My fearless daughter, as it turned out, was terrified of the waves. She clung to Jeff’s hand as they sloshed beyond the shore break, and he swam her out to where the water was calm and they could catch the waves and ride them in on their bellies. Not a strong swimmer myself, I watched from the beach, grateful that my fatherless child had a loving man to share the mystery of the ocean with her. When it was Kali’s turn to bodysurf with her dad, Jenny and I waded out to a sandbar and stood side by side in the shallow water, watching yellow-striped angelfish and luminous blue parrotfish swim around our toes. Whenever they brushed against our calves, Jenny squealed and clung to me.
It reminded me of when Jenny was younger and we flew to the Yucatan every year to stay with my mom, who spent her winters on Laguna Bacalar, along the Belize border. We always started or ended our trip with a few days in Puerto Morelos, visiting our friend Fernando. A former physician, now free-spirited massage therapist, and fellow devotee of Neem Karoli Baba, Fernando was one of the few adults Jenny not only tolerated, but appreciated. He took her swimming in remote cenotes in the jungle, made banana smoothies and homemade almond milk, bought fairy wings for Jenny and a pair for himself, and then wore them as they strolled the streets of his village.
Fernando took us snorkeling. We rented kayaks and paddled out to the barrier reef, tied them to posts and slipped into the shallow water. Jenny was afraid of the manta rays that sometimes flapped their wings beside our shallow boat as we dipped and pulled the oars. She would grow rigid whenever she spotted one—or even imagine that she had caught a glimpse.
But as soon as we squeezed into our fins, strapped on our masks, inserted our snorkels and pressed our faces to the water, all Jenny’s anxiety would dissolve in wonder as we entered this underwater universe. Holding hands, we would float over the surface of the reef among schools of tropical fish, which darted into the crevices of the coral forest and exploded into view.
The sweetness of our day at the beach in Hawaii was temporary. Back in the car, we were fried by the sun and famished, and it didn’t take long for a fight to erupt between Jenny and me. Our triggers had become finely tuned over the past year or so. Throughout her childhood, Jenny had been compliant and loving, as if she feared I would change my mind and give her back if she misbehaved. She saved all her mischief to dump on Jenny Bird and Greg, the parents of her best friend, Jessie, whenever she spent the night at their place. Now, she seemed to disdain me in proportion to the degree to which she had formerly worshipped me, and I was not handling it gracefully. I had enrolled us in parenting classes. I knew I was the adult and she was the adolescent, and it was my job to hold reasonable boundaries while remaining calm and compassionate—blah, blah, blah—but I was incapable of stopping myself from reacting when she pulled the exactly perfect maneuver designed to provoke me. It seemed to amuse Jenny when she got me to flip out. I felt more like a trained circus animal than a skilled parent.
There was one morning a few weeks before we went to Hawaii, when I was folding laundry on the bed I shared with Jeff, and I was overcome by despair. Jenny and I had had a particularly challenging morning, and I wasn’t sure I would be able to survive her teens. I suddenly thought of Randy Sanders and how he had stolen my youth and saddled me with these difficult children. If only he hadn’t hijacked my sexuality, preventing me from having a normal relationship with a regular guy. If only he had been willing to accommodate my desire for a baby once it became clear to me that Armageddon was not immanent and I realized I really did want to have babies. If only I had had a real husband who I could fuck and fight with and question and desire. If only I could have had children in whose eyes I could see my own reflection, and the reflection of my father, and my grandmother.
The resentment that boiled up in my belly was ferocious. I doubled over with its force. But a small part of me witnessed this flood of emotion with calm curiosity. Welcome to the human condition, my witness whispered. This is just another chapter in another life. Not so special. And in that moment my victimhood lost its integrity and melted away. I returned to the task of matching up my daughter’s socks.
On the way back to Waikiki from the North Shore that day, Jeff, Jenny, Kali, and I stopped in a Thai restaurant for an early dinner. Jenny had been radiating hostility throughout the meal, but, like her sister Daniela, she had perfected her offensive tactics to such an extent that the shots she fired were invisible, which made my response look even more ridiculous. While we were waiting for our check, I finally snapped, and Jenny and I had one of the worst fights of our life, while Jeff and Kali looked on in helpless horror. At one point, Jenny said, with icy calm, “Why don’t you give me up? I know you wish you had never adopted me.”
She was right. Sort of. There had been one small moment when I did consider giving Jenny back. She had only been with us for a few months when I left Randy Sanders, and her adoption was not yet finalized. He had convinced Daniela to live with him. Having been with a much older man for more than half my life, and finding myself mothering a child old enough to be my sister, I was poised to experience autonomy for the first time. It was not too late to change my mind about adopting Jenny by myself. I could have my life back. I confessed these thoughts to my mom and Ramón, who assured me they would support me in whatever choice I made, but also encouraged me to keep my beautiful little girl, with whom I had already fallen in love. So I shook off the illusion of freedom and renewed my vow to be Jenny’s mother. No matter how difficult our relationship sometimes was, I never again doubted my decision, and Jenny never knew of my heart’s secret betrayal. Or at least I thought she didn’t.
Now, for the fist time, Jenny was expressing doubt about my unconditional commitment to her. I scrambled to assure her that I loved her, that I wanted her, that she was the most important person in my life, but I was still furious, and I said all this through clenched teeth. Jenny smirked and rolled her eyes. We drove back to the condo in silence.
As we entered the resort compound, I asked Jeff to pull over and let me out. “I need some time alone,” I said. I shut the door without saying goodbye. Jeff and the kids drove on to the hotel, and I headed for the beach—as I had often walked up into the Talpa foothills when Jenny had pushed me to the verge of the hysterical zone—and tried to calm down. A half moon spilled onto the sand and glittered off the whitecaps. Body moving through space, feet connected to the earth, my sanity was gradually restored. I returned to the condo, determined not to lose my temper ever again—or at least not on this trip.
When I walked in, Jenny was gone. She had slipped out when Jeff and Kali were putting away the groceries we had picked up from a produce stand on our way home. We launched a search, looking for her everywhere—in the fancy lobbies and beachside snack bars, in the hotel disco. Defeated, we returned to the condo to call security. When we walked in, Jenny was sitting on the couch watching TV. I leapt across the room and pulled my daughter into my arms.
“Don’t you ever fucking do that to me again!” I sobbed, covering her face with kisses. “I was so worried. I thought you had run away.”
“Nah. I just needed to be alone for a while,” she said, mimicking my declaration of a couple of hours earlier.
“Ha ha.”
Jenny surrendered to my embrace, and we cuddled on the couch, channel surfing. Jeff slipped away to tuck Kali into bed, and peace dropped its sweet blanket back over our little family.
That was the second time in a year I thought I had lost my daughter.
The third time came just a couple of days later—our last full day in Hawaii. We drove over to the Hanauma Bay Nature Preserve, and this time Jenny sat in the shallow water among the tropical fish with a radiant smile as they darted under her knees and nestled in the cups of her hands. On the way back to the condo, we stopped off at another favorite beach from Jeff’s youth, to take a final dip in the Mother Pacific. This time Jenny dove into the waves with Kali and sailed back to shore as if she had been bodysurfing all her life. Jeff, proud surfer papa, l
ooked on.
Suddenly a huge wave gathered behind Jenny. She stood up and turned her back on it, and the wave crashed over her. Jenny was gone. She tumbled in the surf for what seemed like a very long time, her purple curls occasionally bobbing to the surface and then disappearing again. I screamed.
“It’s okay,” Jeff said. “It will be over in a minute, and she’ll be fine.”
I raced to the shore to meet my bedraggled child as she rose on her hands and knees, sputtering. Her cheek was scraped and so were the palms of both hands and one knee. I draped her arm over my shoulder, and we limped back to the car. Jenny was quiet, stunned, humbled by her encounter with the wild face of the sea.
Later that day, I caught sight of Jenny on the balcony of the condo, her arms propped on the railing, gazing out at the ocean. Her lips were moving rapidly, and her eyes flashed with enthusiasm. I peered closer to see who she was talking to. Was Kali sitting beyond my view? No, Jenny was alone. She was carrying on an animated conversation with herself.
I walked into the bedroom Jenny shared with Kali, and Kali was sitting on her bed reading. “What’s up with Jenny?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s outside talking to herself.”
Kali giggled.
Later, Jenny confronted me. “Kali told me you think I’m crazy.”
I blushed. “What do you mean?”
“She said you thought you saw me talking to myself, and now you think I’m nuts.”
“No, I was just joking.”
“Okay.”
“But . . . are you?”
“Insane?” Jenny grinned. “That’s for you to decide, Mom.”
On the last morning of our Hawaii vacation, Jeff suggested that he take Kali out for breakfast and I take Jenny. He thought it would be a good idea if we each had some one-on-one time with our daughters after having been together all day, every day, for a week. Jenny chose a little Japanese café we had been passing on our walks down to the beach, where she was attracted to the photographs they posted in the window of unidentifiable platters of seafood and rice.
As we were descending in the elevator, I touched a scatter of red splotches on Jenny’s neck. “Wow, Honey, you really got bruised when you got knocked over in the ocean yesterday. I hadn’t noticed that before.”
Jenny shrugged away from me, looked down at the floor, then back into my face.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Well, I called the chiropractor and scheduled you for an adjustment next week when we’re home.”
“K.”
We walked to the restaurant in companionable silence and ordered. As we were waiting for the food to come, Jenny said, “Mom, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Please don’t be mad.”
“I can’t promise that, but I can promise that I will listen and try to act like a grown-up.”
“Well, me and Kali kind of snuck out last night.”
“Kind of snuck out?”
“Mom! You promised.”
“Okay, go on.”
“We went down to the beach and met up with some guys.” My heart was hammering, but I kept quiet. “They were Hawaiians. They walked with us, and we sat down and talked, and they were really cool.”
“What else did you do with these cool Hawaiian guys?”
“Kali didn’t do anything with hers. I kissed mine.” She bit her lip and glanced at me. Then she touched the red marks on her neck. “These are hickies.”
I laughed. I wanted to reprimand her for lying to us and interrogate her about the actual extent to which she had ventured into sexual territory, but she seemed so innocent and bewildered and, well, happy.
“Was it fun?” I asked.
“Oh, Mom, it was amazing! It was like meditation, but much better. When you’re kissing someone you are . . . like . . . totally present.”
“Yeah, it is like that.” I squeezed my daughter’s hand, and we ate our Japanese breakfast. My intuition told me she had not gone any further than kissing, though I couldn’t be certain. I decided I would give it space for now, and let Jenny bask in the sweetness of her first kiss.
17
DIVINE MOTHER?
On the first day of summer break between second and third grade, Jenny broke both her arms when she hit a bump and sailed over the handlebars while riding bikes with her friends. I called my friend Jim, an orthopedic surgeon, who met us at the emergency room, where he took over Jenny’s care. Within a couple of hours, Jenny had two casts—one purple and the other pink—and we were back home with pain pills and mango sorbet. Jenny and I sat on the couch and came to grips with the fact that for much of her vacation Jenny would be incapacitated, and that I would have to do almost everything for her.
Jenny curled up in a tight ball on the couch and closed her eyes. I sat beside her and watched while her brow, furrowed in consternation, begin to relax. Soon she was breathing deeply. When she woke up a couple of hours later, the sun was beginning to set, washing the living room with that ethereal New Mexico light. Jenny asked me to put Bob Marley on the stereo, and she stood up slowly and unfurled her bright, broken arms like wings and began to dance. She dipped and turned, stamped and swayed, and a smile splashed across her face and flooded her body. She danced through three songs, and I danced the last two with her. Then she sat down on the couch again, panting, and gave me a decisive nod.
Every little thing was going to be all right.
It was the last day of Navaratri, a nine-night festival in honor of the Divine Mother. For the past twenty years or so, devotees would gather at the Hanuman temple every evening at sunset to sing to the Goddess and offer incense, firelight from butter lamps, and garlands of marigolds. On the final day, Durga Puja, prepubescent satsang girls were dressed as kumaris (representations of the goddess Durga as a child) and seated beside the sacred fire as one older girl knelt before each little one and offered an assortment of delicacies from a round metal plate: fingerfuls of buttered rice, green grapes, miniature Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Now that Jenny had started her period, she had taken her place as an elder, who served the Goddess by serving her mini representatives.
After the kumaris had been satisfied, devotees loaded up a van with a consecrated statue of Durga that had been fashioned just for this occasion, packed a basket with batis—little lights made of ghee—gathered drums and bells, and headed north out of town to the confluence of the Rio Grande and the Rio Hondo. On the riverbank, the goddess was placed on a small raft woven of red willows and tied with wild grasses, surrounded by batis, and sent off downstream, carried by a tide of chanting and drumming. As the sun sank behind the canyon walls, washing the river in golden light, we watched her float away.
Our flight from Hawaii landed on the morning of Durga Puja. We had missed most of Navaratri, and Jenny and Kali were eager to get over to the temple the moment we got home from the airport so that they could participate in the final ceremony. I was exhausted, having slept only intermittently during our two connecting flights to Albuquerque, followed by driving three hours to Taos. I needed a nap. So did Jenny, who confessed to not having slept during the entire flight. But, in spite of my plea that they stay awake to keep me awake, the girls had both conked out in the backseat and slept through the entire drive from the airport.
When we finally pulled up to the house, the girls reluctantly agreed to give me an hour’s rest, and I stumbled upstairs to bed. Jenny set the alarm on her digital watch and woke me precisely sixty minutes later so that I could drive them to the temple. In a daze, I dropped them at the gate and headed back home to unpack. Kali hadn’t seen her mother in weeks, so the plan was that we would all meet up at the river at sunset, and after the closing ceremony, Kali would go and spend the night with her mom, and Jenny would come home with me.
I hiked down the trail and arrived at the riverbank just as Durga was being prepared for her journey and pushed gently into the current to the sounds of bells a
nd drums and shouts of “Jai Ma!” and “Ki jai!” I called out to Jenny, who was congregating with her friends and doing her best to pretend we weren’t related. Irritated and still tired, I was ready to leave as soon as the last drumbeat had been sounded and the goddess had disappeared in her little boat around a bend in the river.
“Let’s go, Jen.”
“Mom, can I stay at the temple tonight?”
“Honey, we just had a long trip. I want you to get a good night’s sleep.”
“I will get a good night’s sleep.”
“In your own bed.”
Jenny fixed me with her most ferocious gaze, and I caved.
After ten years as a single mom, I had learned to pick my battles with my daughter. A speedy analysis of this situation came up in Jenny’s favor. It was only Saturday. I had planned our return trip from Hawaii so the kids would have the weekend to recover before the new school week started. Tomorrow, after the morning chanting at the temple, Jenny could come back home and get settled.
“Let me check in with the caretakers. If it’s okay with them, it’s okay with me.”
It was fine with the caretakers. They loved Jenny. But I left feeling disempowered and vaguely guilty, as if I had allowed myself to be bamboozled into turning in an exam for which I was neither prepared nor qualified.
The next morning, as I was getting dressed to go over to the temple to chant chaleesas, the phone rang. It was Stephen, a caretaker at the ashram.
“Mirabai?” His voice was hesitant.
“Yes? Is everything all right?”
“Um . . .”
Adrenaline shot up the crown of my head. “Stephen, did something happen to Jenny?”
“She’s acting strange.”
“Strange?”
“Yeah. She was wandering around the grounds almost all night. People kept waking up and finding her out in the garden.” He paused. “Naked. Except for a prayer shawl.”
Caravan of No Despair Page 13