If I Never Went Home

by Ingrid Persaud

‘Oh Lord. Well look how things changing for Miss Clark. I better keep an eye on you.’

  True to his word, Michael did visit the next day, and the day after that. On the third visit she asked him if he would like to go somewhere outside the clinic.

  ‘I didn’t know you could leave.’

  ‘I’m due to be discharged next week, and my doctor has been encouraging me to go out more often, to get back into normal life.’

  ‘Cool. I’m going to take you to one of my favourite places.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s in Harvard Square. Bet you know all the restaurants, but the surprise will be which one it is.’

  Bea took a deep breath. He had no idea how much of a step it was for her go out with someone, to take a taxi and to have a meal in a public space. Such seemingly simple undertakings all had to be remastered. But she wanted this to succeed – to be better, to do normal things again.

  The taxi stopped on Brattle Street outside a Mediterranean restaurant that used to make her smile whenever she passed it, if only for the name.

  ‘This is your favourite place?’ she asked.

  ‘Yup. I love the food. You’ve been?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘You’re okay with us going here, Beezy?’

  ‘Sure. Casablanca’s food is divine and I adore the mural of the movie they have on the wall.’

  ‘Oh, me too.’

  She sighed. Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, Michael had to pick this one for her first outing.

  ‘Fuck you, Paul,’ she murmured under her breath as she walked into the restaurant.

  ‘You said something, Beezy?’

  ‘No. Just talking to myself. Bad habit.’

  Once they were settled in a booth by the window and the difficult part of ordering had been taken care of, Bea, without any prompting, began talking about St. Anthony’s. As casually as she could, without making eye contact, she told him of her depression and how much better she was. There was no need for the shameful details of the route by which she had arrived at St. Anthony’s. Michael admitted knowing little about mental illness. She joked about the different types of treatment she had been offered in the past.

  ‘You won’t believe what this one doctor suggested,’ she said.

  He smiled. ‘What?’

  ‘He said I should join a choir.’

  Michael nearly spluttered his grilled chicken breast all over the table. ‘He said what?’

  ‘A choir. Do you remember my singing? I got expelled from our Sunday school choir. I was that bad.’

  He giggled, wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘You might have improved with age.’

  ‘Nope. Still can’t sing.’ She moved her mashed potato around the plate. ‘Sometimes I think it would be best to run away from it all. But not sure where I would go.’

  ‘I ran away once,’ said Michael, between mouthfuls.

  Her eyes lit with curiosity.

  ‘Nothing alarming,’ he said. ‘I must have been about six, so still living next door to you.’

  ‘I don’t recall you running away,’ said Bea, as she tasted a tiny piece of her lamb.

  ‘I was angry with my mom, so I took a suitcase and loaded it up with my most cherished possessions, the brand new volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.’

  ‘See, that’s the difference between us,’ laughed Bea. ‘At six you thought the key to survival was the Encyclopaedia Britannica. I would have taken chocolate and my Barbie doll.’

  ‘The bloody thing was too heavy to take far. I remember the agony of trying to drag that dead weight through the house. Think I got as far as the front porch.’ He took another mouthful. ‘Gave up after that and snuck back into the house through the back door. I had a sore back for ages.’

  She reached over and ruffled his floppy dark hair. ‘Poor baby.’

  Michael scraped the last bit of chicken off the plate. ‘Well? What about you?’

  She was silent. He smiled and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘You ever ran away?’

  ‘What? Apart from my whole life of running away?’ she asked. ‘Yes. Actually I was a repeat offender. Must have been a phase.’

  He drained his water glass. ‘How many times?’

  ‘Quite a few,’ she said. ‘Problem was, no one seemed to realise I was running away.’

  ‘You weren’t missed?’

  ‘Not really.’

  The waitress came to their table and cleared away the empty plates. ‘Can I show you the dessert menu?’

  ‘Actually, can I have a glass of house red, please?’ asked Michael.

  ‘And for you?’ asked the waitress turning to Bea.

  ‘I’m fine for now, thanks,’ said Bea.

  ‘Okay, where were we?’ Michael asked.

  ‘I was telling you how I ran away. See, I wanted to live with my Dad. So I put some clothes in a plastic bag and set off down the street. Never got far. Maybe as far as Carlene’s house. You remember Carlene? She lived down that steep street off the main road. They had this big red house with a cherry tree in the front and a swing at the back. Well, you know Trini people. Each day they welcomed me in as if they were expecting me.’

  ‘How long would you stay?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t know. Few hours. I was a latchkey kid, so if Mom came home and I wasn’t there she just checked at your house or Carlene’s and brought me home. Don’t think she ever realised I didn’t want to be home.’

  The waitress brought Michael’s wine.

  Bea continued. ‘After a couple times she began stopping on her way home and beeping the horn. I would come out and we’d go home.’

  ‘What about the bag?’

  ‘She asked once,’ said Bea. ‘I mumbled something and she laughed it off. We never talked about it.’

  He sipped the wine. ‘This is good. You want to taste it?’

  He handed her the glass by its delicate stem, letting his fingers touch hers for a few seconds longer than necessary.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It is good. But I should stay off the booze for now.’

  ‘Are you still running away, Beezy?’ he asked quietly.

  She glanced away. ‘Probably.’

  He touched her hand. ‘When will you stop?’

  ‘When I make it home,’ she whispered.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Well, it’s been a whole year since they bury Mummy, and I’m living by Nanny now. I didn’t get a choice. Boo-Boo remained with Miss Celia. Nanny put she foot down and say she not minding child and dog same time. And I’m in secondary school now – Queen’s College, same as Priya. She’s one year ahead of me and has her own friends. I like this school. The teachers and students only know me as living by my grandmother. Some kids ask about my parents but most aren’t bothered. And there are other kids who live with relatives. I don’t stick out like I did at St. Gabriel’s. My dream would be to live in a big city like New York or even London where everybody busy and no one knows your business.

  My favourite subjects are English and History. We had this assignment in English the other day where you had to pretend to be a character from a story and write a new short story from that character’s point of view. I wrote about ‘The Three Little Pigs’. In it there was a Mummy pig and twin baby pigs. I was one of the baby pigs. We all lived happily together in a house made of bricks. The big bad wolf would often creep up at night and huff and puff and blow with all his might but he never managed to cause the slightest damage to our brick house.

  Then one dark night when Mummy pig was outside looking for the moon she was snatched. We never saw her again. The evil wizard who took her also used his magic powers to make our brick house vanish. We baby pigs had no bricks and no clue how to build a new house. We were super frightened. My twin curled her tail with mine and together we set off through the countryside looking for a new home. After walking all day we came across a house made of straw belonging to a kind rabbit called Finn. Rabbit Finn said that it
was not safe for baby pigs to be walking in the wild by themselves. The wizard was sure to come back and this time he would eat us alive. So Rabbit Finn took us in and made us macaroni pie, baked chicken, red velvet cake and vanilla ice cream. During the day we played and helped around the house but at night we would quiver under our blankets wondering if the big bad wolf might return. If he huffed and puffed he would mash up Rabbit Finn’s house. It was only a matter of time. The End.

  Don’t think I wrote about the pigs because Nanny has a little old house. It might be old but nothing – no hurricane or wolf – going to blow it down. Nana was a joiner by trade and he built this little house from scratch. It must have been something when it was first built. The problem Nanny has is finding people, like when the wooden fretwork was breaking off. She’s always complaining people nowadays don’t do good work like Nana, God rest his soul, used to do. I wonder how much longer Nanny will live. She’s real old. She even smells old. Old people have that sickly-sweet talcum-powder-rolled-up-with-sweat smell. She left school when she was twelve and became a seamstress so she’s no use with my homework. She’s even too old to sew much now. It has to be something extra special before she will take out the sewing machine and run up a dress.

  We had parents’ day last Friday. Nanny came, and Aunty Indra and Uncle Ricky were there too, but they only came to see Priya’s teachers. Nanny kept holding on to my wrist real tight and dragging me around. The normal parents were walking from teacher to teacher with their child. They did not hold on like they were afraid their secondary school kid would get lost in her own school grounds or that she might run away. And before that there was sports day. I wanted to dig a hole in the stadium and hide. Nanny up in the front cheering loud-loud for every race I was in. She wouldn’t stay in the bleachers like the other parents. Mummy never carried on so. Sports day she would be too busy chatting to the other moms to bother with me and my friends.

  I know I am complaining when I should be grateful, but one last thing really bugging me. Nanny doesn’t like me going to the mall to hang out with my friends or go to the movies. She thinks I will get in trouble, though exactly what kind of trouble she trying to avoid she don’t say. If I wanted to get in trouble I don’t have to go to any mall or cinema. There was a girl and boy who found trouble right behind the church but the priest catch them. I better not say anything or Nanny might really lock me up in my bedroom till I turn eighteen like she keep saying she going to do. I bet if Mummy were alive she would let me go out with my friends. And who knows, if my Daddy found out about me and came to get me to live with him, he would take me to the mall and the cinema and we would have lots of friends and his house would always have people liming and laughing.

  The only time I can go out is when Nanny’s church group plan an excursion to the beach or one time we went to the Pitch Lake in La Brea. Usually I am the only person under a hundred. Is always a set of half dead church elders. Actually, that is not completely true. We also get invited to every single wedding, christening and funeral happening in St. Theresa’s church. Nanny has worshipped there since her wedding about a million years ago. Aunty Indra and Uncle Ricky got married in St. Theresa’s. Nana’s funeral was there, but that was before I was born. Mummy’s service was there too. All Nanny’s grandchildren get christened there. In fact in our family you can’t pick your nose without first notifying St. Theresa’s.

  Most of the time we stay home. We don’t have many visitors. Miss Celia has come a few times. That Granny Gwen old lady is a regular. She likes visiting on a Saturday after the hardware closes up. Once she reach, the two old ladies like to sink into the Morris rocking chairs and is old talk and Bible reading until it get dark. I usually settle myself in front the TV or finish my homework. I don’t mind Granny Gwen. Since that time she made me sit on her sweaty lap we cool. We have a routine. It’s one kiss when she reach and one kiss when she going – no matter how damp and sticky her cheek feels I always do my duty.

  Today we had some sad news. Granny Gwen has a son called Mr. Alan. His name is not Mr. Alan exactly but that is how everyone use to call him so I followed suit. His proper name would be Mr. Alan Clark. People should have called the man Mr. Clark instead of Mr. Alan but that is Trinidad for you. Anyway, when Aunty Indra came to pick up Priya from school today she told me to get in the car. Nanny was going to be home late tonight so I was to spend the night by her. She had packed my overnight bag and it was already in Aunty Indra’s car trunk. Priya made it clear she was not sharing her room. Aunty said Uncle Ricky will fix up the sofa bed in the living room. When did Priya stop liking me?

  It is not Nanny’s style to go out and on a school night to boot. Aunty said that Granny Gwen’s son Mr. Alan had passed away that same day. She only heard part of the story but it seemed that he was driving after drinking too much rum and crashed his car. Or maybe someone else was drinking rum and crashed into his car. We’ll have to wait for the full story. One way or another Mr. Alan end up dead. His brother, who I know as Mr. Robin, had to go all the way to San Fernando General Hospital to identify the body. The doctor had given Granny Gwen sleeping tablets. The St. Theresa’s ladies didn’t miss a beat. They had already organised a rota so she always had a sister from the church by her side, morning, noon and night. Nanny was doing the evening shift and wanted to stay as late as she was needed.

  One night at Aunty Indra’s turned into a full week on that lumpy sofa bed. Nanny seemed to have moved into Granny Gwen’s house. Whenever she came to check up on me she was full of excitement. First they had to wait for the body to be released and then they had to wait for Mr. Alan’s daughter to come from America. And we finally get the story straight. Mr. Alan was the one who get hit by a drunk driver. He dead but the drunk driver not only living but he hardly get a scratch. At least the police charged him. You see how life not fair. I feel for his daughter. I suppose she still has a mother although nobody mention a Mrs. Alan.

  The way Nanny excited you would think is a wedding they organising. The family put up a tent behind the hardware and every night is big wake. She say night after night people turning up with one set of food. People nearby have used that hardware to buy everything from mop bucket to hacksaw so they would have known Mr. Alan by face if not by name. He must have been a good man to bring in a crowd every night. My Mummy had a little crowd too.

  I got to sample the buzz firsthand when Nanny took me to the wake one night. But it was the funeral in St. Theresa’s church that I’m not going to forget for a long time. The church was packed as if roti and curry chicken was sharing. Everybody squish up on the pews so your arms pushed tight against your sides. Small children had to sit on their parents’ lap. People who didn’t get there at least half an hour before the service started could only stand at the side or in the back. The place was hot like hell and me in my thick black dress. I could feel the sweat rolling in the crease down the middle of my back. Some ladies were using the thin programmes to fan themselves. There was absolutely no breeze to cool down the amount of bodies stacked up in the church. If we weren’t sitting down I would have fainted before the service even started.

  The casket was open at the front of the church. Nanny told us that Granny Gwen had insisted on an open casket and Chatoo Funeral Services had had a hard time fixing to make him look respectable. His face had gone right through the windscreen. Aunty Indra march straight up, take a good look and cross herself. Nanny was right behind. I don’t normally want to look at dead people but after getting all the details for days I had to take a peek. Mr. Alan looked like I remembered, but I only saw him a few times. He had on thick foundation and lipstick and look peaceful like when you pulling a good sleep. Mummy had looked peaceful too. Sometimes I can’t believe she really gone.

  Well, the service started the way every funeral does start with hymns and scripture readings and things like that. Mr. Robin, the brother, did the first reading. Granny Gwen was in the front pew so I could only see her back. She was holding herself up stiff like the gua
rds outside the prime minister’s office. Her white hanky kept coming out and getting shoved back up her long sleeves. Thank God she was not stuffing it down her bra this time. Poor old lady. I’m not sure if it’s sweat or tears she wiping. Next to her is this tiny person who Aunty Indra mumbled is Mr. Alan’s daughter. When the girl get up she so little I think she look like a midget. She walk up to do the eulogy but if you weren’t near the front I don’t know how you would see her. She definitely didn’t take after her tall father. It wasn’t only that she was short but she was small like a dolly. They should have put a box for her to stand up on.

  This was one special funeral for St. Theresa’s congregation to remember. The service hadn’t even reach halfway when a woman started to shout out all kind of craziness. People trying to get her to keep quiet but she keeping up one big noise. The cute midget, who had a surprisingly strong voice, was trying to give her little speech only to be interrupted by the woman bawling down the church. I didn’t get what the crazy lady was saying but it was something about how much she did love Mr. Alan and how much she hate Granny Gwen. I tried to turn around to see who it was but Aunty Indra push me down in my seat. I don’t see why – everybody else was straining to see who it was. The lady bawl so hard that the little midget-girl stop talking and we sang a hymn instead. I whispering to Priya but she didn’t know who it was either. Someone must have tried to take the bawling lady out of the church because she yell that if anybody touch her again she going to call police for them. Priya and I were trying not to giggle because Nanny was looking at us hard with her eyes open big.

  Then the sweet Mr. Alan daughter made another try to say what she had to say – something about building a wall. She must have been talking about the walls of Jericho. It wasn’t easy to understand because all through the speech Miss Bawling Lady was carrying on for so. I’m not sure if she finally shut up because someone tape up her mouth and took her outside or she got fed up and left, but eventually the service went back to normal. No. You can’t call this bacchanal normal. Well, it normal for Trinidad. I doubt church in Canada and America does see this kind of confusion. Mr. Alan, I wonder if you know what trouble you make at your own funeral?