Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) (25 page)

Minutes seemed like hours, until the piercing clamor came to
a sudden halt. I held my breath until I saw Mom’s head emerge from the
stairwell. She crawled up the steps, dragged herself past my room on her hands
and knees, and continued toward the hallway bathroom. Blood seeped through the
back of her white floral-printed blouse. The flowers were bleeding. And so was
my heart.

I needed to get permission to help her from Dad, and I knew
it wouldn’t be easy to ask. I just wanted to “clean up the mess,” I’d say,
hoping his OCD nature would grant me this one small liberty. I’d pick up the
broken dishes first, and then I’d attend to Mom, using the minimum amount of
Neosporin, simply to prevent blood from getting on the carpet or bedroom
sheets. I had this whole conversation in my head, planning a strategic backdoor
rescue, naively thinking I could outwit the tsar.

Little did I know that Dad had his own plan to throw Mom
down a well where no rope could reach. He walked past my room, carrying a
small, black, leather bag. Dad entered the bathroom and locked the door behind
him. I swallowed another ocean of tears as I ran over to Jess’s room. “Let’s
clean the kitchen.”

“That’s true.” Jess’s voice was hoarse and his eyes red.
“It’ll be on our lists anyway.” Jess headed for the vacuum in the hall closet
while I raced down the stairs for the broom.

When I reached the opening to the kitchen, my mouth fell
open. Not even an inch of the kitchen tile was visible. Broken glass lay
everywhere, and I knew we’d be eating off paper plates until we all saved
enough imaginary allowance from our chores to buy new dishes. Nothing happened
in the house without Dad’s approval, especially purchases of any kind. He did
all the shopping, and new dishes would be added to the wish list in Mom’s head.

We—Jess, Mom, and I—all had our invisible wish lists
that we only voiced when Dad was absent. Mine included trendy clothes in place
of the thrift shop wardrobe I owned. Jess’s wish list had video games he had
only heard the kids at school rave about—the Wii remained his top choice.
Mom simply dreamt of hair accessories. She longed for rhinestone slides,
colorful hair bands, and silky ribbons for her hair, but Dad never encouraged
the expression of either her femininity or her beauty. So I often closed my
eyes and imagined rainbows and glitter, silk and stones, when I looked at Mom’s
flowing hair.

Thinking of ways to reach Mom and attend to her wounds, I
worked with Jess to diligently restore the kitchen. With the noise of the
vacuum whirring loudly, neither of us heard the sounds coming from the upstairs
bathroom. When we finished throwing out the last double-bagged load of broken
Corning Ware, mopped the kitchen floor, and wiped down the countertops of all
the shards, I cautiously climbed the stairs and sat at the top while Jess left
to return the vacuum to the garage. Dad passed by me on his way down to his
den, a look of satisfaction plastered across his face. Not sure where Mom was,
I checked the bedroom first. Then I noticed the light in the bathroom where she
originally entered. The door remained partially closed, and as I approached, I
heard muffled whimpers.

“Mom?” I asked while knocking softly. “Is it okay to come
in?”

Silence. More soft moaning.

“Mom?” This time I pushed the door open to see her for
myself. To my horror, a trail of long black hair lead up to my mother sitting
on the toilet lid. Mom’s long black hair. All. Gone.

“Mom!” I cried as I ran up to her. “Your hair? He didn’t?
How could he? Why?” I bent down and hugged her knees. Her mouth had duct tape
over it, and her wrists were bound with a single layer of tape, too. The
clippers were lying on the edge of the sink, and Mom’s glory surrounded her
like fallen petals. She looked naked. Awful. Ugly. She was bald.

I wanted to pull the duct tape off, but I knew waiting for
Dad’s approval would minimize further damage.
How much more
could he hurt her? Or me?
If
I swallowed a river of tears earlier, I looked at my Mom’s bare scalp and
pushed through the ocean of my sadness to reach her. I couldn’t get stuck in my
shock. There was no time for that. I only had seconds to help her, if Dad gave
me even that.

I quickly took the tweezers out of the medicine cabinet and
went to work, picking out glass pieces from her cut-up back, finding it
impossible not to keep glancing at Mom’s head. Her hair all over the floor.
And, all the while, I prayed for a miracle. I prayed for lightning to strike my
father dead, instantly. I prayed for revenge. I prayed for awful things.
Unspeakable things. I hoped and prayed for all sorts of horrific, drawn-out
acts of retribution to fall upon Dad. Dad would have a heart attack if he read
my mind. That would work for me just as well.

I redirected my energy to cleaning up Mom’s back, but the
immense task before me could not be tackled in the few minutes before Dad
returned and punished me for helping her. I thought of how I would transition
to picking up her hair when I heard footsteps, and even as I thought it,
someone approached quickly. I covered the First Aid kit with a washcloth and
moved to a crouched position and began gathering Mom’s long black strands into
piles.

Jess came up from behind, and I nearly jumped out of my
skin, thinking it was Dad. Confused at the scene, the hair, Mom’s back, the
duct tape, Jess went into a rage.

“I’m
gonna
kill him.” He spoke to
no one in particular. “I’m
gonna
kill him in his
sleep. Tonight. I’m
gonna
find the sharpest knife in
the kitchen drawer and slit his—”

“Throat.” Dad finished the sentence as he pushed open the
door and sauntered into the bathroom.

I thought Dad threatened Mom’s life that evening. At that
moment, I knew Dad planned to destroy Jesse as well. Dad would punish him for
breathing words of treason. But Dad controlled us with his unpredictability. He
simply snapped his crocodile teeth shut when we least expected it.

The air was thick with murderous intentions, and I wished
for the courage to call for help. To call the police. An ambulance. Child
Services. Anyone. There had to be laws that Dad had broken, and the law was
supposed to protect us. In the real world, fathers protected their offspring.
Instead, ours seemed to revel in every chance he had to cut us. Sure, I heard
the kids at school complain about their chores. But no one ever mentioned
consequences other than being grounded or losing electronics or TV time.

Worse still, Dad convinced us that no one would ever believe
any accusations of abuse. He strategically chose weapons that could just as
easily be connected with accidents: boiling water, a hot iron, broken glass.
Plus he had friends in every profession: cops, judges, politicians. He was the
go-to lawyer guy of so many men in authority, the one time we tried to run
away, the
 
man in uniform who
promised to help us, helped us right back into the arms of the one who hurt us—Dad.
So we found ourselves imprisoned, and none of us knew how to escape without
abandoning the other, a covenant we would not break. Until that night.

That night Mom left us. Verbally, at first. She never spoke
after that night. No more
gitas
left our bald Gita’s
lips after that day. Not even a sad song. She also ceased looking at me in the
eyes. She walked around the house like a mobile stone statue, despair
permanently chiseled into her form, even her shadow. Her list became shorter
and shorter, and mine grew longer and longer.

Not even a week had passed and it became apparent that Mom
had mentally deserted us as well. She retreated to her bed for larger portions
of each passing day, and one morning, she simply did not get up. Mom laid
there, sleeping with her eyes open, not shifting sides. She stopped eating, but
I never told Dad. She’d drink from a straw when I forced her to, but only the
bare minimum. That’s when my list included Mom’s name on several lines. Wake
Mom up. Feed Mom. Give Mom a sponge bath. Clean Mom’s bedpan. The rest were the
usual household chores. It was hard back then, but I realize now that I miss
back then. I miss Mom. Terribly.

Mom never recovered from her second nervous breakdown. On
the night before New Year’s, I went into Mom’s room to do the usual nighttime
routine of brushing her teeth, massaging her head and legs, wiping her down
with a washcloth, and kissing her goodnight. Her forehead was cold. Her eyes
were closed. The fluttering had stopped. I felt her wrist and knew she was
free.

Mom died in her sleep, and we buried her on New Year’s Day
morning. I made a haphazard wig with her hair save one strand and Scotch-taped
it around her face in a futile attempt to cover her shame. I even applied pink
lipstick to the thin broken line where her smile once laid. And I dressed her
in blue. It wasn’t the sparkly blue sari in her picture she once allowed me to
steal a glance of, but it was blue. And wearing blue was how I wanted to
remember her. When the mortician told me time was up, I kissed her cold cheeks,
the top of her eyelids, and the palms of her hands. Tears rolled down my cheeks
onto her open lines of life. I closed her fingers around my final gift to her
before I tucked her hands back by her side. If only she could bury my sadness
with her.

At the cemetery, Jesse and Dad carried the casket with the
help of the funeral personnel. Under a heavy winter coat, I wore a black dress
Dad allowed me to buy from the clearance rack. Piles of mud-mixed snow laid all
around. The air temperature was so frigid that it hurt to breathe. My tears
froze before slipping off my cheeks, as if to engrave the sadness there
forever. No one came to her funeral. As far as I knew, no one was invited. When
the casket lowered into the frozen earth, I pictured myself jumping in to join
her. One glance at Jesse and my feet took two steps back. When the dirt-snow
mixture hit the top of the casket, Mom’s words to me when I was seven returned,
as if she were right there speaking to me: “No matter what happens, promise me
that you’ll take care of your little brother.”

Yes, Mom. I
promise. Happy New Year, Mom. And sweet dreams.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

My
waterfall willow changes colors right before my eyes. From her naked branches
of winter to the pale yellow blossoms of spring, her paint seeps from within
her and reminds me of the hourglass. Time stops for no one.

On March 17, a couple months after our snow play day, Lagan
and I meet at our designated time, and after a simple dinner of cream of potato
soup and turkey and avocado sandwiches, Lagan catches me off guard with a
question. Or actually a request. “I need to talk to you about Rani.”

My shoulders tense with the sound of another girl’s name.

“Remember Rani? My cousin?” I bust out laughing at the word
cousin
.

Of course. Lagan mentioned her time and time again, but I
haven’t met her yet. I stop rustling with the
ziplock
bags and empty paper containers to turn and give him my full attention. He
isn’t laughing.

“Sorry for laughing.” I feel stupid. Something terrible
might be wrong with Rani, and I’m getting unstuck from the quicksand of
jealousy. Sheesh. You’d think knowing Lagan’s W4Y quest would be enough to keep
me afloat. Insecurity just feels familiar to me, like the scents of cleaning
products.

Lagan shakes his head. He’s at a loss for words for once. So
I wait.

I take a seat on our branch bench under the willow,
something Lagan and I assembled together with a few saved limbs that Jason
allowed, and quickly glance down at my watch. I have about fifteen minutes left
to my break. Plenty of time.

Lagan clears his throat and begins to share a story about
the girl he calls his best friend. “Since we’re cousins, we grew up together,
seeing each other at least once a week when our parents decided to settle in
the Chicago area near to each other. Prima, my baby sis, is closer to Rani’s
age, but she’s your typical hair, nails, heels, girly girl, so although I know
they totally care about each other, Rani never really connected with her. Or
any of the other female cousins. But we clicked. Right from the start.” Lagan stopped
and squinted his eyes as he looked up at me, as if to gauge whether I
understood thus far. “You know how it is? I mean, do you? Know how it is?”

Glad he doesn’t assume, I press my lips together and shake
my head no. I have no idea. “The only family I know is Jesse. Maybe I have
cousins out there, but I’ve never met them. My mom’s parents are out there
somewhere, on some remote farm in India. Doubt I’ll be visiting them anytime
soon.”

Lagan sighs. The look on his face makes me think he’s not
sure if I’ll get it. His story. His relationship with Rani. Or whatever he
needs to tell me about her.

“Yeah.” Lagan smiles a small but definite smile. “But you’re
a girl. So you should be able to relate, I think. Actually...” Another
hesitation as he picks up a branch off the ground and moves closer to where I’m
sitting. Lagan leans against, breaking off little bits of the branch and
tossing them into an imaginary hoop. Always practicing his shot. Can’t seem to
help himself. Like this little physical act is helping him to formulate his
thoughts, because then he speaks and as the words roll off his tongue, a
monster exits a closet somewhere. From within a house of secrets. Lagan’s house
of secrets. We all have one. That I know for sure now.