by Cathy Lamb
Damini is missing her left leg below the knee because she was bitten by a snake in the garden at her orphanage in India. Her leg was not treated correctly, if at all. It became infected and they had to cut it off.
Caden and his wife, Marla, adopted her from the orphanage eight years ago when they were still married. They were moved to tears when they saw a TV show about the kids suffering in the orphanages there. After a long process Caden flew over and came back with Damini, who had been abandoned as a baby.
Damini is blunt about life in the orphanage in India, and each time she talks about it she seems to shrink in on herself, and then her gruff, broken cries make her hiccup. “I try not to think about it but I remember cribs lined up in rows,” she’d told me. “I remember that snake biting me and my leg swelling up and turning purple and green and I was really, really sick and threw up a gusher, Aunt Jaden—all over myself. A doctor came and I heard him say, ‘We have to cut it off,’ and when I woke up half my leg was gone and the stump was red and swollen and there was a lot of pus and blood. I remember being sick for a long time and there was a whole bunch of other sick kids lined up beside me. Four kids died when I was there. My friend, Rajani, died in the middle of the night when I was asleep holding her hand in our crib.” She sniffled and cried. “And Balaji did, too.”
“It was dark all the time there, even in the day, no lights, and kids were always crying and screaming and we were hungry. I remember a nurse who always yelled at the kids and sometimes slapped them. I remember being super hot sometimes and super cold. I hated it. I hated it.” Her face screwed up. “I hated it. And when I get older I’m going to go back and help at the orphanages.”
Damini’s orphanage was shut down for the abuses there, but my mother, my brother, and I all donate to a better-run orphanage in the same city.
Damini swiped a hand across her eyes. “And then one day Daddy walked in the door and I knew, Aunt Jaden, I knew that I was going home with him. I don’t know how, but I did. I rolled off my bed and I hopped over to him on my one leg, I didn’t have my other leg then, and twice I fell but I got up, and I hugged him and that was that.”
“Caden said he knew you were his daughter right from the start.”
“Yep. I went and grabbed the two things I owned. A doll and a red T-shirt and I was ready.”
“We sure love you, Damini.”
“I love you, too, Aunt Jaden. I love you so much that if you ever need a leg, I’ll give you mine.”
She said this in all seriousness. She said this knowing that she would then have no legs at all. You want touching? That’s touching. “That’s enormously generous.” I wiped my eyes.
“Sure is.” She nodded. “I wouldn’t do that for anyone, you know.” She looked suddenly ticked. “I especially wouldn’t do it for Brett.”
“Oh no! For sure not. Yuck.”
“Yeah, yuck.” She drummed her fingers together and grinned.
Brett is her love.
I put my fork in the chicken pancakes and dropped two more on Tate’s plate, one more on Damini’s.
Heloise the vampire chose that moment to roar, claws up in the air, her fake teeth pointed and scary.
“OOOOOHHHH!” We all cowered in fear.
Hazel the bunny said, “Hop hop.” That’s all she would say all day. Dress like a bunny, talk like a bunny.
Harvey the orange said, “More pancakes please with da chicken. I eat. I eat. I eat.”
“Why were you mad at Brett, though, Damini?” I asked. “Why did you hit him with your leg?”
Her shoulders curved inward. I thought I saw a blush.
The table became quite quiet.
“Darling,” my mother said, her auburn bob swinging, “if you take your leg off and hit a boy with it, there must be a reason for it. Did he flip your skirt up? Take your beer? Pull your ponytail?”
Damini closed her mouth, those dark eyes suddenly finding interest in the raspberry syrup.
“Damini,” Caden said, his muscles bulging under his T-shirt. He had lost little strength since his professional wrestling days. “You can’t go around busting your leg over people without reason. You have to have a reason to slam someone. At least an itty-bitty reason.”
“These violent delights have violent ends,” Tate said, trying to be serious. “That’s also Shakespeare. What he’s saying is, What would happen if we all took off our legs and hit people with them? Chaos. Uproar. Craziness. Can’t have that.”
“I know, Tate!” Damini said, also serious. “You know I don’t hit someone every day with my leg. Only now and then! Maybe Tuesday or Wednesdays. Friday last week.”
Caden’s brow furrowed. He does not like violence. “Damini, I have to know why you collided your leg with Brett’s body.”
Damini muttered.
“Pardon?” my mother said, her rings flashing. “What was that, dear one? A love triangle? A lover’s tiff?”
“Mother! She does not have a lover. She’s twelve!” I said.
“The lady doth protest too much, me thinks!” Tate stuffed yet another pancake in his mouth.
Damini muttered again.
“A woman never allows herself to be silenced,” Caden said. “Chin up, shoulders back. Raise your voice to be heard.”
Damini sighed, so put out, as only a twelve-year-old can be. I tried not to laugh.
“I don’t want to speak.”
“Here’s Shakespeare again: Before we proceed any further, hear me speak,” Tate said. “Especially since we’re working with a madwoman like yourself, Damini.”
“I’m not a madwoman and he made me mad!” Damini smacked her elbows on the table. “Mad mad!”
“Why?” Caden asked.
Damini had that stubborn expression on her face that we knew well. “He said no.”
“No to what?” I asked.
“No to . . .” Her face scrunched up and I thought she was going to cry. “No to a . . .”
“Yes?” Caden prodded, leaning forward, his shoulders making Damini seem even tinier.
“No to a night on the town? No to a sneak-away weekend?” my mother said. “No to a love shack?”
“Mother!” I said. “There’s no love shack here!”
“No to . . .” Tate said, sending me a quick glare. “Did Brett say no to trying out for the basketball team even when you want to play more than you want your own lungs? Someone said that I can’t try out for basketball and I’m still mad about that.”
I rolled my eyes and flicked another pancake Tate’s way.
“No,” Damini said, then burst into tears. “Brett said . . .” She sniffled. “He said . . .” She wiped her eyes. “He said he didn’t want to kiss me!”
My brother leaned back in his chair, eye-poppingly surprised, my mother smothered a laugh, and Tate said, “No one wants to kiss me, either, Damini. Join the No Kiss Club.”
“I said it nice, Daddy. I said, ‘Brett, I want you to give me a kiss,’ and he said, ‘Yuck. No, Damini, I’m not gonna kiss a girl,’ and I said, ‘I’m not just a girl, I’m your best friend!’ and he said, ‘Yeah, you are, but you’re a girl and I don’t want to kiss a girl,’ and that’s when I had a temper tantrum and I took off my leg and I hit him. He’s a brat!”
My brother’s mouth opened and shut. Alas, he didn’t even know what to say.
My mother said, “I think I’ll try that same tactic next time a man refuses to kiss me. In fact, Damini, can I borrow your leg?”
Damini didn’t realize my mother was kidding and she said, “Okay, Nana,” then pushed back her chair to detach her leg. She handed her leg to my mother over the syrup.
“Thank you, dear,” my mother said, taking the leg.
“You’re welcome, Nana.” She turned to her dad. “Am I in trouble now?”
“Let me get this straight,” Caden said, clearing his throat. Damini looked forlorn next to him.
“Am I to understand that you took off your leg—”
“I left my liner and my sock
on my stump. . . .”
“And you hit Brett because he wouldn’t kiss you?”
Damini nodded, then whispered, “And I think he’s cute. I have since first grade! That’s a long time to wait for a kiss!”
My brother was gobsmacked. He could say nothing further. How do you handle a daughter who chases down another twelve-year-old for a kiss?
I winked at Damini. “That’s one way to get his attention, sweetie.”
“Yes, I think so, too, Aunt Jaden.” She was proud of her ingenuity. “Maybe next time his answer will be yes, and I can keep my leg on.”
“Maybe, Damini. You can live in hope,” I said. “Here. Have more pancakes.”
“Hope is another way of letting life take charge,” my mother said. “Hope is a drunk feather. Hope is mist on a rainy day. You take charge, Damini. Take charge of this love affair—” “Mom!” Caden gasped. “It’s not a love affair.”
“It’s the hope of a kiss!” my mother said, eyes wide, as in, Don’t you get it?
“I live in hope that I’ll get a date for Winter Formal,” Tate said, tossing a piece of pancake in the air and catching it with his mouth. “It’s not looking good, not looking good at all. Maybe I can take your leg as my date, Damini. Does your leg know how to dance?”
Heloise the vampire growled again and we all cringed and said, “OHHHHHH!”
Hazel the bunny said, “Hop hop!”
Harvey said, “More food, please. I eat, I eat, I eat.”
Damini giggled. “Okay, Tate. After Nana uses my leg you can dance with it. I want to dance with Brett.”
My brother was holding his head, unable to utter a word. He had no idea what raising a daughter was going to involve.
“I am going to try to kiss him again, though,” Damini said, fire in her eyes. “Why did he run away?”
“He’s a boy, Damini. They run.” I did not miss the hurt expression behind the defiance. “Maybe don’t take off your leg again if he doesn’t want to kiss you. That was probably alarming.”
“Not a pink-hearts-and-roses sort of romantic act,” my mother said, raising perfectly arched eyebrows, her diamond bracelet sparkling off the sun. “But kinky. Some men dive into kinky stuff, dear. Chains, handcuffs, things of that nature. Perhaps later he’ll grow into being beaten by a leg? Better than a leather whip.”
“Mom!” Caden protested, aghast.
She rolled her eyes. “I meant a chocolate whip, not a leather one. An edible whip. Maybe a licorice whip.”
“Mom!” Caden protesteth again, his hand to his throat.
“We cannot all be masters,” Tate droned. “Again, Shakespeare. Some of us are the kissed, and others are the kissees. I think you’re a kissee, Damini.”
“I squish this,” Harvey said.
“Hop hop,” Hazel said.
“Squish and squish,” Heloise said.
The triplets put their hands into their chicken pancakes and squished them.
“No chicken in da pancake,” Harvey said.
“Cluck, cluck,” Heloise said.
“Hop hop,” Hazel the bunny said.
What a mess.
We cheered the mess, our glasses clinking.
My older brother, Caden, is about the size of a building. He has black hair, the same as our late father, Shel, and pulls it back into a short ponytail. He has the dark brown eyes of our father, too. He is fourteen months older than me. He was a star linebacker and wrestler here in Tillamina, wrestled in college, and graduated with a degree in physics. He then became a professional wrestler and made a fortune. As The Raptor, he was a beast. He won all the time.
He calls Tate, “my boy,” and has treated him as a son his whole life. Fishing, wrestling, camping, guy stuff. They love each other senseless.
He also has a deep, gentle feminine side. He loves the Brontë sisters and their work, and will cry over their real-life story when he thinks about it. He loves my greenhouse, the symphony, gourmet food, cooking shows, and romantic movies. He even reads romance novels. He did not stop crying for two months when Marla left him.
He doesn’t watch football anymore or wrestling shows because he doesn’t want to see people getting pummeled. He does not watch horror or suspense movies because he can’t sleep at night. He can sing all the songs to any Disney movie.
He is a manly man so doesn’t worry about being a man. If Damini, Heloise, and Hazel are wearing a pink ribbon in their hair, he’ll often wear one, too, through his ponytail. If the girls are having purple day, he’ll wear a purple T-shirt with Froot Loops cereal chains around his neck.
Caden has a flower shop called Witches and Warlocks Florist, a fun nod to our witchly family history.
His shop has turned into a national business, via the Internet and some fortunate marketing exposure, for example this headline: “Pro wrestler opens a florist shop named Witches and Warlocks Florist . . . says he loves roses, pink ribbons, and romance. Love spells are extra.” It does capture your attention.
Caden agrees to put together “butt-normal” bouquets in clear glass vases, but he prefers “heart-pounding bouquets with seductive beauty” in unique containers: colored glass, watering cans, African-type woven baskets, colorful boxes, and shiny pottery. He also loves to weave exotic flowers in and out of two-foot-tall twisted metal on a wood base with a vase. I can only compare it to getting a work of modern art with flowers in it.
He also adds to his bouquets ribbons, unique buttons, antique jewelry, and hand-painted plastic or glass butterflies, ladybugs, hummingbirds, and birds. He uses ivy plants and wire, chrysanthemums and daisies, to make dogs, race cars, bras, cats, wine bottles, lizards, fish, a snake for a reptile handler, and many witches on broomsticks.
How did the ex-pro-wrestler turn into a florist?
“Flowers is what I always wanted to do,” he told me, thumping his chest. “It started with Grandma Violet.”
When we visited Grandma Violet and Grandpa Pete during our summer vacations, she would have us go and pick flowers for neighbors who needed “some natural magic in their lives.” We would add pinecones, twine, fall leaves, branches from trees, cornstalks, grape leaves, and anything else we could find outside.
We brought bouquets to the sick and grieving, and also to Wendell Petroski, who had seven personalities. We were never sure who would open the door. Sometimes we said hello to Mrs. Trina Petroski, slightly slutty lady, or Greg, uptight hippie, or Austin, sad boy in trouble.
We brought Rennie flowers a lot because she had agoraphobia and never left her home, and we took them to Mrs. Quinn, who lost her old dog.
“He was a smart dog,” Grandma Violet said. “Mrs. Quinn said he could speak English when no one else was around.”
People adored the bouquets.
Hence, an overgrown, tough, sensitive, ultra-masculine, ultra-feminine florist owner was born.
TATE’S AWESOME PIGSKIN BLOG
Last Wednesday three kids named Raji, Michael, and Caleb tried to beat me up after school. (Those aren’t their real names, but I don’t want to embarrass them, so I’m not writing them down.)
They wanted to beat me up because they don’t like how I look. It’s not any more difficult than that to understand. They don’t like how I look, therefore, they hit me. They got in a few slugs.
They called me, “Fuck ass, retarded shit, and mongloid.” I said to them, “I’ve heard it before, assholes,” and Raji swung first.
I’m six foot three inches tall and I work out all the time with my weights. I’m not saying this to brag. I’m saying it to give you an impression of myself. I found out when I was a lot smaller than I am now that it’s better to know how to beat someone up than be beaten up. My uncle Caden has taught me a lot of moves.
Raji takes a swing at my head. Remember, I have a big head, named General Noggin. It’s not hard to miss, but Raji did miss because I ducked. I brought my fist up and caught him on the jaw. He flipped up like a Ping-Pong ball and landed on his back.
Michael and Ca
leb came at me at the same time and I had to handle Michael first, because he’s stronger. Caleb is small, and he punched Ernie. That’s what I call the ear on General Noggin that is the normal-looking one. The other ear I call Bert because that ear is built in a sort of rectangular shape and is the twin of Bert’s head on Sesame Street.
Plus, my fists are called Billy and Bob, for Billy Bob Thornton, frickin’ most awesomest actor ever.
I block Michael’s punch with my arm (no names for my arm, can’t name every body part, especially not THAT one, although I hear some dudes do), and then I swing my fist, Billy, into his face and off and out Michael goes. Flat on his back, too. Banged his head. Caleb hits me in the gut and I clench my stomach, then I glare at him. He’s all scared, his two friends are moaning on the ground, but he swings again and that’s when I deck him in the face, too. When he lands on his back he has the sense to lie there and not move. Raji and Michael charge at me together and I do go down, right on Bert’s side of my head. Poor Bert.
They get me for a second because I can’t catch my breath. Raji hits my Mickey Mouse, which is my normal eye and Michael hits Road Runner, which is the eye that’s up at a freakin’ odd angle. I thought Mickey Mouse was the best crawly animal when I was three so that’s how the eye that’s in the right place on my face got its name. I named the other eye Road Runner because Road Runner always gets in accidents that would kill any other animal, person, or space alien, but he still lives. That’s how my eye is.
I have this amazing vision in my Road Runner eye. It’s chill. I can practically see a worm squirming through grass. I can practically see China drinking tea. I can almost see Jupiter.
That’s the one thing about being me. I’m a cross between a kid, Frankenstein, a creature, and a firecracker because of my red hair. But I have these cool things about me. One of them is the vision. Another is that math problems turn and twist in my head, and I can see them all strung out, plus the diagrams, shapes, and 3-D images.