Small Silent Things

by Robin Page

  She holds tight to her daughter, not wanting her to tip out of the carrier, to go down to the water below without her. The screams of her daughter are so loud. And then the voice that is this man’s voice, shouting, begging. “Help!” Panic. “Somebody please! Help me!”

  IT TAKES MANY HANDS AND ARMS AND MEN TO LIFT THEM BACK OVER THE railing. They are dropped, the three of them, onto the safe side of the bridge like a pile of laundry. The man who has saved the two of them is on his back breathing heavily. His makeup is smudged. He is gripping and rubbing the hands that kept them in this life. A heel from his red shoe has broken off and looks wicked against the stone walkway.

  Jocelyn is aware of people around her, trying to get Lucy off her chest, trying to release her from the Ergo. She kicks at them, shouts for them to get away. Lucy is crying—a continuous wail. They all stand around her staring. Fear in their eyes more than anything else. One of the women is on her cell phone, calling, Jocelyn knows, 911. Her daughter presses her face against Jocelyn’s chest. Jocelyn pulls the little hood of the Ergo over her daughter’s head, giving her privacy.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” she says. Little gasps of breath interrupt the words. “I don’t want to be a mermaid. Please don’t make me. I want my papa.”

  Jocelyn stills her own body against the ground. She holds her daughter, soothing her as she cries. I have made my daughter afraid of me, she thinks. I have done what I said I wouldn’t do. Gladys. I have been like Gladys.

  “It’s okay, honey,” she says and pats the small back. “Shh. Shh. Shh.” In rhythm. “It’s okay.”

  She is bouncing Lucy now, as she did when she was a baby on her chest. Nothing else is on her mind but her child and her own failure.

  “It’s okay,” she says. She strokes the golden-brown hair. “We won’t go,” she says. “It’s okay. Mama is so sorry.”

  SHE TURNS HER HEAD TO THE SIDE, AND THE MAN WHO HAS HOOKED them, snagged them back into the now, his hands under the strap, tight around her hair, clenched, has started crying. Horrible rushing tears. His face is dirty, his smoky eyes are smeared, his wig has fallen off somewhere, and all that remains is a stocking cap. She thinks for a second that this is a shame she has brought to him. She has made him ugly. She has not meant to do this. She is sorry.

  “I couldn’t let you go,” he says to her in a loud whisper that only she can hear above the crowd of gossipy voices. “You weren’t going to make me see you falling for the rest of my life.”

  He stares at her, breathing quickly. He is angry at her, she realizes. Spittle flies in the small space between them. “There was no fucking way,” he says again sharply. “I was not going to let you do that to me.”

  “I want my papa,” Lucy says, interrupting the man. “Make that man stop talking, Mama. Make him stop talking to us.”

  Jocelyn hears the sirens in the distance. She knows they are for her. When they ask her whom to call, where home is, she is surprised when she says Simon.

  HOURS LATER, CONRAD AND SIMON COME IN SIMON’S PLANE. CONRAD IS raging. He threatens her. You will never go near my daughter. He says that to her, as if it were true: my daughter. Only when they’ve been in the air for almost an hour, only when Lucy begs her father to let her go to Jocelyn, does he relent, allowing the girl to climb up onto Jocelyn’s lap, onto the fine leather seat, to be held. Lucy falls asleep almost immediately. Jocelyn watches the small chest move up and down, the smallest snore. She kisses the cheeks, sings a quiet song. She doesn’t care about her husband. She doesn’t look at him. She looks out the window. She contemplates telling him to fuck off. She imagines tearing his eyes out, beating him down. No one will take my child from me, she says inside.

  And all the things she has lived through, everything that she has survived, comes to her now. Lucy is as old as I was, she realizes. I was she, in front of the black phone in my yellow pajamas, calling who? Ah, my little lamb, she says to her younger self. There was no one to call for help.

  Simon reaches for her. He just touches and then holds the hem of her shirt. He knows not to invade her body. She sees his beautiful brown hand. His urge to pull him to her.

  THEY TAKE HER DIRECTLY TO THE “TREATMENT FACILITY.” IT’S A PSYCHIATRIC hospital, although no one calls it that, and no one except Simon and Conrad’s family knows she is there: Malibu Gardens.

  They bathe her, sedate her, and then tuck her in. Conrad leaves with Lucy almost immediately, but Simon stays, making sure she is all right.

  When they put her in her bed, there is no hospital gown, no nurse in a uniform. A helper is provided, warm pajamas, a cup of pills. There is a view of the ocean. There are grounds. They mean to make the place feel like home.

  “He can’t take away my daughter,” Jocelyn says to Simon, because it is all that matters.

  “Rest,” he says. “I will stay with you. Don’t worry. We will work it out.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Simon

  1

  HE LEAVES HER SLEEPING AT MIDNIGHT. THE NURSE TELLS HER THEY WILL call him as soon as she wakes.

  “As soon as she wakes,” he says, reiterating. “I am coming any time. I do not want her to be alone.”

  He drives through Las Virgenes Canyon, ending at the ocean. He makes a left onto PCH, feeling his way home. When he gets to the condo, he goes directly to her unit. He knocks on the door, not caring about waking Lucy. He knows what is important.

  Conrad answers the door immediately, seems confused by the visit at this late hour, but Simon knows he’s been up—the dark circles, the drawn face, the speed with which he’s opened the door.

  “May I come in?” he asks quietly. Conrad opens the door wider.

  They sit, as Conrad suggests, on the balcony, in order to not make noise. His mother is there, he explains, and Lucy is sleeping finally.

  “She had a difficult time falling asleep,” he says, looking out at the ocean. “She is used to being with Jocelyn.”

  They sit in silence, and then Conrad offers drinks. A cognac—warmed in a steamed glass.

  “Thank you for the plane,” he says.

  “It’s the least I could do,” Simon answers.

  “I couldn’t leave her there. When we were younger we went there once, to confront her mother. She threw up in a bag on the drive. She was so afraid. I couldn’t leave her in that city.”

  Simon thinks of Cincinnati, the green of Jocelyn’s hometown. Just as she said. Nothing much but the river. Nothing much but the beautiful bridge. He was not afraid this time. Not on takeoff and not on landing. She was his project. She was the only thing.

  He takes a deep breath. “I will tell you a story and then I will leave. I would like very much if you would not interrupt. It is the least you can do.”

  “Okay,” Conrad says, drinking his drink.

  And in the dark night, above the dark, rumbling sea, Simon tells the story of being unable to protect his wife, his daughter, about the realization of helplessness, of powerlessness, about his acceptance of it all—how small one can be, how quickly one can be reduced to almost nothing.

  “You are their protector,” he says. “I know you are afraid. You think you are angry, but you are scared. You can save both of them. Don’t be like me. A child must have its mother. A woman is the foundation of the family.”

  Conrad’s head lowers, the crying starts. It is a huffing sound, like the chugging of a train.

  It goes on and on.

  “Lucy cannot thrive without Jocelyn,” Simon says. “If you love your daughter, you will protect her mother.”

  THEY ARRANGE FOR A NANNY AND NURSE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY when Jocelyn comes home. There is a confidentiality agreement, because that is what important families do. There is an outpatient facility in Santa Monica—twenty hours a week for therapy. It is like a part-time job for Jocelyn.

  The days pass, and Jocelyn gets better. The medicine helps. The nanny is required to watch her take it. Simon and she and Lucy and the ever-present nanny spend their time toge
ther walking Lion, getting ice cream, playing at the park. Simon has taken a leave of absence, awaiting the birth of his grandchild, so all of them have more time together. Conrad joins them on some of their outings. He is tentative with his wife and sometimes even bitter. When he is intolerant, or tries to pull his power, Simon tells him to be patient. He reminds Conrad of his fear, he recalls certain parts of his own story. You have seen nothing, he says. He listens to Conrad’s still-present resentment, and then he reminds Conrad of his own net worth.

  “You don’t want to make this a custody battle,” he says, when Conrad implies that he might take Lucy. “It will be long and expensive. I am a very wealthy man.”

  Conrad stares at him as if they are strangers, and then laughs. Two worthy warriors in an uncertain alliance, always moments from a kill.

  Chapter Forty

  Jocelyn

  1

  JOCELYN SLEEPS IN HER DAUGHTER’S ROOM. SHE DOES NOT KNOW HOW TO be with her husband, but mothering is something inside like her lungs or her heart; it has not left her. Her days are less antagonistic now, the images are softer, the merging less painful. The medicine takes the edge off.

  As they build a Lego house, she tells her daughter about Ycidra, the good parts of her sister.

  “I want a sister,” Lucy says. “Can you get me a sister? I’ll take care of her, Mama. You just have to get her.”

  When they walk along the path at Will Rogers beach, Jocelyn does not resist when a song, taught to her by her brother, compels her to sing: “Poor Jenny. Bright as a penny.”

  Lucy giggles at the silly verses. A cartwheel then, a leap in the air, a flit off to the water.

  The past is not the past, Jocelyn thinks. She is sure of this. It is the same as today and different, a hand that tips forward and pulls back. Like a river to the sea, two separate bodies of water, and yet indivisible, constant.

  Don’t think about it, she tells herself. Look at the surfers in front of you, at your daughter pulling off her silver sequined shoes.

  “Sing, Mama!” Lucy shouts, placing the shoes in the sand beside her. “The satins and furs part, Mama. Again, Mama.”

  Jocelyn’s heart lurches, remembering the Again, Mama of the diving board, remembering the bridge and Lucy’s fear. A tick of regret. That is all I will allow myself to think about. I will not wonder if my daughter will forget. I wished, I did, for a second, to live.

  She feels her anxiety heighten at the thought. Her new Santa Monica psychiatrist says to take one step at a time, to not let her mind spin. She practices now. There, right there, is the blue of the sea, the blue of the sky, her husband’s blue eyes, searching. He cannot see what they are to each other anymore. She cannot either, but she senses that she should not let go of him. She did not let go of Lucy on the bridge. Not once.

  She scolds herself. So hard to undo what one is. She draws herself back. Try again.

  What is just here? See what’s right now. Look: There is my bossy girl. A wave, larger than expected, the skinny legs, pedaling backward, fast. Jocelyn watches as her daughter’s silver shoes get swept away as the wave recedes.

  “Mama!” Lucy shrieks, pointing after them. “Mama. Get my shoes!”

  Jocelyn is already after them though. She does not need to be told.

  We are here. Still. Now.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Claudette

  1

  ON THE NIGHT THAT HER SON, PHILIP, IS BORN, SHE FINALLY HAS THE nerve to ask him. He is there, at the hospital as fathers are, even when they aren’t really fathers.

  The baby is almost purple, mottled looking, eight pounds, ten ounces, against the odds. His skin is soft like overripe fruit. Having a baby makes her brave.

  “Why?” she asks, feeling only a little uncertain. “That’s the part I can’t understand. Why would you give me away? I could never give my child away. I’d rather die together.”

  She looks at her tiny boy. “Was it because of the war? Did you know my parents were coming to the States?”

  His face turns almost gray. She has not seen him look this way before. Not in any of the brief meetings they’ve had. She feels afraid of him suddenly. Feels the fact that he is, after all, a stranger. She pulls Philip into her. She waits. She wants to know her story.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Simon

  1

  HE KNOWS NOW, BECAUSE HE HAS LIVED THROUGH THE DEEPEST LOSS, through the worst of humankind, that he cannot explain to his daughter that the thing that Abrahm did was not a rescue. Her American self—and that is what she is, what he sees before him—cannot fathom the truth.

  He cannot tell her that there were thousands of Tutsi children, just like her, who needed to be saved, and almost none of them were saved. Almost none of them were mixed into Hutu families. Instead these children were cut and starved. Where was all the mama kindness? Where the mother love? A woman is not a woman in war. A man is not a man. She can never understand.

  If he tells her the truth, he will have to explain that taking her from him was an act of hatred, a hatred that was coddled and nurtured over many generations. It simmered next to the skin and ended with Abrahm’s final wish to harm him.

  He wanted me to see. He wanted me to wonder. He wanted me alive and Vestine dead. Your mother could not live without you. He skipped me, so I could see her suffer, knowing someone would come for her and for me after. Even now, Simon can see his wife running. Running from him. Everyone dead so fast. Speed and efficiency, the American president said, as if he were discussing the space program.

  He clears his throat. He has organized the story. He has predicted the question. He has lifted some of its mythology from an Internet story that is presently being circulated: “The Saviors of the Rwandan Genocide.” The theme: We will never forget.

  I would forget, he wants to say to her, say to the writer of the Internet article. If I could forget, I would.

  The baby sleeps against her. The room is sterile and cold. The baby breathing there, a chirping sound from its tiny lips, allows him to go on. And so he speaks:

  “Abrahm’s brother was a famous soccer player. You do not know this, but soccer is like a religion in Kigali.”

  The lie comes more easily than he has expected.

  “There was the opportunity to leave. The conversation. Well, to save you. They had had a child, a daughter, she died. From malaria. It is not uncommon in Africa. The switching of identity cards was not a difficult thing.”

  He pauses. The last lie not really making sense, but he figures she will believe what she wants. Most people do.

  He waits a beat, wanting the rhythm of the story to be just right. As if the details were coming to him from old memories.

  “He could not save your mother. Or me. Only a white man could save me. Or God.”

  He laughs. He pauses. He prays she will not ask. “I will tell you that story a different day.”

  As he continues, he can see her relaxing into it, finding the fairy tale. What good would it do to speak of her dying mother? The way it felt to have her child body drawn out of his arms. How it was to wake and find his wife raped. The screams of other women in the swamps day after day after day. His mother and her limbs cut off. It is hardest on women in war. Men are just killed.

  “He came to us. Made the offer. We were lifelong best friends. A favor, but you had to go that day. We had no time to think about it.” He can feel his voice breaking. He has to force himself. Look at the baby. Look at your grandson.

  “Wow,” she says, a slight smile on her face. “That must have been dangerous for my father.” And, as if it were an afterthought, “And for you.”

  “Yes,” is all Simon can make himself say.

  “I can’t believe it,” she says. “It’s almost heroic. Like a movie.”

  And in her face, there is gratitude and pride, and he can see her as she must have looked when she was Abrahm’s little girl, and he can also see how much she loves Abrahm, and he is both envious and understanding, becau
se he has loved Abrahm too. And he is grateful, in the way that he has learned to be grateful, for the smallest crumbs, for a day without tears, for the Twa disappearing from his living room from time to time.

  He knows that it is all dirt off the sole of a boot, but he will take it, because his friend and her child are still alive, and his long-lost daughter is alive, and they have all found him, and there is tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

  “Yes,” he says. “Very heroic,” but then he starts laughing.

  In her face, a tinge of indignation. “What is it?” she asks. A small blush runs across her cheek. Anger? They are uneasy with each other.

  “Nothing,” he says. I am crazy. I am trying. I am always just barely surviving, he wants to say. But instead he says, “Just a silly joke me and your father used to tell. I cannot translate it into English.”

  She lifts the baby, looks at it lovingly. She is trusting him a bit more.

  “Do you remember any of Africa?” he asks her, meaning, Do you remember any of your mother?

  “No,” she says. “My parents never wanted to talk about it, so I don’t even have their memories.”

  “I understand why they wouldn’t,” he says. And he does understand, and in that moment, there is common ground again between him and Abrahm.

  “Can you do me a favor?” she asks, out of the blue. A dimple, one he has forgotten about, presents itself on her cheek.

  “Yes,” he says. “Anything.”

  “Can you get me a cannoli?”

  “A what?” he asks.

  “It’s a dessert,” she says. “I’m dying for it. I’m usually not very hungry, but I don’t know. Maybe it’s the baby. The hormones. You can get yourself one too. You’ll like it. Do you like sweets?” she asks.