If I Never Went Home

by Ingrid Persaud

  She smiled back. ‘Morning, Daddy. Can we go for a long long long long long drive today?’

  ‘No problem, pumpkin. Where you want to go?’

  As Alan turned to pick up the kettle he bumped into Mira. Her coffee mug crashed to the floor and shattered, spilling hot coffee over the counter and cupboards, staining her dress and puddling the floor.

  ‘Look at the mess you make! You nearly burn me real bad!’ Mira shouted. ‘But don’t worry.’ She jabbed her finger at her chest. ‘The maid here will clean up and finish cooking the food!’

  Alan looked around, probably searching for a rag. ‘Woman, have a heart. I just wake up. It was an accident. You need help today?’

  ‘Need help? Well look at my crosses. Only a real stupid fool would ask a question like that. The house don’t clean itself, you know!’

  ‘Let me help you clean up the kitchen and then we go do the rest of the house tomorrow. We planning a little cook by Zyda and Derek them. And Mama say she want me to take she to see Tanti June quite up in Arima. And you know Tanti living in real bush.’

  ‘Why you always have to be the one to take she here, there and everywhere?’ snapped Mira. ‘She don’t have other children? Last I check she have more than one son.’

  ‘Look, she asked me to help she out.’ Alan wiped the counter with a paper towel. ‘And I go take Bea for the drive so you will get some peace and quiet.’

  Mira opened drawers, searching for another rag. ‘She always want something doing. Go here. Do this. Do that. Want. Want. Want. Man, I fed up with your blasted mother!’

  That’s when he grabbed a meat knife off the countertop, gripped Mira’s arm and pushed it at her throat. ‘You don’t tell me nothing about my mother!’ he hissed.

  The tip of the long blade pressed against Mira’s skin. The kitchen was deadly quiet. With Mira’s hard breathing the knife could easily draw blood.

  Bea did not remember how long the standoff lasted. Eventually Alan threw the knife on the kitchen counter and marched out. The attack was over as abruptly as it had started. All the while Bea had sat frozen to her chair with a spoonful of grapefruit poised in mid-air. Mira stood still on the spot where Alan had pinned her. Outside the car door slammed shut. The engine started. He was gone.

  Bea had eaten her last grapefruit.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It’s funny how when it’s holidays the time goes fast like a racing car. When it’s school time it slows right down like one of those African snails that we have in our yard. If you don’t have African snails then you lucky. They are the ugliest-est creatures in the whole wide universe, with a big fat brown body and a huge shell that can grow big as my fist. When I see them in the yard I used to stamp my foot on the shell and kill them. Nasty slimy giants. Apparently you not supposed to do that. Miss Celia see me killing one the other day and shout out that I doing it wrong because that don’t kill the eggs and each one of them disgusting snails have hundreds of eggs inside. The only way to make sure you kill off the snail and the eggs is to pour salt on it. Since then I have my own bag of salt I keep on the veranda. As soon as I wake up I go outside to check for snails. As the salt touches them they curl up, go fizzle-fizzle-fizzle and boops they dead. It’s probably a sin but I like to hear the sound of them snails dying. Fizzzz. I try to kill as many as I can before eating my cereal.

  Even if the holidays rushing by I think I will always remember this as the best Christmas ever. Mummy (who still writes the card ‘from Santa’) gave me a games console and Aunty Indra’s family added three games to go with it. Nanny bought a four-poster bedroom set and a three-piece living room set for my dolly house. They are amazing. I wish we had real furniture like that in our house. I even get a gift from Miss Celia. It was a book of children’s Bible stories and to be honest I know all the stories already but she is a poor old lady and I’m not even her family or anything.

  Every Sunday when Mummy cook lunch she makes me take some for Miss Celia. If you see how much food she does cook: rice, pigeon peas, stew chicken, macaroni pie, plantain and ground provision. Only things we don’t eat are pork and beef. Mummy say proper Indian people don’t eat pork because it dirty and they don’t eat cow because it holy. We always have enough left over for Monday and Tuesday even after giving Miss Celia food. It makes up for the other days when Mummy too tired to cook and we make do with bread and cheese or corned beef and rice. I want to learn to cook but Mummy said I’m too small to light the stove. Next year I should be old enough.

  We missed church this morning. Mummy got up late and went straight in the kitchen. Apparently the Lord will have to wait till she done cooking. We aiming for the seven o’clock service tonight and as school not opening till Wednesday it won’t interfere with bedtime. I don’t see why we can’t skip church this one Sunday. Is not like God didn’t see us plenty times over Christmas and New Year, but I best keep that thought to myself. The one thing you don’t want to see is my mother when she vex.

  So is church we heading to, never mind it started raining. We catch a maxi-taxi that take us right outside the church. Still it had enough puddles to jump over from the road to inside the church. Hardly anybody in the congregation – only some old people who look like they might drop down and dead before the service finish. The man in front of us must be at least forty he so old. During the sermon – which was the story of the good Samaritan – I count thirty people in church. But is the singing that does bring down the service. Not a single one of them old-timers could sing ‘Great is thy Faithfulness’ in tune. On top of that the rain like it want to mash up the church roof. You can’t include Mummy in the singing because she don’t sing. She does pretend she singing but you don’t hear a sound coming out her mouth. Today every hymn we sing ending up sounding like we at a funeral – as if the Bible ban happiness in church or else the Lord will strike us down.

  At least the service didn’t go over time and, since this wasn’t the usual group we worship with, Mummy had no excuse to stay behind and talk to this body and that body. As soon as I step out into the churchyard I accidentally land in a puddle with water up to my ankles. I could feel the rain pelting at my chest, my arms and my legs. It seemed to be coming at you sideways so the umbrella not much help. We stood up by the side of the road waiting for a maxi-taxi or a bus. Every time a car pass you have to pray you don’t get spray with dirty water because of course it don’t have a pavement and I in a dress.

  We wait, we wait, we wait, and no taxi passing and the few that whoosh by full up. Maybe is because it’s Sunday or maybe is because it raining hard but the road them empty. No cars and no people. Plus the street lights not all working. Even the moon look like it afraid of the rain because I can’t see it in the sky. My dress clinging to me and my teeth chattering. All I want to do is reach home, get dry off and watch TV in Mummy’s bed. If we don’t catch a ride soon we going to miss ‘Law and Order’ on TV tonight.

  Well, it look like we not reaching home any time soon. No taxi. No bus. Is Mummy’s fault. If she had let us skip church this one little Sunday then we wouldn’t be out here in the dark getting wet. Now she want us to walk up the road. There’s a place to shelter across the road from that big field where they sometimes put up a tent and have church with loud singing and clapping. She keep saying hurry up, you walking too slow. I’m walking as fast as I can with two shoes full of water. We should be home like everybody else and is all because my holy mother can’t miss a single Sunday service. Jesus better bless us specially. If you want us to win the lottery, Lord, we wouldn’t say no and we would share it with Nanny and Aunty Indra and even Miss Celia will get some change. Just a thought, Jesus, if you looking down on us getting soaked.

  It seemed like we walk half an hour to reach the shelter. You could hear the water swishing about in my good shoes. Mummy said to stop complaining, we only walked five minutes. And yes the shelter better than waiting in the rain, but I’m sure I’m going to catch a nasty cold. Where the good Samaritan they talk about now, eh? M
aybe he still riding donkey rather than motor car or bus. Please, Jesus, please – I want to go home. I promise if you send a taxi right now I won’t give Boo-Boo my carrots when Mummy not looking. And I will never answer back when Mummy talking to me. Please send a taxi now. Now please.

  And who say prayers don’t get answered? I hardly finish when we see a van coming towards us. Mummy said to stay under the shelter. At last a maxi-taxi going our way. Mummy step out into the road, rain pelting down, and start waving for the van to stop. But he not stopping. Mummy waving and he still coming towards us. She waving and he coming. She waving and waving. He getting closer and closer. Then bam.

  He didn’t stop.

  I ran to her. Her face mash up and she not moving or saying anything and I screaming Mummy, Mummy, but she not answering. Rain pelting down on her. Blood like a river running off to the side of the road. Her arm looks funny. Her legs look funny. The driver stop up the road and start to reverse back. He come running out the van holding an umbrella.

  ‘I hit she?’

  ‘Mummy! Mummy! Answer me! You all right Mummy?’

  ‘Oh God! I thought it was a cow. I swear is a cow I hit.’

  ‘Is not a cow you stupid fool!’

  He’s on his cellphone but I can’t hear what he shouting. I’m crying so hard. She not opening her eyes and she not talking.

  ‘Mummy!’

  I’m trying to hold her but I can’t.

  ‘Mummy! Mummy!’

  The man say an ambulance coming.

  Get the ambulance fast!

  The driver tried to pull me off Mummy but I bite his hand so hard he bawl out. The rain not easing up at all. It must be hurting her to be on the hard road.

  ‘Mummy! You hearing me? The ambulance coming. Hold on. It coming now.’

  The man only saying it look just like a dark cow. Now he telling me that we can’t move her out of the road and the rain because we might hurt her more. Why she not waking up? Her head bleeding. It must be hurting her so much. Mummy! I’m on my knees in the road. Lord, make sure she not hurt too bad even if she don’t look good now. Save my Mummy, please Jesus. She always in church, Jesus. You must know what a good person she is, Lord. Stop the bleeding, please Jesus. Please Lord Jesus. Please Lord.

  It take me a minute to realise the man kneeling down next to me and praying too.

  Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven, Give us this day our daily bread, And forgive us our trespasses –

  Mummy you going to be all right. The man say the ambulance here soon.

  As we forgive those who trespass against us, And lead us not into temptation –

  Please Jesus.

  But deliver us from evil, For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory,

  For ever and ever, Amen. Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be –

  The sirens – the sirens getting louder. The ambulance here, Mummy. But I only seeing the police. Where the ambulance? Okay, it pulling up behind. Please Jesus help my Mummy.

  They pushing me aside and I hear someone screaming and it take me a second to realise is me but I can’t stop. They pull out a stretcher and they lifting her on it. Oh Lord there’s so much blood on her dress you can hardly make out it was yellow before. You have to tiptoe around to not step in her blood. She’s in the back of the ambulance now.

  ‘Mummy! I want to stay with my Mummy!’

  A policeman pick me up and I shove him away as hard as I could and a next one come and the two of them hold me down and put me in the police car. I was kicking to go in the ambulance but one of them holding on tight and he saying how we going to the hospital in the police car and it don’t have room in the ambulance. I don’t want to leave my Mummy.

  ‘Stop bawling. What is your name?’

  ‘The woman that get knocked down is your mother?’

  ‘What is her name?’

  The police want to know all kind of thing. Where my father? I tell him I don’t know but to call my Aunty Indra and my Nanny. How I manage to remember Aunty Indra number I will never know because my mind jumbled up. One of the police saying not to worry, that my aunty will come for me. Where they taking my Mummy? How far to the hospital? She not going to dead is she? When I was talking to her she wasn’t talking back. She lost so much blood. What happen if you loose all that blood? She will need stitches? I don’t know what happen to her arm, and one leg was fold up under her. You think she break her leg? The police keep saying not to worry, my aunty coming just now. He already call her and she coming straight to the hospital. Not long now. Don’t worry. The doctors will look after your Mummy. We nearly there. Hold on, child. We nearly reach.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bea understood that showing up for Granny Gwen’s ninetieth was not the same as living in the daily chaos of Trinidadian family life. But no matter how hard she tried, she trembled whenever she thought of a visit. In the quiet cool of early Sunday morning she put on her running shoes and joined the others pounding a path along the Charles River, hoping that the act of slow running would release her from this anxiety. Of course, ostrich-like, she could ignore the celebrations. Let the event pass without her. Who would really miss her? Granny Gwen might be a little put out, but she must be accustomed to Bea’s absence. Once Alan and Mira had divorced, little Bea had felt irrelevant to Granny Gwen – that had only changed with Alan’s death, when she became the remaining, much-valued link.

  Later that day, weary and unquiet, Bea sat surrounded by half-scanned weekend papers, and absently began flicking through the Web for flights to Trinidad. The birthday party was only a month away. More than one airline offered specials, including packages with cut-rate hotel rooms. Each click melted the practical obstacles to taking the trip. It was affordable, and she had overdue holiday leave. What she still needed was an emotional battle plan that would get her back to Boston with at most superficial emotional scars. No more cutting – she had long since given up that release. Sometimes that early exposure to St. Anthony’s still gnawed as if it was yesterday. She remembered all too well the early days of being there, queuing up with Dave for their happy pills.

  ‘We’ve got music therapy this afternoon,’ Dave had said. ‘You coming?’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  ‘It’s kind of nice.’

  ‘Sorry. Not my thing.’

  ‘See you after, then?’

  ‘I’m not leaving.’

  They shuffled forward in an orderly queue. Bea was the last to receive the morning’s medical rations.

  ‘Hi, there,’ the nurse said. ‘400mg Venlafaxine, and Dr. Payne has increased your Quetiapine to 400mg.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Bea accepted the communion in two tiny paper cups, one with red and yellow pills and the other with water. The nurse watched while Bea gulped down the capsules, then ticked her off the list. ‘Good girl.’

  Body and blood. Amen.

  Tonight we’ll be lining up again.

  Body and blood. Amen.

  As the nurse turned back toward the work station, Bea summoned up the courage to tap her on the shoulder.

  The nurse spun around. ‘Yes?’ she answered brusquely.

  ‘I wonder,’ Bea hesitated, ‘is it possible, I mean, maybe, if I could ... I need a razor to shave? I need to shave my legs and underarms.’

  ‘You’re not down for sharps.’

  ‘I only want one for a few minutes.’

  ‘You can have a razor any time you like. Ask any of the nurses and we’ll stay with you while you shave.’

  ‘You have to stay with me the whole time?’

  ‘Those are the rules.’

  ‘But I’m not cutting,’ said Bea. ‘Look.’ She yanked up the sleeves of her sweater to expose unbroken skin.

  ‘I believe you,’ the nurse sneered. ‘There’re no cutters on my ward.’

  Bea walked off. That stupid cunt didn’t even know she preferred cutting into her scalp. They could keep the fucking razor.

  But that moment b
elonged to a different age. Now she worked with nurses like the ones she had met as an in-patient at St. Anthony’s. At first she had been afraid someone might recognise her. She even dreamed about being unmasked for the imposter she still felt she was, deep inside. And it took an imposter to be afraid of time alone with your own innocent family. She made up her mind to talk to Nick about it at their next debriefing.

  *

  Dr. Payne looked through his notes on Beatrice Clark. He had made a list of her strengths:

  Ability to comprehend English.

  Ability to read and write.

  Neat appearance.

  Appropriate social behaviours.

  Good hygiene.

  Artistic.

  No criminal record.

  Superior educational skills present.

  Vocational skills present.

  Occupational skills present.

  Willingness to take necessary medications.

  Willingness to participate in ongoing treatment.

  A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘Your nine o’clock is here, Dr. Payne.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He strolled out to the waiting room. ‘Bea! Good to see you. Come in.’

  She followed him into his office.

  ‘So how are things with you this week?’

  ‘Fine,’ she whispered, looking at the floor.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘All right I guess.’ Her voice was barely audible.

  ‘Why are you whispering?’

  She looked up at him. ‘I’m not,’ she said in a low, raspy tone. ‘I’ve lost my voice.’

  ‘A cold?’

  She put her hand to her throat and took a deep breath to push the words out. ‘No. Just lost my voice.’

  ‘Completely?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He smiled. ‘If you didn’t want to talk to me all you had to do was say.’

  Bea attempted a brief smile.

  ‘Has this ever happened before?’ he asked. ‘I mean, without an underlying physical cause?’