Rani Patel In Full Effect

by Sonia Patel

  “No.”

  My mind races with ways to help him.

  Then Make Horse bursts back into my mind.

  I’m confused.

  “I’m so sorry, Rani,” he mumbles.

  I almost accept his apology. But then I remember Pono and Omar’s reactions. They were ultra pissed. They still are. They can’t understand why I’m not enraged. They’re little guardian angels on my shoulders yelling, “Call the cops!” and “He should be in jail!”

  But I don’t feel angry at Mark. I’m just mad at myself. Hating myself.

  How could you be so stupid? You didn’t listen to Pono, Omar, or Stan Lee?

  You deserved it.

  You led him on.

  Just like Dad.

  This spirals into daily bouts of sadness and death wishes. Just like Mom. I guess it’s true what they say—the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  “Sorry, Rani.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Sorry for what I did to you,” he says. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He pauses and cautiously lets his upper body drift back to the porch railing.

  “Happy late birthday. I wanted to tell you in person last month. But I just got back on-island this morning. I got you the 2Pacalypse Now CD.”

  “Thanks.”

  Thinking about my birthday makes me sad. I turned seventeen with none of the fanfare I’d hoped for because it was only one week after Make Horse. So when December 7th rolled around, I wasn’t in the mood for celebrating.

  Mom tried to cheer me up by preparing my favorite meal. Mater paneer and naan. She even asked Auntie Maile, who was on Oahu for a couple of days, to bring back a dream cake from Zippy’s.

  Pono and Omar tried to get me to hang out. But I chose to hide on the deck of my house and focus on tragedy. Mine at first. But then I condemned myself to thinking about a real tragedy. Specifically World War II. Everyone knows that December 7 is also the day Pearl Harbor got bombed in 1941. About four and a half years later, Hiroshima and Nagasaki were annihilated by A-bombs. It seemed like the perfect birthday brain slap to reread Gen of Hiroshima, volume 1 and 2. Yep. That was quite an effective brain slap strategy. Thoughts of little Gen and his family post-nuclear bomb devastation shook me out of self-pity. I noshed on dream cake and on the reality of my life, easy by comparison to Gen’s.

  Mark interrupts my birthday recollection. “I started smoking ice here and there in August. But it snowballed,” he says. “It made me do bad things.”

  That sounds like Dad.

  The pills also made him do things he didn’t plan on.

  “I’m going to rehab on the mainland. I’m leaving Monday. Clean and sober for good this time. I promise I’ll never use again,” he says.

  At first I’m hopeful. Then I remember the promise he made after the boob girl fiasco—he promised not to hurt me. Broken promise #1. Broken in a way I never imagined. I guess there are many ways to hurt someone.

  I don’t say anything. I pretend duct tape covers my mouth and think about what Omar said. A real man would never hurt a woman like that. No matter what.

  And that’s when the anger comes. And it erupts like Kilauea, blowing the duct tape off.

  “Why, Mark? I trusted you. I loved you!” I shout.

  “I know I fucked up! I want to make this right. Tell me what to do.”

  “It’s too late!” I pace back and forth, one arm crossed and the other up so that my forehead is balanced on my fingertips.

  Bit by bit he pushes himself up from the bench. He hobbles over and tries to touch my shoulder.

  “Don’t touch me!” I back away. The bench stops me. I collapse on it. I bury my head in my hands. “Why would you say you love me but then hurt me? Why would you promise not to hurt me but do it anyway?” I thump my balled-up fists against the sides of my head. “I hate myself.”

  I thump harder.

  “No, Rani. Stop. And don’t say that. Come on, I’m sorry.” He’s hovering over me. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him reach down. But then he stops himself and takes a step back. He says, “I…” He pauses. “I love you for real. I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.”

  I stop thumping. I look up.

  “What?”

  I watch him limp back to the other bench and ease himself back to sitting. Then he says, “After I get back from rehab, you gotta give me another chance.” There’s earnestness in his voice. “Rani, I don’t want to be like my dad. Or your dad. I have to change. I want to be a better man.”

  His words hit me like a tranquilizer. I chill out instantly. I believe him. And I like what he’s saying. I even justify his words in my mind. My dad never admitted to being wrong about anything. Never took responsibility for his actions. But Mark’s stepping up. Maybe there’s still a chance for Mark and me.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Anything for you, Rani.”

  No, Mark. Anything for you.

  THE COUNSEL OF MY BOYZ

  “Mark came to the store yesterday all buss up,” I tell Pono and Omar.

  They exchange glances. We’re chillaxing on the deck of my house. Awaiting the Gujarati feast Mom’s preparing. Dhal, bhaat, oondhiya, bateta nu shaak, and rotli. Mom suggested this gathering to celebrate two seventeenth birthdays—Omar’s and mine.

  “Better late than never,” she’d said in her thick Gujju accent.

  The boys have never eaten Indian food, let alone Gujarati food. I’m confident they won’t be disappointed.

  They take sips of the refreshing kachi keri no baflo that Mom’s whipped up for us. I notice Pono’s hand as he grips the pyalo. I glimpse at Omar’s hands. Four hands with scabs and bruises on the knuckles and fingers. Especially on the right hands.

  I can’t believe I didn’t spot the evidence as soon as they walked through the door.

  “Ok, you guys, what’s up?” I watch their every move. They turn their heads in different directions, their eyes zipping from each other to the ocean to the deck.

  “You guys did it, didn’t you?”

  “He knew he had it coming,” Omar says, staring at his knuckles. “He didn’t fight back much.”

  “Mark’s lucky we didn’t kill him,” Pono adds.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “Mark asked Stan Lee for a ride back to his house from the airport yesterday,” Omar starts explaining.

  “Too bad for him three of us showed up,” Pono says, his lips pressed together. “We took him to Make Horse. The same spot I found you.” Pono shifts his eyes to me.

  Did Stan Lee help beat up Mark for my sake?

  But then I get it. No.

  For his mom.

  I’m grateful that they’d want to protect me enough to beat the crap out of Mark for revenge. And also because of Pono’s thoughtfulness. The warnings. Finding me at Make Horse.

  “We let Mark know what we thought of what he did to you.”

  An eye for an eye.

  Makes the whole world blind, Gandhi would say.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I adjust my glasses and stare at my feet. I want to express so much more than thankfulness. It’s funny: I can write pages and pages of serious rhymes, but I can’t find the words right now when I need them.

  “You don’t have to say anything, Rani,” Omar says.

  Pono nods. “Yeah, Mark got what he deserved.”

  No one says anything for awhile.

  Pono breaks the silence. “What else happened when Mark came to the store?”

  I fill them in. Mark’s apology. His plan on going to rehab. His idea on me giving him another chance when he gets back.

  “Another chance?” Pono huffs impatiently.

  “Marks wants one. I’m not sure yet,” I mumble.

  Pono shakes his head then looks at me like someone’s just blown chunks on him. Like I’ve said the most disgusting this ever said in the history of the world. “Oh boy, Rani,” he begins.

  “Whoa. Hold up. Why are we more mad at Mark than you are?�
� Omar interjects.

  “I am mad,” I say without conviction.

  Omar looks at me in dismay then says, “No way in hell, Rani. Don’t let that a-hole near you again.”

  “Don’t you see? He still wants to do what he wants to do. Don’t listen to him,” Pono pleads.

  I nod. “You’re right.”

  I know they’re right. My rational brain has given me the same advice. But my emotions are a force to be reckoned with and my rational brain has already been trampled. Only my boys don’t know this.

  “He said he doesn’t want to be like his dad or my dad. That he wants to be a better man. That he really loves me and—” I say, stopping myself because Pono’s eyes catch mine.

  Oh shit.

  He glares at me.

  I look away, silent.

  LOVE DRUG REHAB

  A tsunami warning? That’s the first thing that comes to mind when our annoyingly loud telephone rings, ripping me out of slumber. I lift my head up and check out the bedside clock. 12:30 a.m. January 13. The sound continues.

  Oh.

  It’s the phone.

  Ugh.

  No one calls us past 10:00 p.m. I roll over and heave the comforter over my head. The ringing is dampened. Then it stops. I’m about to doze off. It rings again. Vexed, I kick the comforter off and jump out of bed. I stagger into the dark hallway. I use the wall as a guide and make my way to the kitchen. I grope the counter for the phone. It’s still ringing. I find it and grab the handset. I cradle it between my ear and shoulder.

  “Hello?” I’m not fully coherent.

  “Rani, is that you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s Mark. What’re you doing?”

  “Oh hey, Mark. Sleeping.” I’m groggy.

  “Oh sorry. How’s my queen?”

  I wake up. Fast. I don’t feel like a queen. Queens don’t get raped. My body stiffens.

  Mark went to the mainland last week to start rehab. Somewhere in L.A. I haven’t talked to him since he left.

  “Umm. Ok, I guess.”

  He had told me before he left that they’re not allowed to call anyone when they’re inpatient. How comes he’s calling me now?

  “I miss you, Rani,” he whispers.

  His words are like a magic wand. My emotions push my rational thoughts out the window.

  Now my body turns to jelly. I have to rest my back against the kitchen wall so I don’t slip. “I miss you, too.” I press the phone harder against my ear. There’s loud music in the background. Sounds like country. I really hope they let him listen to hip hop in rehab. If they knew Mark the way I do, they’d know that beats and flow would be more therapeutic for him than honky tonk music.

  “How’s rehab?” I ask.

  “Oh, I checked out early. Didn’t like it.” He’s slurring his words.

  Checked out early? What?

  “Where are you?”

  “At a bar.”

  What. The. Frick. “A bar? What else are you using?”

  Silence.

  “Mark, what else are you using?” I’m about to go apeshit.

  “A few hits won’t kill me. One last hurrah, Rani baby.”

  Then I hear rustling and scrunching. Like someone’s grabbing the phone from him.

  “Ronny, Ran-ee, whatever your name is. Mark’s with me now. You better back off.”

  A woman. She sounds plastered.

  I hear a scuffle. Mark’s back on the phone. “Sorry, that was just some random girl in the bar.”

  My anger oozes like pahoehoe. “I can’t believe I was going to let you back into my life.”

  “Calm down, Rani. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down! You’re just like my dad!” I scream. “You’ll never change!”

  “Baby, come on. Give me one more chance.”

  Really? Is he reading from some bad Hollywood screenplay?

  “No!”

  “But I love you, Rani,” he whimpers.

  But I love you, Rani. Just like Dad.

  “You’re the only good thing in my life,” he continues. “I’ll be back on Moloka’i in a week. Clean and sober, I promise. I need you. Help me stay on the straight and narrow.”

  I listen.

  “Please don’t give up on me.”

  “I don’t know,” I whisper.

  “But I love you, Rani,” he whispers back.

  My anger slides away.

  But I love you, Rani.

  Hurt and love.

  Love and hurt.

  Lurt.

  Hove.

  I start thinking about ways to help him when he gets back.

  One last chance.

  I’m about to say that when the kitchen light comes on. I turn around. Mom’s standing near the light switch. She walks over and grabs the phone from my hand. I guess she woke up when she heard me shouting. Did she hear what I said? Does she know who I’m talking to?

  “Mark, this is Rani’s mother. Don’t ever call her again. Don’t ever come near her again. Leave her alone or I’ll call the police.” She hangs up the phone.

  She did. She does.

  I’m shocked. And scared that Mark will be mad at me. I grab the phone. But I drop the handset in my frenzy. I retrieve it. My fingers reach the dial pad, but I realize I don’t have his number in Cali. My hand grips the phone tighter.

  I can’t call him.

  I drop the handset onto the receiver. I want to yell at Mom. But I’m mute. She grasps my shoulders and says, “No more Mark.”

  Aghast, I slog to my room. Mom did what I couldn’t have done myself—she ended it with Mark for me. Once and for all. She straight-up put me in my own rehab—from Mark. Just like she did with Dad.

  She’s protecting me.

  I fall onto my bed and close my eyes. Gripping my chest I’m transported to that scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

  The flames light the otherwise dark pit. I feel the scorching heat. As the Thuggee henchmen chain me into the cage, I whisper salutations to Shiva. Over and over.

  Mola Ram, with his horned ceremonial headdress, moves toward me. His hand’s extended. He calls out to Kali, raising his hand to the large image of the goddess overhead. He lowers his hand slowly, then shoves it into my chest. He pulls out my beating heart. He laughs sinisterly, holding my heart up to Kali.

  I sob.

  GAUNTLET

  Me and my non-pregnant, STD-free reproductive system wait for Mom outside the bathroom of The Moloka’i Women’s Health Center. My follow-up appointment with Dr. Perry went well. My nether region is okkie dokkie. I smile to myself. Things are looking up.

  But then my good fortune plummets. Way down low. To my consternation, Wendy Nagaoki’s walking towards me.

  “Rani, what’re you doing here?” she asks.

  Wendy’s the last person I want to see. She’s rubbing her baby bump and smiling. I try to think of a good excuse for why I’m here. Luckily she doesn’t wait for me to answer.

  “A kick,” she says, pleased.

  The maternal-ness of her high-waisted elastic band jeans and polka dot blouse makes me want to hurl.

  She grabs my hand and presses it onto her basketball.

  “Right here. Feel that?”

  I feel it alright. Like a kick in the head.

  “Twins. Girls.”

  Of course.

  I roll my eyes and purse my lips. The idea of their perfect little family of four literally shoves my eyeballs up and my lips together. I can’t take it anymore. I plot an exit strategy.

  Knock her out?

  No, that might hurt the babies. It’s not their fault she’s a tramp.

  Tell her to take a hike?

  Possibly.

  Be polite?

  Yeah right.

  I’m not sure how long I stand there pondering. Long enough that Wendy says something else.

  “Your Dad really wants you to be there for your little sisters.” Her serene gaze and Mona Lisa smile make me think she act
ually believes we could all be The Brady Bunch. I’m speechless.

  “Your Dad’s at the drugstore. He’ll be back soon if you want to see him.”

  I’d rather swallow my own vomit.

  “Maybe another time. I gotta go.” That’s when I see Mom coming out of the bathroom. “Mom, over here,” I call out. I wave my arms like I’m a landing signal officer at the airport. I’m desperate for support from my real family. Mom waves back and walks over. Then I realize Mom and Wendy haven’t actually been face-to-face since everything happened.

  Uh-oh.

  I’m not sure what it’ll be like when they face off. Before I have a chance to say or do anything, Wendy throws down the gauntlet.

  “Oh hi, Meera.” she says. “It would’ve been nice for us all to live together. Especially now that Nila and Nala will be part of the family.” The sweet smile is gone. Instead she’s glaring at Mom. I imagine Wendy pulling out a laser gun and releasing a burning stream of mockery straight at Mom. Wendy sighs and relaxes her face. Then she turns the stream into a blast. “Pradip’s so loving. He’s going to be an incredible father,” she says. She smirks and strokes her protruding belly.

  I glance at Mom. The pearls of sweat forming on my forehead are like evidence of Wendy’s imminent victory.

  Astoundingly, Mom picks up the gauntlet. With an expression of pity, Mom says, “Oh, Wendy. I wouldn’t live with you and Pradip even if that meant I had to be homeless.” Her thick Gujarati accent adds to the dramatic effect. Then Mom smiles. “I actually wanted to say thank you. Thank you for taking Pradip off my hands.” Her smile widens. “You can keep him. And his bullcrap.”

  Wendy’s look is priceless.

  A FRESH START

  Mom’s verbal beat down of Wendy stimulated my flow. And now I’m transforming her toughness into a bravado rap of epic proportion. Epic because I’m also drawing inspiration from powerful women in history.

  I’m spitting some rhyme ideas about Razia Sultan. I’m hoping to find a potent way to incorporate her disdain of being categorized as a sultana into the intro of my rap. The girl wasn’t about to be pigeonholed into being merely the wife of a sultan. Which is what sultana means. No way. She expected to be called sultan because she ruled Delhi with the prowess that is generally attributed to a man. I’m willing to bet she governed better than any man.