Are we still playing the game? Or—
Lagan answers his own question. “With a name like Lagan Kumar Desai, middle name a definite no, and LK, not nearly as cool as TJ or JR. So in third grade, I actually gave my parents the option to change my name to Logan. They didn’t go for it.”
But you look like a Lagan, not a Logan.
Lagan keeps talking. “Do you ever wish your parents had hyphenated your name? How easy if they had written La-gan, as in, she finished the soup and the soup is now gone, on my birth certificate?”
So the question was…? I look to my left, to the exit sign. Because the soup? Definitely not gone yet. I carefully spoon a bit into my mouth, failing to pass it past my stinging lips. Ouch!
“Three-pointer! You are a natural. Awesome. Next question: Do you have a favorite color? Let me guess. Green? Since you’ve worn a different green, long sleeve pretty much since school started.”
I nod toward my tray, an unusual combination of warmth and want clouding my senses. Details. He notices details.
“Another two points. Rock and roll! Is your favorite color red since it reminds you of the sunrise?”
Huh? My eyes shift to the exit sign. I just told you my favorite color was green. A smile escapes me. Lagan is creatively sneaking in details about himself. I have to write an intro biography on him too, after all.
“Three more points. We quickly approach twenty-one, ladies and gentlemen. This girl can shoot! Let’s continue. Question number five: Does the soup taste good?” He nods his head, predicting an easy yes.
I want to say yes, but the salty droplets inevitably roll over the tender, unhealed slits on my lips. I swallow, not wanting to seem ungrateful, but shift my eyes to the exit sign again. Not even sure why I tell the truth. I wait for Lagan’s response or the next question, but he doesn’t speak. I look up and over to his seat, thinking the game’s over and I’ve lost. Except Lagan isn’t there anymore. He’s walking back to the food line, and now he’s talking to the cafeteria lady who handed me my tray. She leaves him, then returns promptly and hands him something. He strolls back to our table, and I turn my attention to the soup, picking up a spoonful and pouring it into the bowl. Lagan places an ice-cream cup in between us and sits down.
“Sorry about the soup. I should have known it would hurt your lips. Try the ice cream, and be ready. The next question is coming right up. By the way, I told Vita, the lunch lady, to put it on my tab.”
My lips are ugly and he can see them. Instinctively, I pull some hair over my face and reach over to retrieve the ice cream. Peeling the cover and scooping my first nibble, I guess his next question and nod to my spoon before he asks. The icy coldness soothes my lips.
“Okay, so we’re up to question number six. But before I ask, let’s just tally up the score.” He pretends to push buttons on his imaginary calculator in the sky. “The grand total so far is thirteen. Less than ten points to winning. ‘On with the game!’ the crowd screams. Yes, yes, of course. Time out is over.”
I’m beginning to wonder if he forgot that I’m sitting within earshot as he plays sports announcer. He continues after taking a breath. Glad he remembers to breathe.
“Question number six: Is the ice cream yummay in your tummay?” Lagan asks.
I look away, then realize that I meant to nod, so I quickly nod, then finally just whisper the words, “Yes. Thank you.” The ice cream is perfect, and my tummay ain’t complaining either.
“Fifteen points, ladies and gentleman. We are approaching the home stretch, and there are less than three minutes till the buzzer. Must think quickly.” He fidgets and frets. We both know he pre-wrote the script.
“Thank you for clarifying before we move on to the final two questions of the afternoon. Question number seven…” Lagan stops talking.
He cups one hand in the other and reverses. Then his left hand in his right. He repeats this motion, and then finally speaks.
“Someday,” he speaks slowly, his voice hoarse but gentle. “Not today. Not soon. When you’re ready. When you decide it’s the right time. Someday? Will you tell me what happened to your...lips?”
Looking down, panic seizes me. I meant to look away. His words spread like curtains in the space between us, uncovering a window to Lagan’s heart. A window he’s trying to look through. Into my life.
Of course I would never tell you the deal with my lips.
My eyes well up, and as I gather my things to leave before the bell rings, so I can hide in the girls’ bathroom, I can see him scribbling a note on a fresh Sticky Note. Planned to skip Gym today with my arm, because wearing my uniform and expose my inch-thick, gauze covering was never an option. Swatting away tears in defeat, Lagan pushes clean cafeteria napkins across to me. Then he rests his hand on my tray. He will take it for me. Again.
He doesn’t try to stop me this time. Just slips me a little yellow square sheet during this brief interaction. I take the paper and hightail it to the girls’ locker room. The moment the cafeteria doors swing behind me, my eyes scan the words on the note.
I just want you to know that, if I could kiss and make them better, I would kiss your lips a thousand times.
How does he do that? I ask myself as heat spreads across my cheeks. Draw a rainbow over my storm. With a little, yellow Post-it note.
I flip the note over and a giggle escapes me as I read the rest:
Not romantically. Purely for medicinal purposes, of course. Btw, that last ? was worth 10 pts. whether you answered it or not. So you win! C. U. tom.
L
CHAPTER FIVE
I wish Mom were around to talk to. Isn’t that what girls do? Talk to their mothers about boys and crushes and the dancing butterflies that turn somersaults inside you. Mom, as much as you called me your sunlight, you were the one who brightened my days. Most of them. I miss you, Mom.
When I was born, I brought light into our house of darkness. That’s what Mom used to say to me when I grew old enough to remember her words. She also said that when I cried as a newborn, it made her cry. She felt sad when I felt sad. She laughed when I laughed. She slept when I slept. Her name means “song,” and she sang to me a sweet “gita” or two each time she swayed me to sleep. Everything changed when a year passed and Justice was born.
Mom named me Talia because each day she awoke, like the morning dew, I reminded her that there was a heaven. I hated heaven for taking her from me. If heaven had to choose, why didn’t heaven choose Dad? Who was I kidding? Hell probably had first dibs on the man.
Dad chose Jesse’s name. Justice. As a lawyer, all he thought about was the law. Dad’s kids would know the law, and they would follow it to a T. Or else. That’s why we called my little brother Jesse. Every chance we had to forget Dad’s tyranny, we did.
Jesse hated his real name. When the teachers would call his name off the attendance list on the first day of school, he wouldn’t even respond. Then someone else would say aloud, “He goes by ‘Jesse,’” and that would be the first and last time you heard his formal name spoken all year.
On my first day of kindergarten, Dad woke me up two hours before the bus was scheduled to arrive to go over the “Proper Rules of Conduct of a Respectable Daughter in Public.” I didn’t even know what half of the words he said meant, but I learned to nod and agree at an early age. He lectured me, and soon both of us siblings, each year when school began. We had the gist of his speech down to our own memorized list.
Be on time.
Get good grades.
Socialize with no one.
Come straight home.
In first grade, I asked Dad for the same thing every six-year-old asks for. “Can I have a playdate with my friend Melody?”
Dad corrected me on two points. “You do not have time for friends after school, and you do not have time to play. Playing is reserved for lazy people who amount to nothing but welfare- dependent citizens.”
I still didn’t get it. “Daddy, why is it bad to play when I have plenty of time an
d hardly any homework?” He sat in his office behind his desk, and his response was my first list. Then he handed it to me, and his words sealed my fate. “Now, Talia, if you have any extra time after you complete your chores, you can have a playdate.” Having only recently learned to read, the sheer number of words on the page crushed any hope of a semi-normal childhood.
I saw all the other kids run off on with each others’ mommies, inviting each other to birthday parties and weekend movies. Maybe their lists were shorter? I put my best tough-girl face on when I rejected their kind invitations. “Sorry, I can’t make it.” Before long, the kids stopped asking.
At night, under my covers, I cried myself to sleep and dreamt of tea parties and dress-up fun. I always included Jesse in my dreams, because he longed for friends, too. And Mom would be a queen or a fairy or an angel, free of rules and free to fly. When she flew, her long black hair glistened in the sunlight. Mom only broke Dad’s laws twice, each incident etched in my mind like a ridge of quicksand around a beautiful castle. I drown each time I try to swim past the memories.
Mom and Dad rarely left the house together, leaving Jess and I alone. Parent-teacher conferences marked one annual exception. Dad prepped her with the same speech every year: “Stick to business. No social comments. Only questions regarding the kids’ academic progress.”
Mom forgot. Forgetting costs dearly in our house. Somehow, the details will always remain between the walls of my seventh grade math class, but somehow Mom got too involved in Mr. Beakman’s story about how he uses math to perfect his shot when he goes deer hunting. All we heard when the fit hit the shan was that Mom asked him if he knew any women who hunted for sport.
They barely reached the house when Dad pushed Mom through the door and up the stairs, simultaneously screaming at her. “You’ll pay for each word of disrespect, Gita! You hear me?”
We all heard him. Jesse and I watched from the bottom of the stairs as Mom repeatedly apologized, her words as effective as candy flavored placebo.
“You could get me fired if people start snooping into our lives. That’s why we keep people out! Were you planning to invite her teacher over for personal hunting lessons next? What were you gonna do if Mr. Beakman asked to give Talia private shooting lessons? You of all people should know what men do when they’re alone with little girls. Or are you thinking of running off to the woods and leaving the children? You just don’t get it. So today, I’ll make sure you get it and you’ll never forget it! You hear?” Who didn’t hear his fiery bellow?
Next thing we knew, he shoved Mom into their bedroom and into the closet, latched it, and then a warning echoed through the house. “Now, spend some time thinking about how you can make sure that it never happens again!” Neither Jess nor I knew when Dad had installed a lock on the closet door in their bedroom.
Completed our evening lists without speaking to each other, my brother and I knew to stay clear of the hurricane. I sobbed as I scrubbed down the bathroom floor. I wanted to rescue Mom, but knew, as always, we had to wait it out.
Jesse moved around the house to close the shades and curtains, and I could hear his eleven-year-old fists punching the drapes when he reached my room. Glanced up from the tile floor into my room to catch Jesse’s gaze, his eyes chained rodeo bulls. We heard Mom banging on the closet door, my parents’ bedroom across from mine, saying, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” over and over and over again.
I went to bed that night hating Dad more than ever. I don’t actually know when I fell asleep. I gripped the sheets of my bed and pummeled my pillow in anger, listening to Mom’s pleas late into the night. Eyes drained from weeping, arms weary from punching—I slept. I knew I slept, because I remembered my dreams when I awoke. I dreamt of slaying a dragon, slicing a snake, and beheading a rabid dog.
When my alarm clock sounded, I jumped out of bed, wanting to run to Mom’s room to see if she was okay, but Dad hadn’t left for work yet. The scent of coffee didn’t permeate the air. I didn’t hear the morning news on the kitchen TV. Something felt strange. Only after I started my morning routine and read my list on the vanity while brushing my teeth did I understand. Partially. Taped next to my note from Dad, Mom’s list stared back at me. Which meant...
Guilt-riddled and heart heavy, I left for school with Jess, but I walked through my day like a zombie. Each time I passed Jesse in the school halls, a glance between us said it all: we only had each other. When the last bell rang, just before walking home, I pulled Jess into a stairwell alcove (away from student traffic), dropped my books, and held onto him for dear life. As I wept hard into my brother’s shoulder, the sound of his grinding teeth grated in my ears.
Terrified to face Dad, yet unable to abandon Mom, we marched home, the weight of textbooks on my back feeling heavier than ever. How long did he plan to leave her in there? Always aware of the hourglass, we picked up the pace and ran the last block, resolved to never allow Dad to break our bond. We built a wall around us. No matter how many times Dad knocked down, we vowed to rebuild and rebuild. Right now, we needed to get to Mom and let her know. We’d help her rebuild as soon as Dad let her out. Maybe, just maybe, she was already out. We didn’t realize that even when he released her, she would stay stuck inside—trapped in her hopelessness like a fly caught in a web.
When I unlocked the front door, Jesse ran past me, up the stairs, to Mom and Dad’s bedroom. I walked into the house, listening for Mom’s footsteps somewhere around the house. Nothing. Jesse banged on the closet door. “Mom? Are you in there? Are you all right?”
I darted upstairs to join him. The stench of urine and feces and vomit permeated the room.
“Mom?” I repeated his words. “Mom, are you in there? Mom! Talk to us. Dad’s not home yet. Are you okay?”
“Mom!” Jesse pleaded again. “Please talk to us. We just want to know that you’re alive. Mom. Please. Say. Something.”
Then we heard her faint voice. She said the same two words she had been saying all night. “I’m…sorry.”
I started crying again. What a lie! She had done nothing wrong. And she sat in jail.
“Mom, I love you. We love you, Mom. We love you,” I said at first and then Jesse said the words with me.
“I’m…sorry.” Her faint whisper came again.
“I’m sorry too, Mom.” I put my lips near the door. “I’m sorry we can’t get you out. I’m sorry Dad is so mean. I’m sorry we’re too little to fix this. I’m sorry we can’t save you.”
And that was all we had time for. Our lists called our names while passing minutes taunted us. Dad left Mom in the closet for two days. Two whole days. Two of the longest days of my life. I feared she would die in there. I begged Dad to let her out with all the pleas a twelve-year-old could muster.
I made all kinds of promises to him. From me. From Jess. From Mom. “We’ll be perfect, better than perfect for you, if you would just let her out.”
Nothing. Not even a hint of bending. Then, on the evening of the second day, I think the stench of bodily fluids overtook him and a number eleven appeared on my list that evening to clean the closest.
Shortly before 8:00 p.m., Dad walked into my room and tossed a key on my desk while I finished my homework. “I’m running out to do groceries. Make sure the house and your mother are cleaned up before I get back.”
I sprinted to tell Jesse, and we raced back to Mom’s room to unlock the closet. I promised myself that I would not let her see anything negative in my eyes. I knew that my response would either help or hinder her getting into the shower and back on her feet. As I fiddled with the lock, my shaking hands failed to draw out the simple process of turning the key.
For a fleeting moment, I thought Dad tricked us, giving us a key that didn’t fit. Teasing us with counterfeit hope. Suddenly, a faint click preceded the forceful opening of closet doors, and Mom fell out onto us—the fetor of mom’s soiled clothes triggered my gag reflex. I looked away and winced while trying to inhale only from my mouth. Jesse picked
up an empty bottle of laxatives near Mom’s legs. Dad had his warped ideas on “cleansing us,” but this was a new one. And here we stood again, Jess and I, the clean-up crew.
Hearing the second hand clicking on the wall clock like a time bomb, Jess and I frantically went to work, having learned at a young age that tears bore a price tag we simply could not afford. “Or else” there’d be more to cry about than ever. After he helped me half-carry, half-drag Mom to the shower, Jess ran to the supplies closet and ceaselessly gathered, wiped, and wet-vacked all of Mom’s insides that spilled out of her over the past two days.
I had never seen Mom naked, but somehow knew as I peeled back her wet, caked-on layers that what lay beneath only scratched the surface of my mother’s wounds. The grocery store was less than fifteen minutes away, and each second I stalled moved us one second closer to Dad’s return.
I thought if I talked through the process, I’d bring a sliver of dignity to the situation. “Mom, I’m just gonna undress you so that I can help you clean up. Dad’ll be back soon, and I need to get you showered, dressed, and in bed.”
At first, she sat in the bathtub in a trance-like state, and I felt so ashamed for her, for us, for the situation. As suspected, once I unbuttoned her shirt, her skin exposed multiple bruises from Dad’s daily “reminders” of his authority. Much worse than I had imagined, nearly every inch of her body was covered with scabs, cuts, blisters, and bruises. Her body looked sickly, and now I understood why she always wore sleeves and pants. She never wanted me to see this. I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer, and as I wiped her down, gently using a washcloth over all her hurts, I bawled over my mother’s broken body.
I threw all her clothes into a kitchen trash bag and placed the sack outside the garage to contain the stench. Returning to my mom, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, wrapped in towels, she robotically allowed me to guide her to bed where Jess finished up nearby. He gasped when he saw her legs, black and blue, certain cuts still oozing. Scooping up the cleaning products, he wiped over the closet door, and left the can of Febreze near me as he fumbled on the carpet and out of the room.
Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) Page 4