by Cathy Lamb
‘It’s OK,’ I whispered to him, wiping the sweat off my brow and pushing my braids back. ‘It’s OK.’ I shivered because this whole thing reminded me of my dad and that calamitous last night when he held a gun to Momma’s head, panting just like Bao, crying just like Bao, sweating just like Bao.
And Bao was Vietnamese, so it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that Bao may have well fought in the same war and fought the same war-demons that had eaten away at my father until my father was too eaten away to father anymore.
Bao spoke again, his body rocking back and forth, back and forth, his eyes frozen in front of him, his hands angled in a fighting position.
The same word kept coming up again and again until it was the only word he spoke.
The word was run.
Run, run, run.
‘They coming!’ he shouted. ‘Guns! Guns!’
‘There’s no guns, Bao. We’re in your garden. You’re safe.’
‘No!’ he screamed. ‘Hide! Hide!’ He yanked me towards him, pushed me to the ground, and shielded my body with his, his body shaking, his eyes gone, his mind back in Vietnam and the bombs and the killings and the blood and the starvation and the attacks that had been made on him, and to the gruesome hell that his innocent life had become.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I did the best I could at the bakery in the upcoming days, but my body still felt like it had swords sticking through it. I was wiped out from the torture chamber my sleep had become, emotionally shredded by how I’d hurt so many people, and upset about Bao.
Belinda had come in, her mouth squirming around in distress when she saw my face, and refused to take her nap.
She started weeping and wailing and trudged out, shaking her head. Janie ran after Belinda, but she took a swing at Janie, cuffing her in the cheek. That she hit Janie upset Belinda even more and she threw her hands up in the air and dropped a black plastic bag she was carrying. A bottle of jasmine-scented lotion thunked to the ground.
Janie tried to hug her, but she struggled away and ran off, pushing her creaking shopping cart ahead of her, her coat flapping, her boots making squishy sounds, her cat’s head with the dirty pink bow bopping above the black trash bags.
It was terrible to watch that scene with poor Belinda, but what I found out inside Bao’s little home – and I mean little – had about killed me.
Bao’s tiny garden, separated from the others by that white picket fence, was the same sort of garden an angel would have, I was sure of it.
There was a white trellis overhanging about half of it with pots of flowers hanging from hooks. A glass table and one white chair sat in the middle of a minute green lawn, with two flowering cherry trees and the tulip tree bordering the grass. Flowers and shrubs of all shades and colours bloomed along the border, not a weed to be seen.
He had constructed several little arbours for various vines, their purple and white blossoms half the size of my face. A collection of old watering cans on one fence and a collection of birdhouses on another seemed so…artful. Wind chimes hung from hooks and birdhouses from the trees. In a sunny corner, down a teeny gravel path, he had a beautiful rose garden.
But where beauty bloomed outside, inside was dreary, although perfectly clean and orderly.
Bao lived in one room. There was a tiny kitchen, a bed, perfectly made with a blue blanket, and a wooden table and two wooden chairs.
That was it. Except for three frames hanging on the wall. This was where we sat together, after he’d tackled me, when his eyes finally focused and he returned from the war in his head.
‘Is this your family?’ I asked Bao, as he drank the tea I poured him, his face drawn. The photo was of Bao and a woman and four children, all smiling, in front of a pretty house with jungle foliage framing the sides.
‘Yes, that my wife. My children. My little children. Sweet children. Sweet smiles.’ His face was bleak, but blank, too, as if agony had sucked out his emotions on this topic.
‘They killed in our village. All of them. I in forest when happen. When I come back, our home on fire. No family left.’ He sighed again. ‘No family left. Me.’
‘Oh, Bao.’
‘They burn the house. They come and burn the village. Whole village. People screaming. People can’t find their children. Their mothers. Their wives. My friend, he go in his home through flames to save family. He not come out. I no see my friend again.’
I reached for his hand.
‘I go to well and get pail and throw water on house to save my family. I can’t get in door. It all—’ He put his hands in the air. ‘Fire. No house. All in fire but I use bucket until neighbour come and hold my arms. He said the water not work now. Water not work.’
I couldn’t even fathom it. What would I have done without Cecilia and Janie and Henry? Grandma and even Momma?
‘So many little children in our village. Gone. The soldiers come back and we run into jungle, but I so angry, they kill my family… I come out and they…’ He made a slashing motion against his neck. ‘They beat me with guns, they break my leg, my hand, they think they kill me, but my neighbour, when they gone, he take care of me.’
Although my body already felt crammed with pain, apparently there was room for more, because I felt it then for Bao.
‘I help American army. Then I come here. Americans say I live here now because I help save Americans. I come alone. No family left. See my family? So beautiful.’ He sighed. ‘My wife beautiful and smart. My little children. Beautiful.’
I stayed with Bao for another hour. We went back to the garden after having tea and sat side by side on two rocking chairs painted yellow. We didn’t talk, we rocked; we were together, that was enough. What words could comfort anyhow?
The wind breezed through, not in a hurry.
The wind chimes tingled.
The birds sang.
Bao wiped a tear from his cheek.
‘I miss my wife.’
Another tear rolled down his cheek.
‘I miss my children. My little children. I miss them.’
I reached over and we held hands.
We rocked as the wind chimes tinkled and the birds sang.
The wind never stopped.
As soon as I joined my sisters on the porch on a sunny, breezy afternoon, they abruptly stopped talking as if they’d been gagged with an invisible rag.
This is never a good sign, folks.
‘Morning,’ I said, my antennae bouncing about like a Slinky.
‘Good morning, Isabelle,’ Janie said. ‘How are you?’ Her face was red and puffy from crying.
‘Janie, what’s wrong?’
‘Isabelle, we’re sick of this,’ Cecilia bit out.
Janie whimpered a little. ‘Say it nicely, Cecilia. How about if we put on Yo-Yo Ma?’
‘No. No Yo-Yo Ma and I’m not going to say it nicely.’
‘She was beaten up only ten days ago!’
‘That’s because she invited a strange man to her home, a man she didn’t know, wasn’t dating, a man whose name she didn’t even ask, isn’t that right, Isabelle?’ Cecilia slammed both hands on a wicker table. ‘And he nearly killed her. And me.’
I had apologised to Cecilia after the attack, until she’d put a tired hand up and said, ‘Do not say one more word, I can’t take it.’ I had apologised to Janie until she’d said, ‘No more, no more. Let’s have tea. And scones to drink. And eat some Vivaldi. Please.’
‘Janie and I have always been worried sick about your one-night stands. How could you put us through this?’
‘I’m scared for you, Isabelle,’ Janie whispered. ‘I’m scared I’ll lose you! I’m scared that you’ll die next time!’
‘And I’m scared that I’m going to kill you myself if you do this again!’ Cecilia nearly shouted. ‘We need you. I need you for myself, for my girls, for help with Momma and Grandma and Henry. Janie needs you. She’s nuts, and you and I are her only friends. You can’t run around risking your life when all these
people need you. That pisses me off. You piss me off.’
‘Cecilia—’
‘I don’t think I can live without you, Isabelle,’ Janie whimpered. ‘You’re my light. My positive earth flow and the sister of my being.’
‘Janie,’ I whimpered back.
Cecilia was not finished. ‘You’re not on Neptune by yourself and you have a moral obligation to the rest of us to stay alive and well. Is it too much to ask that you curb your sluttiness?’
‘You said you would be nice, Cecilia!’ Janie accused, wringing her hands. ‘How about some orange tea?’
‘This is nice, dammit! I’m being nice! I haven’t thrown anything at her, have I? I haven’t said she’s selfish, reckless, wild, immoral, always has been—’
‘You’re being mean!’ Janie protested. ‘Negative karma!’
‘It’s mean that my nose bleeds twice in one night and my head feels like it’s been kicked and my shoulder is burning because she’s invited a murderer up to her loft!’ Cecilia shouted. ‘Now that’s mean!’
‘Hey!’
We all whipped around to see Henry smiling at us from the doorway, his hair messed up from sleeping. He was wearing his favourite railroad pyjamas. ‘Hey!’ he said again. ‘Hey, hey!’
‘Good morning, Henry.’ Cecilia’s anger started to evaporate. It always did in the face of Henry. Henry was like Cecilia’s hot-water bottle, cosy cup of hot chocolate, and live teddy bear all in one. ‘How did you sleep?’
‘I sleep good. I have a dream!’
‘What was your dream about, Henry?’ I was going to be saved by Henry. I sank back into a chair with my guilt and my anguish nestled around me tight.
‘A frog hop hop.’ He hopped.
‘A frog?’ I had to smile. I saw Janie smile, too. Even the corners of Cecilia’s mouth turned up. Henry does that to us.
‘Yeah, yeah. A big frog. We went to a lake. We went swimming.’ He mimicked swimming, froglike. ‘Hey Hey! Janie sad! Cecilia mad! You sad, Is? ’Bout that bad man? Let’s do a Bommarito hug!’
I didn’t feel like hugging Cecilia.
She crossed her arms. She didn’t feel like hugging me.
‘Come on! A Bommarito hug!’ Henry laughed, arms out. ‘Yeah, yeah! Hug!’
Cecilia glared at me. I didn’t blame her. I hated me, too.
‘Give me a hug!’ Henry encouraged. I could tell he was getting hurt feelings. ‘You no want to give Henry a hug?’
My sisters and I joined the hug, Cecilia scowling at me. Janie smelt like peppermint. Cecilia smelt like chocolate. Henry smelt like hope. He had always been our hope.
We hugged, then Henry started jumping. ‘We’re a frog family. Frog sisters, frog brother!’
I took a deep breath. ‘I’m done,’ I told my sisters as we jumped like frogs. ‘I’m sorry, truly sorry, and I’m done. Never again will I have a one-night stand.’
‘Good. It’s a damn shame it took this long to get your damn act together, dammit,’ Cecilia said, jumping about. She fisted a tear from her face. Scowled.
‘Thank you, Isabelle,’ Janie said, her ponytail bopping around. ‘Thank you. My soul is at peace now, my spirit soothed.’
So there we were. Three crazy people and one normal person, jumping like frogs.
The normal one being, obviously, Henry.
I was finally brave enough to lay in the grass near the willow tree at night alone again.
The shadowed branches reminded me of all the photos I’d taken of cool trees before I’d quit photography. I’d always had a thing for trees, their symmetry, their shapes, their personality. (Yes, trees have personalities. Look close.) I took a swipe at my eyes and crushed the sadness that bubbled up as I thought of my ex-career that I would not go back to because of what happened.
I rubbed the shoulder that had been hit with a belt. I had been in contact with Detective Walter Carrington and several other detectives and attorneys about Russ Bington. Detective Walter had reassured me that Russ would never see daylight again without wearing an orange INMATE shirt on his back, and if the state of Texas had their way he’d soon be frying in a chair like a scrambled egg in a pan.
He had asked how I was in that gravelly, calm voice of his, and I had told him I was grasping for my sanity but was OK.
Though my bruises were fading and my bones were healing, I was devastated, guilt-ridden, and still scared out of my mind. But, strangely, I was not depressed. I waited for it, waited for the blackness of doom I was so familiar with, but for the most inexplicable reason it didn’t come for me.
I was, however, grateful.
Profoundly, utterly grateful that I was not buried six feet under the ground. That gratefulness stayed with me pretty much all day long. Although I would not recommend this route for anyone, I had finally realised how much I liked life.
My mirror and I were not on speaking terms for weeks after my attack, but one morning I woke up and stared at myself, particularly my braids. I had lost weight, my face was the colour of Silly Putty and purple-green mixed, and my jaw was still swollen as if I’d gained ten pounds in my chin.
But I was still standing. Still alive. That surely counted for something.
I had my hair braided during a particularly gruelling assignment photographing the people in a medical clinic in the Congo for a documentary.
Our documentary was on fistula. Fistula is basically when a hole forms between the bladder and the vagina or the rectum and the vagina. This results in a constant leaking of urine and faecal material for the poor woman. In the United States, it’s a simple operation and the woman can take herself out and buy a new pair of high heels pretty quick after she leaves the hospital.
Not in the Congo. A lack of medical care means they’re stuck with it. Most of the women and young girls at the clinic suffering from fistula had been violently gang-raped, some with foreign objects.
Other women were at the clinic because a long and terrible childbirth caused blood to stop flowing and the tissues to die, poorly done abortions by some witch doctor, and gynaecological cancer. In addition, there were girls there who already had several children because they were child brides to some fifty-year-old great-grandfather.
Here, it’s rape, punishable by a long jail sentence. There, they call it marriage, celebrated with a party.
The women who had been raped or who had fistula were ostracised from their villages. They were often left by their spouses and families, destitute, crawling in poverty, and forced to sell themselves.
We were there to photograph what was going on at the clinic where doctors and nurses from around the world were performing operations to fix the fistula and helping hundreds of women. The crew was there for weeks, I stayed on for more than a year to help out.
I had my hair braided by one of my best friends there, a nurse named Eshe Mwizi. She had escaped from an abusive husband with her three daughters and now worked at the clinic. I still send large chunks of money monthly to the clinic, and I will for the rest of my life.
My depression, however, lurking throughout my life, grew to this huge monster when I returned from Africa. It shook me around and made me think terrible thoughts until I sunk so far down into an endless, churning tunnel I couldn’t get myself out.
I could almost feel my mind snapping, too many horrible stories whispered in my ear in Africa, too many months facing the results of evil and depravity and war, too many memories of my own past to grapple with. My genetic leaning towards depression also did not help.
I was unable, and still am unable, to talk to Cecilia or Janie about it.
My shrink told me to willingly check myself into the hospital for a few days followed by a stint in a restful and expensive mental health place out in the country or he would commit me. He said this pleasantly, but I knew he was one step short of shoving a straitjacket over my head.
And somewhere in the thick murkiness of my depression I knew it was go, head to the hospital, or head to a mortuary, and buy my own coffin.
So I went. I had lots of counselling sessions with groups of people in the same snake pit as me. We made crafts and painted pictures of flowers and strolled along garden paths.
I made friends with an obsessive-compulsive who made Janie seem like she had slight idiosyncrasies, a paranoid schizophrenic who used to be a NASA engineer and gave detailed lectures on the development of the space shuttle, and a bipolar artist named Cassandra, who gave me the mermaid table and later jumped, as I mentioned.
A blonde doctor named Brenda Bernard saved my life, and I came out feeling like I was no longer going to follow Cassandra’s lead.
I wasn’t excited about being hospitalised for depression. The mental illness stigma sticks like tar and feathers to people, which is patently ridiculous. You get help for diabetes, no problem, poor thing. You get help for cancer, what can I do to help you, dear?
You get help for a mental illness? People start to steer clear. They are blockheaded, insensitive, narrow-minded morons who will never get past their own flaming ignorance, but they peg you in a hole, treat you with annoying kid gloves, condescension, and/or like they think you’re a weak, perhaps dangerous, eternally sick whack job, unsafe or unhealthy to be around. It’s beyond their minuscule minds to accept that people with mental illnesses get better all the time. All the time.
My hospitalisation had to be done to save my own sorry life.
So I did it.
And I’m still here because of it.
Somebody doesn’t like that?
Fuck ’em.
On my way to the bakery the next week, I stopped by a styling salon. I told the gal inside to cut all my braids off. She argued with me because she was young and hip and had a pink Mohawk and a ring in her nose like a bull. ‘They’re awesome…so cool…like, are you sure?’
I told her to chop ’em off.
She wasn’t happy, but she did it.
When I emerged from the salon, my brown hair was short and fluffy and light and curly. I felt like I’d lost ten pounds.
My new haircut didn’t do anything for my swollen jaw or my greenish-purplish appearance, but I felt like a new person.