Learning to Breathe

by Janice Lynn Mather

  “So what, you think you could be with him?” Her voice trails behind me, a bad smell.

  I whirl around. “Get out.”

  “This my room, you can’t tell me to get out. I was only playing, Indy. What you so mad for?”

  “Why you gotta keep bringing Churchy up?”

  “What, you don’t like him?”

  Something about the way she says it, the sly sideways look, the secret-telling voice, gives me an uneasy feeling in my belly. It’s as sickening as any tray of greasy leftovers. I don’t think of Churchy that way. “No. I pregnant. You ain hear me before?” We both glance over at the open door, just in case.

  “Look here, all you gotta do, go with Churchy one time. You know you ain got no boyfriend.”

  “How you know?”

  “Oh, please. I know you. The only places you ever used to go was school and home, so I know you don’t have nobody. And Churchy ain that bad.”

  I stare at her; she might as well be speaking a different language.

  “You know what I mean. Only one time, and after that, he ga stay round. He’s the type of guy who wouldn’t go nowhere. He’s exactly what you need. I ain know what you makin that face for,” she says, barreling on. “What you plan on doin, then? Wait till after my mummy find out? She ga find out soon enough. I mean gee, you already so big.”

  “You think I’d set him up? I don’t even know what you call that type of person.” Yes, I do.

  Mamma.

  I go out into the living room, relieved that Smiley doesn’t follow. I flop down on the sofa. Uncle stirs again in his armchair, then hikes himself to his feet, mumbling a good night. I turn off the TV, then the lamp. I can hear Smiley’s nighttime sounds: brushing her teeth, the rustling of books, light switching off. And later, I hear Aunt Patrice come in from choir practice, see her look over at me, humph to herself quietly, and close her bedroom door. I don’t care if I never speak to Smiley again. But sleep never comes for me, and when I hear the roar of a truck backing into the driveway sometime after one, I grab my pillow and sheet and fumble into Smiley’s room. Lock the door, lean the chair up under the doorknob, even though he’d never come in here. Smiley is splayed out on the bed, but when I lie down on the edge, she shifts, whimpering in her sleep, to make space for me.

  8

  TEN MINUTES OUT OF Nassau Harbour, the air is fresh, the water transparent all the way down, no disguise for pockets of fish that dash and twist away from the ferry’s hulk. Joe runs through our three stops for the day—the church on the hill, the all-age school, the hotel in the deep south—before cracking open a magazine, feet up on the bench beside her. “You don’t have to stay here the whole time,” she says. Her voice sounds softer out here on the water, the permanent scowl lightened into a furrow. “Meet me on the first level when we’re getting ready to dock,” she calls as I weave through the handful of couples and families spread around. The boat’s not full, but I still head up to the top deck, where even the minor crowds give way to a few stray souls watching the last tip of Nassau disappear, sky and ocean unfolding all around.

  “Hey, sweet girl.” One of the crew hisses at me, liquid slick. I ignore him, clinging to the railing as I go. Smiley was wrong; the motion doesn’t make me feel sick. It feels good, this familiar sway. Reminds me of shorter boat rides with Grammy from Mariner’s Cay over to Eleuthera, for her church’s conventions, for the big school concerts, for the fair or a funeral or a wedding. We could go up to the top? I’d ask, and she would smile and follow behind me, her step as eager as mine, then plop down in a quiet spot, opening up whatever book she had on her that day, while I watched the boat bounce over the waves, or, on smoother waters, cut through the blue, scissors through silk. When we reached the shore, the crewmen, each sunned to his darkest tone, would jump the gap from dockside to deck, barefoot and easy, tugging and tying the boat up with fat ropes.

  I take off my flip-flops, tuck them in my back pocket. Something about the boat makes you want to shed things. Next, I slide my hair elastic off; my scalp exhales as my hair poufs out. The wind fights hard to make its way through the thick, tight-curled mass, poking and pressing like a nosey neighbor rooting for gossip. It’ll be a bush when I get to Mariner’s, I don’t care. I close my eyes. I’m going home. I can see Grammy in all her usual places: on the porch shelling peas; in the kitchen, the smell of onions browning for stew chicken; in the room, reading aloud. Reading Proverbs. Reading Jane Eyre. Reading the Tribune. Salt air and stories all through the house. I feel my way into my straw bag, fumbling past the toothbrush and underwear, the skirts and tops, until I find the book.

  As I touch it, memories wash over me in waves. Grammy, straightening out my dress on the first day of school, scraping a brush against the tightly curled edges of my hair to get it neat and smooth. Her hands patting my shoulder over a test with a big 10/10 at the top of the page, circled in red. You keep that up, now. Grammy bending over the table to squint at homework, then waggling a finger. You can’t hand that mess in. Do it again. You know better. And then after all that, You gotta watch out for yourself. If Grammy was so sure I’d end up pregnant, why would she have ever bothered? Why would she have acted like she believed in me? Why would she have whispered those words: Don’t let no one take advantage of you. You hear? Like she thought I could stop certain things. Like advantage was something I could give willingly.

  I turn my face to the wind, as if that will blow all these questions away, and the hurt, too. I get to see Grammy again today. I get to be with her. That’s enough. That’s everything. I pull the book out of the bag and let it fall open to wherever it wants. The pages rustle in the breeze, then stop past the middle, after the part about your belly button popping out like an extra nipple, but before it explains labor with explicit pictures and words like forceps and tearing. Grammy’s writing isn’t squeezed into the margins of those pages, but I flip forward a few and find something that brings her voice to life around me:

  Those last few weeks can be murder. Let me tell you. When it was my time, skinny as I am, my ankles swelled up to almost the size of my calves, till one of my sisters came in and laughed at me, said it looked like I was trying to walk on tree trunks. I couldn’t see my feet by then, but I could see my belly shift. Don’t be scared if you see your belly do funny things. You might see an elbow or a knee poking out all of a sudden. That’s the baby trying to find some more space. All you do is tap it right back in. If you think they hard to control when they inside, wait till they get out. But I wouldn’t have missed that experience for anything. Big fat ankles and all.

  I don’t hear an angry voice, like Joe’s, or one that’s giddy and distant, the way Mamma’s would be. It isn’t the suspicious, hateful tone Aunt Patrice has. Instead, I hear the same old Grammy, full of stories and love. How could that Grammy ever think so little of me? I hold on to the book, remembering that day I pulled it out of the closet.

  Early February. Two periods late, and the taste of dinner, puked up on the neighbor’s hibiscuses, is bitter acid in my mouth. I’m in the kitchen washing dishes when I see Gary step out, walk across the yard. Fingers dripping soapy water, I run to his room, push the closed door open, dig through the closet, rummaging behind suits and neatly pressed jeans and cotton shirts, trying to hold my breath against the stink of his cologne. It hangs, always, in the air. My fingers touch the flimsy plastic of an old roach hotel, the dusty carpet in the back of the closet. Is it gone? I can hear voices out front, Uncle’s low, sparing words, Smiley laughing. And more laughter, Gary’s laughter—he must be back inside. Part of me wants to stand in the middle of the room, waiting for him. I want to confront him, to turn to the side, show him my waist getting wider, make him see what he’s done. Instead, I push myself deeper into the closet, knocking over a tower of boxes, dress shoes and barely worn sneakers spilling, a toppled empire.

  “You know how y’all women get,” I hear him say as he steps into the room.

  “And how us women get?” Smiley asks,
her voice closer. She must be in the room too. My eyes are shut, body crammed into the smallest possible space. Get out of here, I want to tell her. Get out! But it’s daylight, and it’s Smiley, and nothing ever happens to her, and Uncle knows they’re in here.

  “Y’all always getting upset over some silly little thing,” he says.

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Smiley’s voice grows fainter; she sounds bored. And now it’s him and me in here, alone.

  “Shit,” he says. He sounds sad. The bedsprings groan, then squeak as he lies down. When I hear snoring, I start to climb out of the closet. My toes touch something I missed before. Bend down and fingers find the softness of page edges. Pick up the book at my feet. I ease out of the closet and hurry out of the room, not daring to even look at him asleep on the bed. Once I’m in the hallway, I open the cover, see Grammy’s steady, looped writing: To my girl. Something to help carry you through.

  “Niceness. Niceness, how you doin?”

  I open my eyes; a crew member has followed me up here, the same hisser, the same liquid voice as before. Smiley would think he looks good. Loose, curly hair that needs a cutting, skin the color of slightly burned peanut cakes. All I see, though, is the leer in his eyes, gaze pressed up against me like the weight of a body. I drop the book into my bag. I have nothing to say.

  “You want give me your number?” He talks to my chest, staring at it like I’m carrying ripe mangoes for sale and he’s eager to haggle on the price. That’s the problem. I can pretend I’m something different. Pretend I’m not Mamma’s daughter. Pretend I’m not pregnant. Pretend I’m a regular teenage girl going on a day job to help people learn to stand on their heads. Pretend I’m not me—until someone comes along and acts otherwise. Funny thing is, people really only see what they want. And all he wants is big breasts.

  Deep breath in . . . in . . . in . . . He’s looking at me. I close my eyes. Deep breath out. Nope, still feel like shoving him in the water. Either I’m doing it wrong or it’s not fast-acting magic, this deep-breathing thing. Which would explain a lot about Joe.

  “You look good, ya know. You ain wan let me check you, ay? I get off at six.”

  I let the breath out. I stand, yank my shirt up to just under my bra. His eyes widen: he can’t believe his good luck.

  “I pregnant, and this shirt ain goin no higher so don’t even dream you seein any bubby from me. You wan like a pregnant girl? Or you wan leave me alone to catch my sweet breeze and enjoy the boat ride?”

  He takes a step back, mouth gone slack.

  “That’s right, I pregnant. So you could go right back to doing your job. I’m sure they don’t pay you to hit on pregnant teenagers.” I make sure to say it nice and loud. “I sixteen. I barely legal, and you a big grown-ass dusty man. Look like you got gray hair, and cobwebs in your teeth.” He closes his mouth. I can tell it’s over, he’s not gonna hassle me anymore, but I can’t stop. “What, you ain shame? That’s what they’s pay you for here? You see what somebody else do to me and you come to get your piece too? You disgusting. Your big goggle- eyed self. Look like a Muppet frog. What, they’s call you Kermit, ay?” The couple standing by the rail turn around; the girl smirks. Whether it’s at me or him, I don’t know or care. A gaggle of tourists hold their heads rigidly the other way, trying too hard not to notice the commotion.

  “Sorry, miss, I didn’t mean no harm. Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t know,” he mutters, slinking away.

  “Maybe try knowing next time before you come sniffing around people’s daughters. I should be calling you Great-Granddaddy, you so damn old. Look like Methuselah and come tryin to chat me up.” I finally let my hands fall from my hips as he hustles down the stairs. A couple of his crewmates caught the last of it; I can hear them hooting, calling him out as he vanishes from view. I yank my shirt back down, flop onto the bench. I feel the blood pulsing through me furiously. I pull the salt air into me, try to let it become part of my body. I’m pissed. And proud. More than anything, I wish I could talk this way to Gary, bold-faced, hard-voiced, and true. Where’s this side of me, when it’s him? I wish I could tell everybody who he is, what he is, when they’re all fawning over his jokes. Wish I had courage then like I do now.

  • • •

  The yoga mats are stacked up on the dock, Joe standing off to one side, cell phone pressed up to her ear. The other passengers have already dispersed. Whatever Zen Joe soaked up on the boat is evaporating quickly.

  “So what time are you going to be here?” she says, her on-the-phone voice so loud a pair of seagulls that were sidling up to us change their minds and take off. “I thought we agreed on nine-thirty. Yes, nine-thirty. A.m. Today. For Joe Morris. No, ten is too late. What kind of back-of-the-bush operation y’all running? Hello? Hello?”

  An old woman who’s settled against a post to wait for her own ride looks over at Joe, then at me. Joe stares at her phone, mystified by its betrayal. “You believe he actually hung up on me? Taxi driver told me he’d be here at nine-thirty and now he wanna have attitude when I call and tell him he’s late. Man, these people don’t know how to act.”

  The old woman purses her lips. She looks familiar; I’m sure she shushed me in church one time or swatted me for robbing her mango tree or pelted a grapefruit at me to chase me out of her yard. She reminds me of Grammy, no-nonsense and wiry. I’m not about to pitch a fit, but I’m eager to get going, too. The sooner these classes are done, the sooner I can go find Grammy. The thought gives me sparks of excitement, but it also chips away at a pit of fear in my belly. What will I say? What will she say? I want so badly to take off right away, leave Joe here shouting into her phone, and go straight to the house. No. That’s not me. That’s Mamma’s way—do what you want, ditch people after you give your word. I said I’d help Joe and that’s what I’ll do. Even if biting my tongue nearly kills me. I glance over at her, shoulders hunched, scowling like a flock of gulls just decorated her head.

  “He’ll be here.”

  “Yeah, question is what time. First class is at ten, and now what? I gotta call these people and tell them I’m gonna be late?”

  “Hmmmmph,” the old woman says, shooting Joe a vile glare.

  “Indira, these your people. What, they can’t tell time?” She’s got her phone out again, hammering into it. “Great. Now he isn’t even answering his phone.”

  “Oh, sweet Lord, give me patience.” The old woman shifts against her post.

  “Call this number.” Joe pushes the phone into my hands, with a scrap of paper. “Better yet, call somebody you know. Don’t you have family over here? Do something, you ain gotta stand there like a lump.” She starts walking up to the main road.

  “Rudeness!” the old woman exclaims, loud enough that Joe turns around and stares before continuing toward the road. “That’s your daddy’s people, eh? She must be family, for her to talk to you like so.”

  I turn the phone over in my hand. I take a chance and dial Mamma’s number. It’s out of service.

  “Hmph.” The old woman glares at Joe’s retreating figure. “No manners. She couldn’t be from Mariner’s. What y’all up here for, anyway?” The old woman reaches into her purse, coming out with a foil-wrapped package.

  “She came to teach yoga. At the school, the church, and the hotel. No, thank you,” I add as she holds out the package to me. Homemade bread, the layer of butter as thick as the slab of cheese between the two slices. “I came up here to help her, but—”

  “Take piece,” she insists, holding out the parcel until I reach in and take a square of the sandwich. “But you really come to see your people.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Yeah, I remember you. Miz Fergie granddaughter. Doubles, they call you.” She bites into a square herself and chews slowly. “Almost quadruples now. Indira May Ferguson. And you was always the spitting image of that ma you got. Your ma is a no-good gal, you know, always running after man, always with a different one. I hope you don’t follow after her.”

  “No.”
I see her give me a sideways glare.

  “It’s Mrs. Darville. You should remember me.”

  “No, Mrs. Darville,” I say, but when she’s not looking I cut my eye back at her.

  “Mmm-hmm. I hope not. I see that boy on the boat you was tellin off.”

  I freeze. The last bite of sandwich turns into a wad of cardboard in my mouth. “You heard?”

  “No, but I look up partway, see your hands on them big hips you got, and his head down while your tongue just waggin, waggin, waggin. I wish more young girls would tell these fresh boys where to go.”

  He wasn’t a boy, I think. He was a man. I make myself swallow the last mouthful of sandwich, which lands in my belly like a rock. The old woman is still chattering. I nod along but my eyes are on Joe, who’s reached the road and is peering down one side, then the other. A rickety car drives past and she waves her arms frantically, flapping even harder when it carries on without stopping.

  “You hear me, girl?” the old woman says.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I lie.

  “I say if you mean you goin to see your mummy. Can’t go see Grammy.”

  The rock of bread and butter and cheese does a backflip in my stomach. Can’t see Grammy? “Why not?”

  A look crosses her face, the look of someone who thought they were discussing general knowledge and realizes they’ve blurted out a deep family secret. “Never mind, never mind. I can’t get in that. Your mummy could explain it better.”

  “Something happened to my grammy?”

  The woman gets to her feet. “No, no. She all right, baby. Look, this my son here. I suppose I should do the Christian thing and give y’all a ride to wherever y’all goin.”

  “Thank you.” My voice feels as if it’s coming from someplace outside my body. Grammy’s all right. I try to believe that. She’s all right. She has to be.

  “Hey! Hey, rude lady!” Mrs. Darville calls after Joe, who glances over her shoulder, scowling.