“We have a ride,” I add. That brings Joe scurrying. The middle-aged man who pulls up vacates the driver’s seat and carefully sidesteps Joe’s bustling frame, waving off her thanks and loading up the trunk with half the yoga mats, piling the rest into the backseat. “I guess y’all ga have to sit close,” he says, gesturing at the narrow middle section and remaining passenger seat. Joe steps back.
“Go ahead, Indira.”
The man chuckles as I get into the middle. I’m spilling out onto the passenger side, which Joe couldn’t fill if she stretched out longways.
“Well, this was lucky,” Joe says cheerfully. You’d think we’d tripped and accidentally fallen into Mrs. Darville’s car. Thankfully, after that Joe manages to keep her mouth shut until they drop us off at the churchyard, the man dutifully unloading the mats and bags while Mrs. Darville hobbles inside to say hello to Pastor Michaels.
“Set up the mats quickly, Indira,” Joe says, heading for the church door. “We’re running late. I need to go find the woman in charge.”
“Where should I put them?”
“Find a spot,” she calls over her shoulder, still curt, but a little less bristly. “This is your stomping ground.”
I stand at the top of the hill the church is built on, looking all the way around. We’re high enough to see over the trees. In the distance, the water stretches out forever. The island looks sleepy from here. Plenty of things go on under that canopy of foliage, though. Beside the church is the cemetery, there from at least a hundred years ago, old enough that the church couldn’t foresee needing room to bury more than thirty or forty people. Next to that, the run-down basketball court and the trees where Mrs. Ellis used to line us up on the grass for Sunday school. From there, we could hear the music service bursting out of the sanctuary: raucous singing, tambourines, clapping, hollering, and the piano being beaten into submission. Grammy used to poke her head out the door halfway through, like I always begged her to do. She’d beckon me over as though there was an emergency; I’d steal a quick look at Mrs. Ellis and her switch, then make a run for it. Grammy’s firm hands guided me back to the pew, tapping out the drum’s rhythm on my shoulders as we went.
I decide on the grassy opening by the court. I start to lay out the mats, two rows of five, narrow edges facing forward, with Joe’s mat at the head of the class, so everyone can see her. As I’m wiping off the mats, Mrs. Ellis appears from around the side of the building, her hair as gray as it’s been for as long as I can remember, wearing the same shapeless skirt. Only difference, we’re the same height now.
“Indira May Ferguson. What you doin up here? Your ma send for you, ay?”
“I came over with Joe.”
“With who, now?”
“J—with Ms. Morris. For the yoga class.”
“Mmmm.” Mrs. Ellis presses her lips together as if guarding her mouth from a swarm of unpleasant bugs flying in. “Well, the pastor’s daughter arranged that. I don’t take part in them funny things.” She tuts at the mats like they’re rectangles of moral decay. “And your grammy wouldn’t have neither. You better be glad she ain here to see you caught up in this.”
“What you mean she ain here? Mrs. Ellis?” I call, but she’s already walking away. I should run to the house right now. Forget how I feel, forget about the book. Just see that Grammy’s there, see she’s okay. Then Joe appears, and I have to put it out of my mind. Grammy’s fine. Someone would have told me before if she wasn’t. Didn’t I just talk to Mamma? Wouldn’t Uncle have known?
There’s a young woman with Joe, in stretchy yoga pants and a sleeveless T-shirt. She smiles at me and I recognize her as the pastor’s daughter. A handful of other people trickle out of the church after them, mostly other young women, also in tidy exercise clothes. I remember two of them from the boat ride over. Joe looks over the mats; I think I’ve done a good job. She doesn’t praise me, but she doesn’t complain, either, as she steps onto the one at the front. The others follow suit, getting comfortable on the grass. While they settle in, I sit under the cool of that familiar tree.
“Good morning, everyone. My assistant and I came over from Nassau early this morning, and we’re both delighted to be here. I’m Joe, that’s Indira over there.” Joe speaks as if we go way back, her voice musical, lyrical. Delighted? I’d snort if it didn’t, amazingly, seem true. Her quick introduction over, she begins the class with a sort of relaxing story. “Eyes closed, breathe in this good salt air. Imagine that with each inhale, you expand more, with each exhale, you let go of anything you’re holding on to. The ocean is vast, large enough to cleanse our worries. Any thoughts that come up, simply let them float away on the gentle sea breeze.” In spite of myself, I try it. I close my eyes. I breathe in. My breath feels short, but I exhale anyway and try to let go. Of fretting over Grammy. Of Mummy. Of Gary. Of the book weighing down the straw bag. Of the thing inside me. It’s impossible. I open my eyes and glimpse Joe, her face disapproving as she looks at me sitting off to the side. Well, so what? I agreed to come here and help. Never said anything about class participation.
“Let’s begin our asanas, our poses, by chanting ‘Ohm’ three times.” She opens her mouth and sings out an unfamiliar but surprisingly melodious “Ooooohhhhm.” The class takes a collective inhale right along with her and joins in. “Ooooohhhhmmmmm.” They all look so serious and peaceful and the sound is so strong and shuddery that I’m breathing in myself. I’m almost ready to join in for the last one when a shriek tears through the air.
“Oh! Oh, Lord Jesus! Oh, expel this blasphemy from out of Your hallowed domain. Out! Expel it!” Mrs. Ellis’s voice booms like it’s outfitted with a subwoofer as she hurries out of the church. “Get out, get thee behind me.”
“And slowly come up into a standing position,” I hear Joe say, her voice quavering slightly. “Bring your hands to your chest, into prayer position—”
“See how they make a mockery of You? Hands together like they praying, and they out here exposing their bottom shape in these indecent clothings! Out, Jezebel! Out, Delilah! Out . . . out . . .” Mrs. Ellis trails off, fresh out of Biblical women of shame, but she’s not stumped for long. “Temptresses!” she shouts, victorious. “Temptresses in the tight pants! Get out! Be expelled, demonesses, this is holy ground! Get out!” She’s getting closer, carrying something smoking. She raises her hand, waving the smoke around in big, sweeping gestures. Familiar smell—sweet, choking. Like that homemade incense Grammy used to clear out the air. As she marches past me, I see a massive bundle of smoldering thyme, bay leaves, fevergrass, and casuarina needles all bound together. “Repent!” she shouts at me, wafting smoke into my face and leaving me spluttering as I escape to a safe part of the field.
It all goes downhill quickly from there. Literally. The pastor’s daughter leaps off her mat, all her good vibes abandoned, and charges at Mrs. Ellis, who stops in her tracks, feet planted wide like she’s doing yoga herself, about to swivel into some sort of deep lunge. Mrs. Ellis raises the burning leaves into the air, and a fortuitous gust of wind carries the smoke right into the students’ faces. The class scatters, choking, gathering up shoes as they flee. Joe barrels toward Mrs. Ellis and the pastor’s daughter, waving her arms, pointing and shouting, her words blown away by that same relaxing breeze she described. She loses her balance, tumbling into Mrs. Ellis and the pastor’s daughter, and the three of them smack into the ground with so much force that they keep rolling down the hill. They pass me so fast I can’t make out who’s who, only see smoke and hear cries to heaven and less pious choices of words. I fling my head back, wicked laughter rising up out of me.
As the three of them start to untangle themselves, I head for the main road, leaving their raised voices behind. No way am I sticking around for the fallout. Knowing Joe, she’d find a way to blame it on me. Besides, I’ve waited around long enough; I have to see Grammy.
The first car passing slows down, and it’s Mr. Abe’s son, who works for the electric company. I’d rather wait
for a woman to give me a ride, but my ankles are starting to swell, so I take a chance and ask him to drop me off at Grammy’s house. He keeps his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road, doesn’t say much and doesn’t hassle me. Passing the familiar houses, the old stretch of coastline, makes this all the more real. I’m getting closer to her. I see her in everything we drive by: Grammy, swimming in her stretched-out undershirt and oversized panties shaped like a sail. Grammy, picking mangoes from that skinny young tree. Grammy, beating out the rug with a fury that only being distracted from her reading could produce. Grammy, pouring hot water over a handful of leaves harvested from the side of the road. I know she is waiting there, a thousand familiar Grammies crammed into and around that house, moving through the routines of a whole lifetime.
At the foot of the pathway, I look up at the house. Its open windows wait. The grass is overgrown. As I get closer, I see mint growing into the jasmine, rosemary kneeling from being left uncut so long. What used to be basil is flopped over and dried out in the sun, nothing but sticks now. My excitement evaporates, leaving behind fear. I’m scared to face Grammy. Scared for her to know. And scared for something else I can’t name. Maybe I don’t have to go in. Maybe Mr. Abe’s son can drop me back to the church. I look behind me but it’s too late; he’s already pulled away. I keep walking up.
Before I’ve stepped onto the porch, I see the broken window. Three, four empty rum bottles loll by the door. The remnants of cigarettes, stubbed out in bottle caps, and abandoned plastic cups are lined up on the wooden railing. One of the posts has been kicked out.
When I reach the door, I turn the handle and step into darkness. My foot finds a can, still half full. It tips over, sloshing brown liquid onto the wood floor. The smell is fetid; unwashed body, dirty laundry, old pee. In late May, it’s boiling in here. The curtains are drawn. I sweep one of them open, and daylight shows me the ruined dining room. The old table’s still there, but only one stained chair remains, mournful without its kin. “Grammy?” I call, even though I know she’s not here. She would pass out in this place after less than a minute, never could stand stale air or close rooms, let alone a pigsty of a house, ankle-deep in garbage. The living room is worse; an upturned chair, abandoned dishes, huge scrape marks on the floor, smears and handprints on the walls. A roach, disrupted by the light, scuttles for cover. Grammy never let roaches set up shop in the middle of rooms, hunted the odd one that snuck under the door until it met the heel of her shoe. This place would kill her.
“Grammy?” No answer. I push the thought away, but it comes again. Maybe it already has. Down the hall, into my old room. The bed is stripped of sheets, exposing the bare mattress with the rusty stain from one of my earlier periods. There’s a host of unfamiliar stains now, faded light brown. I turn back. “Grammy?”
The door to Grammy’s room is open—no, it’s missing. The curtains are drawn in here too, and there’s a stirring, a faint, mewing sound. “Grammy?”
There, on the half-bare mattress, sheet flung to one side, legs sprawled off the other, eyes glazed with sleep and I don’t know what else.
“Mamma.” The word falls flat. She looks up at me, dazed.
“Indy? Babygirl, what you doin here? You call to say you was comin?” Her words slide one into the other. She tries to prop herself up and can’t, flops back down. She smells rotten; I want out of here. “An you live in Nassau now?”
“What happen to Grammy?”
“How you get here?”
“Where Grammy?”
“Don’t come back here, baby. Ain nothin here for you. You better off in Nassau.” She finally sits up, moving like it’s a struggle. “Oh, my head.” She reaches for a cup on the nightstand, which wobbles in a new, ugly way. The bottom drawer is missing. “How you doin, babygirl? I was supposed to send some money down for you.”
“Where she is?” I want to break up everything in this place. Except it’s already broken. “What you do to her? You kill her?”
“Indy, why you yellin?” She sounds whiny, a child’s pathetic voice.
“Where Grammy?”
“In here cold. You feel cold?” She rubs her arms.
“Where Grammy is?” I’m shouting now, my anger rearing up, a snake ready to strike. “Where she is?” Yelling at her so close, so loud, the words reverberate off her, bounce back into me. “What you do to her? What you do to her? Tell me! She dead? You kill her? You kill her?” Mamma’s stink is suffocating: alcohol and sweaty body, mold and pee, and some cheap, sweet thing she sprayed on yesterday or a week ago. It hangs like one of those tree-shaped car fresheners on a huge pile of cow dung. “Where she is? You better tell me!”
“She safe! She with good people, baby. The people had to come for her, I couldn’t look after her alone, I couldn’t, not no more, but she with family, she safe, she all right.” Mamma’s scrambling across the bed away from me, as if I’m the one who stinks, her eyes fearful and wide. She’s backed against the wall; nowhere else to go. Memory flash: man’s voice raised, Mamma against a wall, same eyes, me hiding behind a chair, Grammy snatching me, running outside. Do what you gotta do.
She doesn’t look at me, keeping her head down. She thinks I’m gonna strike out at her. I’ve never hit anyone. I wouldn’t hit her now. Wouldn’t even touch her. Feel like I’m gonna pick up scabies or something from standing this close. But I know she’s lying. What family could Grammy be with? If she’s not here, and she’s not with Uncle, what safe place would she be?
I stand back, and Mamma crawls off the bed and struggles to Grammy’s bathroom. She slams the door closed, but it can’t shut out the sound of her bawling. I reach for the bathroom doorknob and push it open, easy. She’s too out of it to have even bothered with the lock.
“Don’t hurt me.” She’s cowering in the bathtub, old wrappers of I don’t want to know what laying in there, a rim of dirt and rust stains around the sides. “Babygirl, don’t hurt me. You ain even know how it was, the money was running out, and things didn’t work out with Chris, and she tell me move in here, and then the house, it wasn’t safe no more after the last storm, the roof was leaky and all, and I couldn’t watch her, I couldn’t keep her, I couldn’t—” She looks up into my face, a child begging. “Babygirl, I couldn’t let her stay here.”
My chest aches, my head starting to spin. The heat, the anger, the urge to take something and smash it. Breathe, Dion would say. Breathe in deep, hold, breathe out. How do you breathe in when the air is a wall of ugly and disease and dirt and you have to carve yourself a door just to get out? I feel the square of butter sandwich rising. No, not here, not here—and I vomit right into the tub. She whimpers, moving out of the way and slipping.
I try to straighten up. The room is beginning to close in, pinprick dots dancing before my eyes. “I have to get out.” Barely know if I say it out loud or only in my head.
“You see this? And that ain even the worst thing I seen this week,” Mamma says. She’s laughing, now. Laughing. I straighten up, making my legs work. “This what I livin in, Indy. Ain only you who think this all I am. Everybody know. Even your grammy know it. You see how I livin. I couldn’t let her stay here with me. It woulda kill her, baby.”
Spit it out with the last of the bad taste. “I wish it kill you.”
Don’t watch, don’t wait for her face to catch it, register it, and start to unfold. Don’t care. Only run out, through the dank living room to the open door. Mamma’s long, low wail follows me. Outside, down the pathway, onto the road. I shouldn’t, but I turn back and look at the house. I see it for what it is. A husk of a life I can’t ever go back to. Windows broken, stained curtains tugged by the wind into the hard air outside. Inside, her, rotting. Wallowing in puke. And me? I’m her Double. The thing, the person, everyone expects me to become.
9
IN TOOTE’S GENERAL STORE, I pick up a bottle of homemade ginger beer and a pack of crackers.
“Ms. Ferguson granddaughter?” Old Mr. Toote peers at me from cataract-g
lazed eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
“Hmph.” He shakes his head. “The way your ma treat her is a shame.”
I push my items across the counter, glancing over my shoulder in spite of myself. The store is quiet, but I still have to check.
“Nobody else in here. Although everybody know anyway.” He leans back in his chair. “The people from Social Services come for your grammy. I don’t know who call them. They say she in a home in Nassau someplace.” He glances at the drink, then at me, his brows raised. “Now, that ginger beer is the grown folks’ brew. That one have alcohol in it.”
I count out some change and push it across the counter. “I know.”
He looks at the money, then back up at me. “Think you business drinkin that?”
“I do today.”
Mr. Toote reaches across the counter and tosses down three plastic-wrapped coconut tarts. “Keep ya lil money,” he growls. “If Ms. Ferguson find out I sell you that, she’ll have my head.”
I sit out on the front steps, watching the odd person stroll in and out of the bank or the post office and library. It must be past noon. Joe’s probably at the school now, if she’s not still in the churchyard duking it out with Mrs. Ellis. I crack open the ginger beer. It fizzes, the yeasty scent of alcohol hitting me right away. I’m thirsty, but the smell reminds me of Mamma. She probably drank when she was pregnant with me. “And I wind up just fine,” I say to nobody. Still, I pour out the beer, the liquid snaking down the steaming-hot road. Behind me, I hear the store’s door chime open.
“Don’t waste this one,” I hear Mr. Toote say as he plunks something down. When I turn around, he’s disappeared, a bottle of regular old ginger ale soda beside me.
• • •
I start walking to the school, my bag dragging my shoulder down. The possibility of Grammy leaving Mariner’s never occurred to me. Grammy’s always been here, her house the anchor keeping me in place. Mamma, too. Even when Mamma sent me away, I always knew Grammy was there in her kitchen, on her porch, waiting for me. Now that’s gone. I try to twist this mess into a new pathway: Grammy is in Nassau somewhere. I could find the home she’s living in. Someone will know where she is. I could move in with her—no, it’s a home for old people. She could move in with me, protect me from Gary. Except if living in that house was a real possibility, she’d already be there. Uncle probably wants her there, but Aunt Patrice wouldn’t take another outsider under her roof. We could live in our own place. Except I don’t have any money, and Grammy’s too old to work. I try to find that new road to Grammy, but every detour I take is a dead end; everywhere I turn, there’s no way out.
Learning to Breathe Page 11