Pieces of Happiness

by Anne Ostby

  “But do they get it?” Deb asks and leans forward. “I mean—they haven’t lived like us, and…”

  And what? Does she mean that they haven’t experienced the flip side of our crazy vagabond life, the times when we didn’t know where to find the money to pay the project people their salaries? That my friends have never been sick with malaria in a place where they couldn’t speak the language? Or that they haven’t grasped the injustice of our having so much while those around us have so little? Or is she referring to the feeling of vulnerability that’s always there for us? The unpredictability people like her and me always feel as we cling to a way of life we’ll never 100 percent understand?

  “The ladies are learning,” I respond. “They know it’s not all cocktails in the shade and food falling out of the trees.”

  She wrinkles up her forehead and shrugs. “Well, in a way it is almost like that. People here can pretty much fill their stomachs with what they find in their backyards.”

  I shake my head, suddenly feeling exhaustion coiling like a steel wire around my forehead. “That’s not what I meant, really. I was thinking of…”

  It’s hard to find the words.

  “I was thinking of what many people back home imagine our life to be. That all we do is sit here drinking wine and gazing out over the ocean.” I wave my hand with a flourish over the glasses on the table, the bougainvillea sagging, heavy and violet, against the wall.

  Deb nods. “I know what you mean. But your friends, do they get that it’s not exciting and…extraordinary all the time? That we do have a regular everyday as well?”

  Do they get that? I picture Ingrid with the coconut grater in her lap. Sina digging up cassava for dinner with Ateca. I nod with certainty.

  “Yes, they do. But the freedom we have…the choice we’ve made, it doesn’t come for free, does it? We’ve paid a price.”

  “What do you mean?” Deb pulls her slim calves beneath her in the chair.

  “Of…not belonging.”

  Deb looks like she’s about to laugh. “Oh, come on, don’t give me that rootlessness crap! You’ve always said that it’s narrow-minded and wrong to define roots in terms of geography. That your roots lie in the values you hold, what you cling to when push comes to shove.”

  Steve comes up behind Deb’s chair with a light jacket and drapes it over her shoulders. She peers up at him, a quick smile, and I feel the longing like a hollow in my stomach. Deb has someone. Belongs to someone.

  What am I trying to say? That the price we pay is a kind of trade-off. Freedom for security, that’s the choice we make. We give up the usual framework: family, neighbors, lifelong friendships. Sacrifice a little of one thing for more of the other. The extraordinary.

  “I don’t regret it,” I say to Deb. “But everything comes at a cost, right?”

  “Mm-hmm. The things you can’t have. The things you had to give up.”

  Deb sees it. Sees the void left by Niklas, sees that I have nothing left. No family, no partner, no kids—am I really so conventional after all?

  “But you do have the ladies now,” she says, and her voice is soft and consoling. “The collective. That’s an anchor to the past. You have a long history together, that makes for a sense of belonging.”

  Steve has gone inside, and Deb and I sit in silence for a while. I think of Sina, the pale, soft hand resting on the blanket. Maya, the knot in my stomach: how long can we manage it? History that gives you belonging. Belonging that brings responsibilities.

  I drain my glass and stand up. Time to call it a night. I want to get to the hospital early tomorrow and see how Sina’s doing.

  39

  Ingrid

  She’s a down-to-earth person, no one can deny that. Ingrid Hagen has a firm grip on reality and has little patience for superstition and silliness. When you find it hard to believe that something is true, it usually isn’t.

  But something’s opening her up, here in Fiji. The chlorophyll that makes the leaves burst into green, the light that pries your eyes open. Wildrid, who will speak up or break out in a dance more and more often these days.

  —

  When Mosese doesn’t show up for three days, Ateca is the first one to mention it. Ingrid’s been a little worried too; the manager is normally the picture of reliability.

  “I’ll go by his place on my way home tonight, Madam Ingrid,” Ateca says. “Maybe he’s sick.”

  When Ateca walks toward the door with her purse tucked under her arm, Ingrid decides on a whim. “I’ll come with you. If Mosese’s ill, I might be able to help with something.” She sneaks a peek at Lisbeth and Maya, who are both dozing in their chairs on the porch after dinner. “They’ll be okay on their own.”

  Ateca gazes at her with an inscrutable expression before softly nodding and opening the door. They walk quickly up the road. Ateca shouts “Bula!” when they arrive outside the little house with two plastic chairs on the front steps, and Mosese’s daughter-in-law ushers them inside. As they greet Litia, Ingrid is surprised to see Mosese sitting by himself watching the small TV in the far corner of the room. The volume is turned all the way up, Mosese makes no sign of turning around, and Ingrid’s attention is caught by the flickering images on the screen. The prime minister sits listening to a speech in an assembly hall with a salusalu around his neck. The honorific garland, made of dried banana leaves and fresh flowers, looks like it’s making his neck itch; he scratches himself and looks impatient.

  At last Mosese turns toward them: “Bula.” He lifts himself halfway out of the chair, and that’s when she sees the bandage on his shin, a large piece of gauze wrapped just below his knee. Ingrid feels her stomach churn; something about the stained white dressing against his dark kneecap makes her feel unwell.

  “Mosese, what happened to your leg?”

  She can’t hold back her astonishment. The way Ateca quickly shuffles to the side vaguely signals to Ingrid that she has shown a lack of respect, but she doesn’t take the time to assess it fully.

  Mosese slumps back in his chair; he obviously can’t stand without support. He mumbles something and looks away. Litia comes closer, and speaks only to Ateca: “He burned himself.”

  “Burned himself! On what?”

  Litia looks encouragingly at her husband, but he keeps his eyes glued to the TV screen.

  “The lovo.”

  Litia almost snorts the word, and Ingrid is amazed. If there’s anything Mosese’s surely done a million times, it’s making a lovo.

  “We’d prepared the food, and he was going to open it to check that the stones were hot enough. He opened it way too fast and carelessly”—Litia shakes her head and shoots her husband a reproachful look—“and a red-hot piece of wood sprang out and seared his leg.”

  “Isa!” Ateca claps her hands together in an outburst of sympathy.

  “Does it hurt?”

  Ingrid can hear how dumb her question sounds right away. Mosese wouldn’t have shirked his duties if he’d been able to walk at all.

  Litia keeps her gaze fixed on Ateca as she speaks. “It won’t heal, and it keeps oozing.”

  “Have you tried domele?”

  Litia gives Ateca an offended look, as if the juice of crushed basil leaves hadn’t been the first thing she tried. “Of course. And I put tavola leaves on the wound right away. But it’s not working.”

  Mosese moans softly in his chair, and Ateca kneels down in front of him. “Can I see the wound?”

  He leans forward and loosens the soaked bandage. Ingrid shudders. The burn wound is severely infected, with greenish yellow scabs. Clear pus oozes from the thin membrane that can’t cover up the blood vessels underneath.

  “You have to—”

  “Find someone from Beqa, I know!” Litia’s tone is curt as she interrupts Ateca. “We know. But it’s hard to go anyplace when he can’t walk.”

  Ingrid doesn’t understand: Beqa? The little island off the coast of Suva is five or six hours’ drive plus a boat ride away—why in th
e world would they go there? She wants to ask, but Ateca stops her.

  “There’s a woman from Beqa married to a man in a village not far away. The problem is how to get Mosese there when he can’t even stand.”

  “I could drive him in the truck.” Ingrid says it without a moment’s thought. “I’ll go down and get the key.”

  She heads toward the door, hears the start of Ateca’s protests, ignores Litia’s distrustful stare. She doesn’t know what Beqa has to do with all of this, but giving Mosese a ride in the truck is the least she can do to help him. The image of the oozing wound is fixed in her mind’s eye as she hurries down the road.

  —

  The nausea has loosened its hold by the time she pulls up in front of Mosese’s house. The old man’s sons help him out to the truck, where he’s hoisted into the back seat with his foot outstretched while Ingrid, Litia, and Ateca squeeze in the front. One of the sons insists on coming along, and has to sit on the truck bed. He pulls a jacket over his head to shield himself from the dust.

  Ingrid looks at Ateca; it seems like she’s going to have to ask for an explanation. “What is this thing with Beqa? Are we going to some sort of healer?”

  She feels Litia’s eyes on her—What does this kaivalagi know about anything?—but puts the car in gear and tries to avoid the worst potholes in the road.

  “People from Beqa,” Ateca begins, leaning back in her seat, “have power over fire.”

  Ingrid gives her a quick glance. “Power over fire how?”

  Ateca hesitates a moment, searching for the right words. “People from Beqa, Madam Ingrid—”

  “From Navakeisese,” Litia cuts in. She keeps her gaze fixed out the window. “Those who are Sawau.”

  “People from the Sawau clan,” Ateca says, swiftly correcting herself, “they can take away the pain. From burn wounds. They can stop fire from burning the body.”

  Ingrid turns her head and stares at her, and Ateca quickly points at the road. “Madam Ingrid, watch out…”

  Wildrid takes over inside Ingrid. Her whole body is tingling. Stopping fire. Spirits and supernatural powers. Whatever this is, she is ready!

  “What do you mean, Ateca?”

  The story unfolds in the darkness of the front seat. Of how long, long ago a Sawau warrior stuck his hands under a stone in a gushing waterfall. How he thought it was an eel he caught between his hands, but discovered that it was a small spirit. The spirit begged for its life and offered the warrior all kinds of gifts to be set free, but everything was turned down until he proposed the gift of power over fire.

  Ingrid’s eyes dart away from the road again. “What does that mean?”

  “The spirit dug a hole that he filled with red-hot stones,” Ateca continues. “Then he walked across the stones without getting burned and invited the warrior to follow him. The warrior did, and he didn’t get burned either. Not a single scorch mark on the soles of his feet.”

  “And so…” Wildrid grips the steering wheel harder.

  “That’s why people from Beqa have power over fire. They can walk across white-hot rocks without getting burned, and they can help people who have gotten burned.”

  “Help Mosese? How?”

  Ateca shakes her head. “You’ll see when we get there.”

  —

  The woman opens the door when the truck stops in front of the house. She’s probably accustomed to sudden visits late at night, Ingrid thinks. Mosese’s son jumps off the truck bed and greets her politely. “We come from Korototoka. My father needs help.”

  The woman nods silently and nudges the door open; they help Mosese inside. Her husband mumbles a quiet greeting and leaves the room. The woman sits down on a stool and pulls Mosese’s leg onto her lap. Without a word she removes the bandage and strokes her hand slowly back and forth across the weeping wound. Her lips move, but it’s impossible to hear what she’s saying. The only sounds are the rustling of an animal running across the roof and the sharp chirp of a gecko in the corner.

  They sit there for a long time, the hand pulling the fire and pain from Mosese’s leg, gliding back and forth in the half light. Ateca sits by the wall and appears to be asleep; Litia’s eyelids are drooping. Only Ingrid is wide awake. Her gaze follows the hand pushing and pulling; the smoke from the kerosene lamp coats her tongue. The voices of Mosese’s son and the woman’s husband float past the open window.

  After what feels like several hours, the woman from Beqa gets up from the chair. Mosese lies on his back on the floor, his arm draped across his face. Ingrid leans forward to look at the wound. It looks pale and pink, covered in a dry, smooth membrane.

  The car is quiet on the way back to Korototoka. Mosese sleeps the whole way home.

  40

  Ateca

  Dear God

  Please make Madam Sina completely well again. She and Madam Kat have been gone for five days. Now Madam Sina just has to rest for a while in Suva, then they’ll be back. Thank you for making the doctors’ tests come out clear. And thank you for letting the woman from Beqa help Mosese with his leg last night. You know our names and make sure we have what we need.

  But Madam Maya isn’t doing well, Lord. She’s restless and scared because Madam Sina is away. But it helps when Maraia comes to visit. Today they played ocean. Madam Maya held a pillow in her arms while she nodded to the rhythm of a song she heard inside her head. Maraia sat on the floor, surrounded by the shiny pink shells that usually lie on the windowsill.

  The ladies in the house are like a necklace made of shells: from the same beach, but each of them a little different. Each one worries for the next one on the string: Madam Lisbeth worries for Madam Sina, Madam Sina for Madam Maya, Madam Ingrid for Madam Kat, and Madam Kat for all of them.

  I worry for all of them too. How can I not, when the air in Vale nei Kat is thick as thunder? As if the house is about to burst.

  —

  When Madam Kat comes home, it’ll be easier for all of them. Dear Lord, hold your hand over the ladies until she returns.

  In Jesus’ holy name. Emeni.

  41

  Maya

  She wonders when Evy will get here. It’s been a while since her daughter was here, hasn’t it? “You have to come visit us, Mom,” she always says. But Maya can’t stand the long, boring train ride, the trip across the mountains to Trondheim in the overcrowded car where the heat never works very well. It would be better for Evy to come here. Maybe she doesn’t have time. But it’s been a while since she was here, hasn’t it?

  Maya pushes open the door to her room and stays still, frozen to the spot. Something is wrong; she doesn’t recognize this. Is it her eyes? She covers her eyes with her hands, then uncovers them. Still the same. She struggles to bring the words to the front of her brain, the words that will tell her what’s wrong. They’re there, she can feel it, just out of reach. Without the words, she doesn’t know what she’s afraid of, but that’s what she is. Cold and mindlessly afraid.

  Dark. It’s definitely dark. Her feet refuse to step off the black precipice, her stomach convulses: she doesn’t want to fall! She holds on to the door frame with both hands, there’s a void in front of her, the dizziness surges through her body. She can’t move her legs, she doesn’t know what this is. With a shriek, she lets go and falls backward into the hallway.

  From the chair by the table under the window, Ingrid scrambles to her feet: “Maya, what is it? Did you hurt yourself?” She quickly tears down the blanket she’s draped across the window to shut out the sun, which is causing a glare on the computer screen. “Did you open the wrong door? Let me help you.”

  From: kat@connect.com.fj

  To: evyforgad@gmail.com

  Subject: Maya

  Dear Evy

  I’m sure you’re wondering why your mom hasn’t been writing. I’m sorry to say it, but I don’t think you can expect any more letters or emails from her, if the situation doesn’t change. And I’m afraid it’s not likely to. Maya has good days and bad days, bu
t I have to be honest and tell you that she’s spending more and more time in her own world. Except for a few truly difficult days here and there—and I think those happen when she momentarily realizes that there’s an enormous, unconquerable distance between who she was and who she is now—she still seems to be doing well, she’s calm and peaceable. I don’t like to use that word, and I don’t mean to be condescending: even as a quiet, introspective soul, so far from the active, energetic friend I knew, Maya’s still a wonderful person to be around.

  I’ve mentioned before that medically speaking, we don’t have much to offer her here in our village in Fiji. She doesn’t have any medications other than the ones you left, and we don’t have access to any Alzheimer’s specialists. We can see that forgetfulness and dreams occupy more and more of Maya in each month that goes by, and here in the house, all we have to offer is the love we all have for her. She doesn’t always remember our names, but for the most part she trusts us and knows that we have her best interests at heart. On the bad days, when she cries because there are big black holes all around her and inside her, one of us holds her hand, or we take her down to the beach to listen to the ocean.

  There’s a little girl named Maraia who visits us often. Maya is always happy to see her, and they sometimes go for walks together. Otherwise, Maya mostly spends her time with Sina. Having known them both since high school, it’s good to see that the old bonds of friendship still hold—even though those two weren’t the closest back then, if I remember correctly. In any case, everyone needs someone, and this is a place where we can each be “someone” for each other.

  I know it must make you worry to read this. I don’t want to brush under the rug the fact that Maya’s dementia is worsening, but I also want to assure you that we’re taking care of her the best way we know how. I do think her experience of everyday life here is mostly good, and that’s what I mainly want to convey to you. She’s doing well physically, although you’d probably notice that she’s lost weight since you last saw her. She doesn’t always remember or want to eat.