“I encourage you to press charges. I’ll be there to help you in court. And you know Joe’s by your side all the way.”
I scan the page. Friend of mine. Stephanie Brown. Legal advice. I can’t absorb all of this, all these people, all these things to do. I offer the page back to Dr. Palmer.
“Take it,” she says kindly. “Look at it when you’re ready. I’ve already spoken to Nicola and Mrs. Brown. Both of them will get ahold of you through Joe.”
“What’s the rest?”
“A flyer for a parenting class. The dates of your follow-up appointments.” Dr. Palmer smiles. “We’ll get through this, Indira. You’ll see.”
• • •
When we return to the retreat, none of us can rest. It’s after eleven, but I don’t want to go to the cottage, and Joe’s in no rush to disappear either. We sit in the office, where she makes us tea, then calls again for Aunt Patrice.
“I can’t get through,” Joe says. “I’m sure she’s worried, she’s probably trying to get you on your cell phone. You try her.” When Smiley shakes her head, Joe hands the phone to her anyway. “I don’t feel good about you being here and her not knowing,” she tells Smiley. I don’t say what my fear is: that Gary will see the missed calls on the house phone and figure out this is where we are, that he’ll come looking for us. For me. Joe gets on the phone again, this time calling the rest of the people who work at the retreat. Says the same thing to each one. “We have a situation here. The guests are all fine but I need the staff, urgently.” I wonder if she’s thinking about Gary coming here too.
One by one, everyone starts filtering in. Maya first, curlers in her hair, two children in pajamas trailing behind her.
“I don’t know what you think I supposed to do in this mysterious situation,” she says, grudgingly taking a cup of tea. Susan comes next, with her husband, a fat, shy man who stays outside, watching the parking lot. As the room fills, I slip out to sit in the cool night air. Smiley joins me, leaning against my side.
“How come you never told me?”
“I was scared . . . and ashamed.” There’s another thing I’ve never said aloud.
“Ashamed of what? He’s the disgusting one.”
“I guess, that it happened to me.” I try to find the right words. “What he did? It made me feel like less than nothing.”
Smiley slips her arm through mine, the way she did when we first met, on the dock. “Well, that wasn’t your fault. And you could have told Mummy.”
I don’t want to tell her what I really think about that. “I don’t think Aunt Patrice would have believed me,” I say instead.
“Really?” Smiley sounds doubtful. “Anyway, you got me.”
We sit there, our backs against the office wall. Smiley dozes off, and I listen to her breathing, rhythmic and deep. She’s never done yoga a day in her life, and yet after tonight, she can sound so at peace. How come she’s so brave, so free from shame? Maybe because he did less to her? But that first day, he did less to me, too. A handful of flesh at my waist. And I still felt this way.
And then it occurs to me. This did happen to her. Smiley. A little of what happened to me. And she’s Miss Perpetual Joy, the volleyball star with the laugh that lights up the room, daughter of the church-choir woman. I hate that this happened to her. And I’m grateful that she told. But no one can say now that this happened to me because of Mamma, because I’m just like her. It happened, but not because it was me.
• • •
The last person to arrive is Dion. He sits down on the ground opposite us. “What’s going on, Indy?” he asks. “Not that guy with the black truck again?”
Smiley sits up, rubbing her eyes. “You know Gary?”
“We’ve crossed paths.”
Something clicks. “Remember that day? When we almost hit your jeep?” I ask quietly.
“Of course. What, he giving you problems again?”
“Would you tell the police about that?”
“The police? Yeah. I mean . . . what happened? Of course, yeah, yeah.” He looks from me to Smiley, but he asks nothing more. I get up and go back into the office, borrow the phone, dial the policewoman’s number. I get her voice mail. While I dial again, I see Joe walk out to the deck. On the phone, there’s still no answer. I leave her a message.
“Hi, Officer Pinder, it’s Indy. I found someone else who said he would talk to you. Can you call me back, please?”
Dion comes to stand beside me. “Try her again.”
I dial again, and again, and again. Nothing. She must be busy. Or it’s too late. Or she’s forgotten me.
When I hang up, I go outside to see what Joe’s doing. The others follow. She’s laid out mats on the deck, as if we’re expecting a class.
“What we supposed to be doing?” Smiley asks.
“Come on. Maya, Susan?” Joe steps onto a mat. Maya groans.
Susan sucks her teeth. “You really wake me up to come out here and do yoga, and it’s almost midnight?”
Joe brings her hands together at her chest. “We had an emergency. We needed backup. So back us up. Right, Indy?”
I hesitate. Then I step onto the deck, choosing one of the mats.
“Right.”
18
WHEN YOU KNOW A storm’s coming, you can batten down and hide away, or you can try to outrun the rain. Or there’s option three: stand your ground, face the weather, and hope your roots keep you in place.
I’m in warrior two pose, feet wide apart, front knee bent, fingers cutting through the air, when I don’t see, but hear, a change, a shift in the wind. A quick sucking in of air. Smiley’s gasp.
The truck pulls into the driveway. Gravel dances out of its way. I stand up too fast and bump into Maya. Joe stops too; Susan and Dion turn to look. We all stand frozen on the deck, as if held by a spell.
The driver’s door opens, then slams shut. Gary’s bald head glints in the headlights as he walks around the front of the truck. Susan’s husband approaches Gary, slow; his voice carries through the quiet night.
“Hey, man. Need something?”
Before Gary can answer, the passenger door opens and Aunt Patrice gets out, walking toward us. “Who’s in charge here? Where’s my daughter?”
Joe steps off her mat, and the spell is broken. Smiley holds my arm tightly and we stand together. Behind us, Maya and Susan stand too.
“She’s right here. Why don’t we all stay calm? We should talk about why she came, and what happened tonight.” Joe stops in front of Aunt Patrice.
“Excuse me.” Aunt Patrice brushes past her. “Cecile, you come here right now. Staying out all night? Where you get this from? From her?” She jabs a thumb at me.
“You know what he do? You know what he do?” Smiley’s still holding on to me. “He try—”
“She’s a minor.” Gary interrupts Smiley, stepping forward. “Y’all can’t have my sister here and not send her home.”
“She is a minor. Exactly.” Joe’s voice starts to shake, angry. “And so”—she points my way—“is she.”
“I can’t control Indira. She old enough, she made her choice. My daughter is here, I came to get her,” Aunt Patrice says. “Come here, Cecile.”
Smiley doesn’t move, pressed up so close she’s almost behind me.
Joe cuts in. “It doesn’t look like she wants to go. Don’t you want to know why?”
“Don’t matter if she wants to go or not. This my child. This other one here, she wild, just like her ma. But she ain ga ruin my one good daughter. And neither are you.”
“Indira always causing problems anyway,” Gary adds. He shifts from one foot to the other. It’s not a laugh and smile situation. He seems lost as to what to do. More lost than me. I catch Dion’s eye. Go on—tell them, he seems to say.
I wish I could close my eyes and wait until all this has gone away. But there are things I can’t wish into the air; I’m here, someplace I finally want to be, but Smiley has to go back there, to that house. I can’t let
Gary hurt her or anyone else ever again. On purpose or by mistake or whatever excuse he might come up with next. I have to say something. For Smiley. For the laughing, swaying girl Mamma once was. For the baby I’m carrying.
And for me.
“Come here.” Aunt Patrice steps around Joe, reaching for Smiley, who darts out of the way. I inhale. Make the right moves to get out. Hold it. Exhale.
“I’m pregnant, Aunt Patrice.”
Everything stops; no pounding-in-ears heartbeat, only my voice, ringing out. “Gary is the—” I don’t want to say father, don’t want to give him that tie to me, to the baby. “He’s the one who did it,” I say, holding her gaze. “He made me.”
The group is silent, as if they no longer exist. Aunt Patrice looks away, her mouth twisted. She did know, after all.
“This is nonsense.” She speaks to the empty space beside me. “What kind of lie you talking?” She shakes her head back and forth, trying to dislodge what she’s heard. I can see her starting to buckle under the weight of the truth spoken out loud.
“You don’t believe her, do you?” Gary says, his voice whiny and high. “You know she’s trouble. And you know what her ma like, you know the two of them loose. Y’all don’t believe her.” He tries to address everyone now. He gives a little laugh, but it’s choked short. “Man, Mummy, you can’t believe her. You know she lyin.”
“I ain lyin,” I say. I take a deep breath and make my mouth form the words my mind’s never let me even think, before now. “You raped me.”
Gary’s eyes dart around, seeking an ally among the faces. “Man, her ma is whore and all. You know what them type a people like, you can’t trust what they say.”
Dion steps forward until he is standing right beside me. “I believe Indy.”
Maya is silent, but I feel her hand come to rest on my shoulder. Smiley shuffles closer to me.
“The police have already talked to the girls. It’s you they need to speak to, Gary,” Joe says.
“I ain gotta stand here for this.” Gary starts to back up, stumbling over his own feet. “Y’all lyin. Y’all lyin about me!”
“It’s the truth. I told the police, and I recorded you when you made the appointment to get rid of the baby, so everybody could hear.” I’m trembling, but I go on. “And I gave them your pants from after what you did to me in the kitchen, and that money. Everybody ga see.”
Gary turns to run, but Susan’s husband blocks his way. “If you say it’s a lie, you got nothing to be scared of. You can wait here and talk to the police.”
“It’s the truth,” I say again. “You raped me. And you were gonna rape Smiley tonight too.”
“Gary?” Aunt Patrice whispers, suddenly afraid. He mutters something, but a siren’s wail, growing louder and louder, drowns out his words. “Gary, how could you bring this shame on me?” Aunt Patrice says. She disgusts me.
As the police car pulls up the driveway, lights flashing, I turn my back on the crowd, even Smiley. “Baby, why you didn’t tell me?” I hear Aunt Patrice ask her. Behind me, I hear car doors open and shut. Officer Pinder’s voice says to Gary and Aunt Patrice, “Come this way, I have some questions for both of you.” Even though they’re the same words she said to me, she sounds less kind this time. But I don’t stay to watch. I’ve done my part—right now, I want to be away from all this. I head down the path, through the trees, and toward the openness of the water, the flat horizon, the clear air.
When I reach the beach, I breathe in. And breathe out. I touch my belly. My baby’s in there, kicking out. Gently, I press back.
And I bring my hands up to my chest. I need to be calm, need to move through this moment so I can get to the next. I can hear sirens screaming again, through the trees. Inhale—arms up. Exhale—hands down to the ground, bending forward. Right leg back, in a low lunge; then the left. I close my eyes, holding plank pose. Inhale, exhale, and push into upward dog. Then back again; downward dog. I step forward as the sirens grow faint. Something in my chest loosens for the first time in months and lets me breathe right. There are voices, coming closer. I don’t stop.
“We need to bring her in to go over her statement again.” A man’s voice carries from somewhere off through the trees.
“Wait till morning,” Joe says. “Please. That’s enough for tonight.” The voices fade away.
In the night, alone, I glide through poses as I remember them, moving slowly. Ahead of me, the water is dark and smooth, an unrumpled sheet; it blends seamlessly into the sky. I bring my hands together at my chest, standing perfectly still. I am home.
Then I raise my arms up to that sea-sky. I begin again.
EPILOGUE
ON THE FRONT PORCH of my little cabin, I bounce her lightly. Sometimes she’s what I imagine Mamma was, mouth wide and upturned, all sweetness and mischief. She looks away from me, down the path, and I follow her gaze. Through the trees, Churchy appears, his backpack clasped in his arms faithfully.
“Who’s that?” I say, getting to my feet. “That’s Churchy, bringing us something nice to eat?” I say it loud enough for him to hear and he laughs, a string of music unsnagged. In my arms, she laughs too, her voice a clear bell. My breath catches, then comes right back. I kiss the smooth dome of her forehead as Churchy steps onto the porch.
“I got b-biology homework, and math,” he says, ever the serious tutor; he’s determined to see me graduate next year, coming by twice a week to help me study. “And your grammy send a message. She say wh-when y’all coming to visit? She miss her great-grandbaby.”
“We’ll come on Sunday.”
He produces a pocket-sized teddy bear from inside the bag before setting it down, then bends over, resting the toy on her belly. She grins up at him and reaches for his glasses, and he evades her grip, gently catching a plump hand and pretending to nibble it.
“You brought homework? That’s it?” I say, passing her into his waiting arms. I dig through the bag and my hand finds the cool of a glass bowl. “Aha!” The foil covering it crinkles as I pull it out.
“Some homemade sugar apple custard. For s-s-somebody sweet.”
I flash Churchy a smile as I set the bowl down on the porch, reaching for her again. “Did you tell Churchy thank you?” I ask her. She is frowning and thoughtful, a little Grammy. Then she squeals at me, grabbing for my nose, and her eyes crinkle and her face is brand-new. My heart skips, and it’s a good skip, a love skip.
“Look at you,” I tell her, now and every chance I get. “Your own beautiful self.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, all my thanks and love to my parents, Janice M. Mather and Kingsley O. Mather. You sponsored years of study, allowed me peace and space to write, and let me print off ten forests worth of half-spun stories. Daddy, I wish you were here to see the full fruit. To my siblings, Steven Mather, Carole Henry, and Dr. Andrea Mather, you kept me in encouraging words, must-read books, fancy stationery, and amusing fountain pens. To my niece and sister-author, Rebecca Henry, for inspiration simply by being yourself. (You’re next.)
In the unfurling of manuscript to real, solid book, I am deeply indebted to my wonderful editor, Catherine Laudone, for seeing and choosing this story, and for bringing joy in times of deep revision. You edited with wisdom and care, gently showing me the places where there was room to grow. Thank you.
To my agent, Rachel Letofsky—meeting you was a true game changer. You believed in Indy’s story, and you believed in me. You are a champion, and we are grateful. I look forward to many more years of working together.
To the wonderful designers who unfurled beauty (outside and within), and to all at Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers; thank you for the many ways in which you helped bring this book to fruition.
To the CookeMcDermid Agency team, thank you for your commitment to me.
To the 2015 HarperCollinsPublishersLtd/UBC Prize for Best New Fiction judges and readers: I am thankful that you granted me a place on the 2015 shortlist, and opened many doors.
&
nbsp; Alison Acheson, my advisor, instructor, butt-kicker, and friend—you were there in the very beginning. You are a blessing. Thanks, too, to the classmates and friends at the University of British Columbia, who read through the very early versions of this book.
To my dear friend, Crystal Lehky, for your honest reading and tireless cheering.
There are many others—friends, teachers, librarians, readers of story scraps, hearers of poems, speakers of encouragements, sharers of books—to whom I owe thanks for seeds planted, sprouts tended.
Most especially, to my husband and love, Jason Rondquist. You bring the sunshine, you stand with me in the rain.
Let the harvest begin.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT © 2018 JANICE M. MATHER
JANICE LYNN MATHER is a Bahamian writer with an MFA from the University of British Columbia. She has been a collector of interesting jobs: journalist, conversationalist, performance poet, and professional finger-wagger. Currently, she lives in Vancouver, BC, where she hunches over her computer, grows vegetables, dabbles at the beach, reads in the sun, grumbles at the rain, and, most of all, writes.
Visit us at simonandschuster.com/teen
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Learning to Breathe Page 23