Under the Bali Moon

by Grace Octavia

  Zena found the last strength left in her knees and arms to get up and push Adan out the door.

  “Malak, I asked that man to marry me,” Zena said, remembering the confused look on Adan’s face when she’d said it. “And he said he couldn’t do it because he wanted us to keep sight of our dreams that apparently didn’t include each other.”

  “That’s messed up, Z,” Malak said.

  “It’s beyond messed up. And every time I remember it, all I can think is that he was the first man I ever trusted, the first one I loved, and look at what he did. Look how he handled it. And now here he is back in Atlanta talking about how he encouraged his brother to propose to my sister, saying it will be good for them. If that isn’t freaking irony? He has no problem taking my sister’s eyes off the prize, paying for our dresses and God knows what else.”

  “He bought her dress?”

  Zena ignored this. She popped up and looked around the dark room through newly puffy eyes. She leaned over and flicked on her bedside lamp.

  “You know, the more I think about it, the more this thing just doesn’t make sense,” she said.

  “What?” Malak sat up slowly and went for a sip of her Hennessy.

  “Why is he so game to support this wedding? Is it because his own marriage failed?”

  “Well, technically he was never married, so his marriage couldn’t fail,” Malak explained.

  “You know what I mean, Malak. Maybe this is about his marriage failing to even exist and me doing perfectly fine without him,” Zena said, adding up details. “I’m saying I made it! I made something of myself. I handled my part of Law: From A to Z. My own agency Z. Shaw Law is blowing up, and he knows it. And he knows that I also managed to pull my little sister up and make something of her—something he’s only halfway done with Alton, the wannabe neo-soul singer. So now he wants to bring me down.”

  Malak squinted as she tried to arrive at Zena’s conclusions. “Nah. Sounds kinda crazy to me.”

  Zena jumped up from the bed with her thoughts racing to epiphany.

  “I’m not going to let him do this,” she announced.

  “Do what?”

  “Ruin what I’ve worked so hard for, so he can just placate his own male ego!”

  “I don’t know what any of that means,” Malak confessed, rubbing her forehead.

  “It means—I can’t let this wedding happen. I can’t let Adan win. Can’t you see it, Malak? If those two get married, the same thing Adan was so afraid was going to happen to me will happen to Zola. She’ll be living in Alton’s shadow forever. She’ll never live her dream.”

  “The dream you gave her?” Malak pointed out.

  Zena rolled her eyes. She stood before her bedroom window watching traffic roll up Peachtree Road toward Buckhead.

  Malak was behind her, saying something about Zola being in love and Zena needing to support it no matter what, but Zena was already caught up in her thoughts and heard little of the speech.

  “I’m not going to let him do this,” Zena repeated. “I can’t.”

  Part II

  Under the Bali Moon

  Chapter 5

  Zena got Adan’s telephone number from a thoroughly surprised Zola and called him to apologize for her behavior outside Lucille’s Lace. She chuckled coyly and claimed she hoped he’d accept her apology for being so reckless with her words. Adan sounded just as surprised as Zola, but he accepted Zena’s apology and matched it with one of his own. He hadn’t meant to upset her or anyone else. He explained that he simply wanted to “do what is right for Alton and Zola.”

  Zena gushed at his greatness and agreed to do the same. She revealed that she was so happy Zola was marrying Alton. And she’d decided she was going to Bali. She had to be by her baby sister’s side. “Really?” Adan asked.

  “Of course! What? Do you think I would lie about something like that?”

  Adan should’ve said, “yes,” of course, because Zena was definitely lying. Zena’s saccharine-laced approval of Adan’s support of the wedding and her sudden decision to be there to play the loving and devoted big sister were a meticulously orchestrated oral camouflaging set to conceal what Zena really had going on.

  At the top of a long list of things Zena knew about Zola were two important facts she’d forgotten in recent days:

  Zola thrived on love and trust.

  Zola especially thrived on love and trust from Zena.

  There were times during their childhood when Zena and Zola were just simply attached at the hip. And not because they were sisters; it was because with everything going on around them—Daddy cheating and making more babies with more women; Mommy struggling just to feed them and keep a roof over their heads—Zena and Zola only had each other to depend on.

  They couldn’t go to their father with their problems—half the time they didn’t even know where he lived. They couldn’t go to their mother with their problems—sometimes when she got home from working doubles in the catering department at Delta Air Lines, her feet would be so swollen all she wanted to do was lie on the couch in absolute silence.

  The girls went to each other then; they leaned on each other. First periods. First dances. First boyfriends. First broken hearts. They trusted each other through it all. And even when Zena outgrew this full dependence on Zola, the little sister kept her focus and leaned on the big sister. And she never really stopped. Zola loved and trusted Zena more than anyone in the world—Malak had been right about that.

  Once, when Zola was four and they were still living in the projects in Queens, she claimed there was a ghost under the bed. Zena, ten years old and left alone to take care of her little sister, pretended she believed Zola and asked Zola to show her the ghost. They crept out of the bed and got down on their knees and peeled back the sheet hanging over the bed. Zola was so nervous, she kept her little eyes squinted in fear of actually seeing something scary. Zena told her to point out the ghost. Zola peeked. Zena begged to see the ghost. Zola opened one eye. Zena asked where the ghost was. Zola opened her second eye. Soon, Zola was looking wide-eyed at her fears. “See, no ghost,” Zena said, smiling. “No ghost here. No ghost anywhere.”

  If Zena wanted Zola to see that getting married was going to set her back and potentially ruin everything she’d worked so hard for, she couldn’t keep throwing it all in Zola’s face. She couldn’t keep telling Zola everything that was going wrong. She had to let Zola see things for herself. She had to let Zola get out of the bed, get on her knees and peek under the bed to find her own ghosts. And just as she did when they were little, she had to be by Zola’s side.

  * * *

  “Zollie Rollie Polie!” Zena was standing in the lobby of Hartsfield-Jackson Airport with one arm open and ready to receive a hug from her sister. A huge black luggage roller was at her feet.

  “Zollie?” Zola laughed, hugging Zena. “You haven’t called me that in like years.” She had her own luggage roller at her feet. It was hot pink and bigger than Zena’s, and the word Bride was stitched on the front pocket in white.

  Two weeks had passed, and after successfully showering her sister in sugary speeches and all the comforts any bride could desire, including a small spa shower the day before the Bali departure, Zena was officially a maid of honor to-be.

  She arrived at the airport with her game face hidden beneath black shades and a surprise behind her back.

  “Come on, how could I forget your nickname?” Zena joked with Zola before revealing her surprise. “And how could I forget how you got that old nickname?”

  In her right hand, Zena was balancing a huge box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts she’d picked up on the way to the airport.

  “You remembered?” Zola laughed. “I can’t believe you remembered!”

  “How could I forget? Like the one thing you loved when we moved to Atlanta
was these damn Krispy Kreme doughnuts. You loved them so much, you got a little gut, and me and Mommy started calling you—”

  Zola cut in with “Zollie Rollie Polie!”

  The sister’s laughed together at the memory of Zola going completely insane every time she saw that dark orange Hot Now sign lit up when they passed the old Krispy Kreme window on Abernathy in the West End. One day, Lisa pulled over and bought Zola an entire dozen of the sticky and doughy sweets and told her to eat them all so she could get over her infatuation. It didn’t work. Zola’s love affair grew and grew, and soon, so did her stomach.

  “I figured we could eat these before we board the plane, so we can get a little rest,” Zena said.

  “Rest? After we eat these doughnuts, we’ll be bouncing off the walls!”

  “Not once we get on the plane and have a little bit of that free wine!”

  “The free international-flight wine!” Zola recalled, reaching for the doughnuts.

  “Exactly.”

  Zola and Zena tore through six Krispy Kreme doughnuts apiece—a small victory for anyone familiar with the addictive brand. They rushed toward their flight, and once aboard they celebrated Zola’s coming new life with so many wine toasts they were both asleep within an hour.

  It was still a long fifteen hours in the air before their layover in Korea. Zola and Zena kept each other company by telling stories and making plans. There were baby names and shared vacations. There were decisions about what religion Zola would practice in her new home—if any. Would she and Alton become full vegans as they’d planned? Would they raise vegan babies? Zena grimaced at the thought of any child eating soy crumbles all their life.

  While Zena wasn’t exactly excited to chat with Zola about these things, the subjects kept her from bringing up one of the things she promised she’d leave on the back burner until she got everything sorted out with Zola—the real future Zena was going to make sure Zola actually lived. The one where she was an attorney.

  When they boarded the plane from Korea to Indonesia, frequent naps and in-flight movies filled the lull in the conversation between Zena and Zola. Once, Zena looked over at Zola sitting beside the window in the first-class seats Zena reserved for their daylong journey. She found Zola looking off into the clouds, smiling at nothing. She imagined Zola must’ve been thinking about Alton waiting for her in Bali, setting things up for their big day.

  Right then, Zena felt an arresting solitude that caught her completely off guard. There was no love she could see in the clouds. No face staring back at her. No future to project. It was just her. And what did she have? Her business? Her success? Her money? She could take care of herself. She could buy anything she wanted. Go anywhere she dreamed. But she was alone. She was worse than alone—she was lonely.

  A stewardess seemed to show up from nowhere with a glass of merlot. She was an Asian woman with beautiful full lips and a wide nose that reminded Zena of some of the Melanesian women she’d met during her last vacation to Vanuatu.

  Similar to her other trips to parts of Asia and throughout the Pacific, Zena noticed that when she and Zora transferred flights in Korea, most everyone on the flight was Asian; however, the diversity in complexion and hair texture and facial features was wide-ranging and similar to differences she saw between white and black people in America.

  “These long flights can get to you,” the stewardess said, handing the full wineglass over to Zena.

  “Thank you,” Zena replied.

  She took a few sips of wine and looked out into the dusky night with Zola.

  Adan had asked to see her a few days before they left for Bali. Actually, Adan asked to see Zena a few times. He’d called randomly. Sometimes in the middle of the night. Sometimes text. Sometimes email. He was sounding like a friend. An old friend who wanted to catch up. “I just want to see how things are with you,” he’d said once when Zena actually picked up the phone to hear one of his lunch proposals.

  Zena was always too busy. She was pleasant, cheery sounding, but too busy to see Adan.

  What was there to see? What was there to talk about? She couldn’t live in a world where she talked about how “things are” with her without screaming about how things had been with her—about how things had been with them. And even still, she didn’t want to scream about how things had been with her or them. What would be the point? Why open that door? Adan was the one who’d closed the door and walked away. She was left on the inside, and she’d made herself comfortable; she’d found her own pleasure. She wasn’t ready to open up and let him back in.

  * * *

  The villa Alton and Zola rented for the week they’d be in Bali was less than an hour from the airport. Mahatma House was a sprawling five-bedroom architectural beauty set in the middle of a lush beachfront garden.

  When Zena and Zola climbed out of the disheveled minivan charged with transporting them from the airport to the villa, both tongues were wagging. Everything was gorgeous. Everything was lovely. Everything was every hyperbolic adjective they could recall: magnificent, wondrous, amazing! But none of their words could capture what they really saw.

  From the airport to the drop-off at Mahatma House, their first impression of the Southeast Asian paradise known as Bali was a racket of beauties that made a mess of their five senses. Streets filled with dogs and motorbikes carrying men, women and children, sometimes entire families all at once. Horns beeping. Lights flashing. Red and purple and yellow flags hanging. Outdoor restaurants roasting pigs on front-yard spits. The beach. Rolling waves, black sand. Someone playing hip-hop. Another person singing a Balinese love song. Pigskin popping over the fire. Flowers blooming. Women walking the roads dressed in elaborate saris and carrying bright floral offerings to the temple. Street signs pointing in every direction. The heat—stifling and arresting.

  And they’d only been there an hour.

  “Where have you brought me!” Zola hollered when she spotted Alton strumming his guitar by the pool in the central atrium at Mahatma House.

  He tossed the guitar to the ground as if he couldn’t care if it broke or flew away and ran to his bride.

  “It’s beautiful—isn’t it, baby?” he said, picking Zola up and spinning her around.

  “More than I could’ve dreamed. So much more,” she answered in his arms.

  Alton’s countenance had far surpassed his boyish oddities. While Zena often questioned his neo-soul singing skills, there was no doubt he looked like a neo-soul star. He had big, brown pouty eyes, natural muscles and a head of auburn dreads that looked more like wild coils. He was always singing or humming something sensual and went nowhere without his beloved acoustic guitar.

  Surrounded by the waitstaff in the open-air living room overlooking the pool, Zena looked on awkwardly at Zola and Alton’s romantic reuniting. She smiled with pursed lips and unconsciously crossed her arms so she didn’t look as if she was expecting anyone to greet her with open arms.

  “Uhhh, Mister Adan, he come now for you,” one of the housekeepers said to Zena.

  “No, no, no,” Zena said, and nervously sputtered out, “He’s not for me. He’s my childhood friend. We aren’t together. He’s just a family friend. I don’t like him or anything.”

  The housekeeper nodded at her, though it was obvious she wasn’t following along with the elaborate explanation of why a thirty-something woman was standing alone in the lobby of one of the most romantic villas in one of the most romantic places in the world.

  “You guys are here!” Zena heard.

  She turned to see Adan descending a set of black polished-concrete stairs that led to one of the bedrooms in the main house, where she was standing.

  “Yes, we are,” she said.

  Adan walked over to Zena and hugged her. Over his shoulder, Zena saw the housekeeper smiling at her knowingly.

  “How were your travel
s?” Adan asked, releasing Zena a bit but not letting her out of his arms. He kind of rested them on her waist and leaned back to look at her.

  “Safe?” Zena answered, stepping back to escape his embrace.

  “Good to hear you were safe.” Adan nodded.

  * * *

  The night moon brought a delicious Balinese feast spread out on a long wooden table overlooking the black sand beach at Mahatma House. Dressed in all white, as requested by the house concierge, Alton and Zola, Adan and Zena arrived at their welcoming dinner to drink in a cornucopia of traditional culinary delights. Prawns as big as the men’s fists, nutty chicken satay right off the grill, sweet and spicy tempeh, and at the center of the table was the babi guling, a suckling pig that had been roasting in the yard most of the day.

  The ocean breeze rolled up the strand, mixed with the food and tantalized all at the table.

  “I hope they don’t think we’re going to eat all of this,” Zola said, looking over the foreign delicacies. “Look at all of this meat! And is this a baby pig? Yuck!”

  “Well, if you don’t eat your portion, I’ll gladly take it,” Zena offered, sitting beside her. She’d seen Alton hungrily eyeing the porker since they’d sat at the table, and she remembered Zola pondering his going vegan with her on the plane.

  “Now, that’s what I’m talking about! Let’s get our grub on!” Alton said before giving Zena a high five from the opposite side of the table where he was sitting beside Adan.

  “So you’re eating everything on the table—even the meat?” Zola pointed to the steamy babi guling with the traditional apple stuffed into its mouth.

  “Darling, we’re in paradise. I don’t think vegan rules apply,” Alton joked. “Besides, we’re not Muslim. A little pig never hurt nobody.”

  “Not that little pig, anyway. I’m pretty sure it hasn’t hurt anybody,” Adan said, fixated on the baby pig as he rubbed his stomach. “What, you think that porker is like two weeks old?” He leaned over to Alton and laughed.