then he gives me this strange look. A look that worries me a little. His eyes are squint. He’s staring at me like he’s a hawk and I’m a juicy mouse. He props the bottle against the cooler and grabs my face in both his hands. He kisses me hard. It feels like I’m gagging on his tongue. He pulls away. Then he passes the bottle of Cuervo to me.
I take a swig of the amber liquid. Immediately I take another. My head’s spinning. Time blurs. At least I’ve forgotten about my dad. And I finally get to what I should’ve asked Mark a long time ago. I take one more gulp. “Mark,” I slur, “do you use drugs?” This simple question took me six beers and three swigs of Cuervo to gain the courage—or lose the inhibition—to ask.
“Alcohol,” he says. He takes another swig and hands the bottle back to me.
I take a drink. Somehow I manage to say, “No, I mean other drugs. My boys warned me about you.” I feel myself wagging a finger at him in what seems like slow motion.
Mark doesn’t answer. Instead he rummages through his backpack and pulls out a small plastic bag with clear crystals, a five-inch glass pipe, a lighter, and a small straw.
That’s the pipe I saw on his coffee table. And the straw with the burned tip!
He holds out the stuff for me to see. My glazed expression and silence give him the green light.
Using the slant tip of the straw, he packs a pinch of the crystal through a small hole into the chamber of the glass pipe’s bulb. Then he rolls the spark wheel of the lighter and holds the flame really close to the bulb. The flame almost touches the glass. He moves the flame in circles under the bulb. The crystal starts to melt and turn to smoke. The smoke fills the chamber and he inhales slowly from the mouthpiece, keeping the flame near the bulb. Then he shuts the lighter off and inhales a bit more.
Drunk and dazed, I don’t move. I can’t move. I’m like a piece of petrified wood. Time seems to be moving at a snail’s pace. A strange feeling takes over. It’s as if I’m sitting up on the kiawe tree observing him below. Like he’s in a gritty documentary on batu use.
He packs more crystal and smokes it.
I watch, paralyzed. My vision fades in and out.
He packs the bulb yet again and says, “Here,” holding out the pipe and lighter to me.
“No, I’m good.” I try to force my eyes fully open.
He lights it and takes the hit himself. That’s when the darkness spreads across his face. He mutates into someone—no, something—else. His expression is wolfish and scares the crap out of me. I imagine jumping up and running back to the parking lot. But all my wasted ass can do is scoot away on the blanket. I push myself with my feet and try to get myself to the other side. My coordination is off, and I end up collapsing on my back. He eyes me for a second then reaches out.
“Get over here, Rani,” he snarls, dragging me by my feet closer to him.
Next thing I know he’s straddling me. His mouth swallows mine. I can’t tell where his tongue ends and mine begins. It kind of hurts but feels good too. His hands are all over me. He yanks my tank top over my head, almost ripping it. My glasses go with it. I feel my bikini top around my neck. He’s touching, rubbing, squeezing.
“You’re mine, Rani,” he growls. “And I want all of you.”
His left hand reaches down and tears off my shorts and bikini bottom in one swift motion.
“Wait, wait. Hold on.” I grope to find my shorts.
He pushes my hands away.
“My head hurts. I-I wanna rest.”
He pulls down his board shorts.
“Stop,” I whisper. It doesn’t come out like the scream I want. I try to shove him off me.
With one hand he grabs my hands and holds them over my head.
“No, stop.” I can’t get my legs to kick him off me.
He has me pinned down completely. He reaches below with his free hand to his groin.
“Stop…”
“Shut up!” He moves his hand up to cover my mouth.
Then, sharp pain. I try to scream again but his hand seems to sense it and presses down harder.
Fade to black.
TLC
“Rani, wake up. Rani.”
Faraway, familiar voice.
Lifted.
“Rani, please wake up.”
Eyelids flutter open for a few seconds. Enough to catch a glimpse of kiawe floating in an ocean of deep blue sky.
I bolt up.
Where am I?
I feel sticky and crusty. As if I ran the “block” for PE, then didn’
t take a shower all day. And the sweat on my body got all dried up. Now it encases me like the fried batter on tempura. I sweep my hand over my face, starting at my chin and working up to my forehead. My hand remains idle on my forehead for a second, then moves down the back of my scalp. Tiny grains of sand rain onto my body.
“Rani, betta, drink,” Mom says, handing me a pyalo.
“Mom,” I say, taking a sip of cool lemon water. Then Mom holds out my glasses. I slip them on and everything comes into focus. I look straight ahead and see my bookshelf and closet doors. To the left, my dresser and mirror. And next to me, my desk, boombox, and stack of CDs.
My room.
I try to sit up.
She places a damp washcloth on my forehead. “Rest now, betta.”
She adjusts the pillow under my head. I feel queasy. My head’s throbbing. So is my crotch.
My crotch?!
I sit up again. The washcloth drops from my forehead onto the front of my tank top. With both hands, I grab the edge of my blanket. I notice bits of dirt and sand trapped under my fingernails. I lift the edge of the blanket and glance under. The towel that’s wrapped around my waist loosens as I move and the ends fall open. My eyes widen because I’m not wearing any bottoms! Lightning strikes and the events of the day fast forward in my mind. Pono’s party. Dad and Wendy. Mark. Make Horse. Beer. Cuervo. Crystal. Pain.
“How are you feeling, betta?”
I lie back down. I focus on the white of the ceiling. But all I see is red. After the pain, my mind is blank. How did I get home?
“You didn’t show up for Pono’s birthday party,” she says patting my hand. Tears fill her eyes. “He said something didn’t feel right so he went looking for you. Someone told him they saw you get into Mark’s truck.”
“Pono found me?” I turn my head to face her.
“Yes.” She slips one hand into mine and strokes my forehead with the other. “Rani, betta, what happened?” she asks.
I study her face. Her eyes and brow radiate understanding. Her mouth is relaxed and her full lips are slightly open.
I remember this look.
It’s the same one she had after I shaved my head. Only then I was confused and I ended up resisting her TLC. And even though we’ve gotten closer, I haven’t told her anything about Mark. But now it feels right.
Before I can get to the whole story, I have to get through a decade of tears. My face contorts and I cry. Like a baby. Like the doctor just pulled newborn me out of my mom and I took my first breath, then let the wailing rip. Thick, clear, viscous snot drips from my nose. But there’s no nurse here to use the suction bulb to suck it out for me. Good thing Mom hands me tissues. Sitting up, I blow a ton of it out.
“It’s ok, betta, tell me what happened.”
I try to get a hold of myself, but the tears keep coming.
Mom must know I’m not ready to talk yet. She changes the subject. She switches to Gujarati. “Have I ever told you about your great grandmother, Agneya ba?”
I nod. “Lalita ba did.”
A lovely young Gujarati woman in Dharmaj. 1937.
I close my eyes and remember that sweltering afternoon in my grandparents’ Nairobi apartment. Lalita ba and I are sitting cross-legged on the cool, grey concrete floor of the tiny kitchen. I’m watching her trim the giloda for my least favorite shaak. She’s ignoring my disapproving stare. I have no idea why but it’s then that she decides to tell me about her mother. In Gujarati, she says, “Rani, you have to listen to this. Listen closely. Don’t ever forget.”
Lalita ba begins with facts. Agneya ba was born and raised in Dharmaj. Her parents arranged her marriage to Suresh, the son of a wealthy local politician from Bhadran. Everyone thought it was a perfect Chha Gaam union. But Suresh dada had several affairs and affair children. When Agneya ba found out, she wanted to leave him. He didn’t like that idea.
That’s where the second verse of my rap “Love and War” took root! Its flow germinates in my head.
His solution was her live cremation.
My rhymes and Lalita ba’s account fertilize each other. They intensify each other’s growth. Lalita ba’s voice grows clearer. I picture her dropping a partially trimmed giloda into the large stainless steel bowl and waving her knife around like a magic wand. She’s an enchanted raconteur. And I’m all ears.
By the time Agneya ba returned home from her friend’s place that evening, it was dark. She hadn’t noticed the windows boarded up from the outside. Or that the large copper water vessel near the spice shelf had been removed. Had she known she would soon die, she would have worn her white sari.
Images of Agneya ba’s murder come together in my mind like a climactic film scene.
As the flames leaped about her, Agneya ba frantically searched for an exit from the small kitchen of their Dharmaj home. She pounded her fists against the thick, wooden door, now securely locked from the outside. She screamed, “Bachao! Bachao!” No one came. All four walls were burning. Desperation and fear turned into resignation as the oppressive heat from the blaze enveloped the room.
Agneya ba grabbed the shears from her sewing tin and quickly snipped off her thick, long, black hair. She shaved off the remaining hair with her husband’s razor. A small blessing that he kept his toiletries neatly arranged on a floating shelf in the kitchen, under the only mirror in the house.
I’m rubbing my short hair. I visualize Lalita ba balancing the knife on the edge of the bowl. She presses her palms together in prayer. Then she bows her head slightly and concludes the tale with a persuasive version of the way she saw things.
It became increasingly difficult to distinguish the raging fire from Agneya ba’s bright red sari. Only her chestnut colored Gujarati face could be seen, all the more radiant with her bald head. Aware of her imminent immolation, she thought about her daughter. All at once her eyes revealed a glimmer of defiance. This was the last time Suresh dada would control her fate.
I open my eyes. I’m nodding. I touch my face. It’s dry. I’m not sure when my tears stopped. Then I see my mom. She’s crying. I’m pretty sure she’s thinking about the time Lalita ba told her the same story. I hand her some tissues. She smiles at me through her tears. We sit and cerebrate together.
When her tears slow, she wipes her eyes and blows her nose. Still in Gujarati she says, “The men in our family shatter people they say they love.” She pauses and strokes my forehead again. What she says next breaks down the last layer of my invisible wall, the one I’d been surrounding myself with to keep her from knowing everything. “Rani, betta, Mark hurt you, right? Tell me everything. Pele thee.”
She takes my hand in hers and holds it tight. I work my fingers in between hers. We turn into the Wonder Twins, our powers activated by our interlaced fingers. Our eyes unite. I feel safe. Even though we’ve spent the last ten years at odds, we’ve finally come together. And it’s around our mutual understanding of an unspoken reality in our lives: that generations of women in our family have been broken by men behind closed doors. Maybe the youngest generations, Mom and I, aren’t exceptions. It just happened in a different way.
But today, Mom and I are ready to face the truth. The truth will allow us to start the process of healing ourselves. Of strengthening ourselves. Of ending the cycle of suffering at the hands of men.
Still holding her hand, I confide, “Mark hurt me. But it started with Dad.” She nods. Then I tell her everything. All my deep, dark secrets.
BROKEN PROMISE BEAT DOWN
At first I don’t recognize him. He grips the porch railing and climbs one step at a time. His t-shirt looks like a red and white tie dye. Blood. I check out his hands. They’re smeared with dirt and dried blood. His left eye is swollen shut. It resembles a bullseye with a ring of black and blue. The middle of his face is puffy. Blood drips in vertical lines from his nostrils. A deep cut on his right upper lip oozes. He stops on the fifth step and leans against the railing, struggling to catch his breath. His right sleeve is bunched up. The dreamc
atcher tattoo.
Mark.
I jump up. My notebook and pencil fall on the porch floorboards. I rush over to him and help him up the stairs.
“What happened?”
He lowers himself onto the bench taking care to keep his left leg straight. That’s when I notice a deep gash on the unbent leg. It extends from the bottom edge of his board shorts to the top of his knee.
“Karma,” he whispers. He turns his head slightly to the left so his right eye can maintain visual contact.
It’s January 3rd. I haven’t seen Mark since November 30th, the day at Make Horse. I heard from Omar that the cops got Mark the next day for “acting crazy” in town. That same day, they shipped him over to Kekela, the psych ward at Queen’s Hospital on Oahu. I don’t know what his “acting crazy” was, but I guess it was bad enough to end up in in the hospital. When he got out, Omar said Mark went to Maui to stay with his mom.
My mom wants me to press charges against Mark. In the past I would’ve said, “Fo shua.” Heck, I would tell someone else to do that. But I haven’t been wanting to take it to the popo. I don’t know why. I’m tired of thinking about it. It’s probably because—and I’d never admit this to anyone—part of me wants to protect Mark. I mean it wasn’t him that day. It was him on batu. But the other part of me knows that’s pretty messed up.
Mom said she understood. And Mom’s all Gandhi. So I know she wouldn’t organize a Mark-beat down.
Pono and Omar know what he did to me. Did one of them do this to him? I’m pretty sure Stan Lee knows since he knows everything about Mark. And despite him not being a huge admirer of me, would he have beat Mark up?
Or was it because of the batu? A smackdown from Reynold?
“Who did this to you?”
He doesn’t answer. He can barely hold up his head.
“Lemme take you to the ER. You might have some broken bones. Maybe you need stitches or antibiotics or something.”
