The Woodlands (7 page)

She was rattled, skittish, big brown eyes blinking repeatedly like she didn’t believe what she was hearing. Bobbing her head as if she could shake the news out of her brain like loose wax. I didn’t realize she was so certain I would stay. I didn’t realize it mattered to her one way or the other.

Due
to the tight control in Pau Brasil, our wrist tattoos contained almost all the pertinent information needed to send me off. I looked down at the neatly printed barcode. I was canned goods. Scan me and you knew my value. I remember being held down on my twelfth birthday as they put it on—the burning pain of the needle and the foreign buzzing sound. My mother was holding my arms down but I was flailing and screaming. She told me it was a good thing; it meant I would have more freedom. I remember thinking quite the opposite. I was being branded. The frustrated tattooist gruffly gestured with his hairy, bare arm for Paulo to hold me still. He stormed over and held down my legs, telling me not embarrass myself. ‘Be stronger’ he had said. He wasn’t quick enough to stop me from kicking him in the face, a small drip of blood appearing on his lower lip. I remember him smiling, licking it away with his tongue, and squeezing my legs so tight I couldn’t budge. Disgusting. And exactly the kind of thing he would do. When I got home and changed for bed, I had finger-shaped bruises on both my calves.

To leav
e Pau all that was needed from Mother was a signature and a small bag containing a change of clothes and letter writing materials, but she was panicking. Her fragile state gave me a pang of guilt for making her do this but she was the one who was forcing me to leave eventually anyway. What difference was a few months going to make?

“
I can’t find a pen, Rosa. Where are all the pens?” She sounded out of her mind with worry, her voice taking on a high-pitched, hysterical edge.

“
Mother, come here and sit down.” I was going to have to be the calm one. Words came back to me, but not in Paulo’s voice, it was my own, level and heavy. ‘Be stronger’.

“
It’s ok, I’m sure they will give me one if I ask.”

She followed me into the kitchen, back to place where all this started.
She looked so frail, her tiny, dark frame teetering on the edge of the chair.

“
I know you’re upset but I think it’s best to go now. If I stayed, I think I would only start to resent you and that baby.” As the words came out, I knew they were true. “I love you. I don’t want that to change. Just promise me you’ll look after yourself.”

I reached across the table t
o hold her hand. She withdrew, always a thin, cold pane of glass between us. She regarded me for a second, tears in her eyes. Then she stood up.

“
There’s probably a pen in Paulo’s office,” she muttered, mostly to herself. That was it. She walked off talking to herself and I went to my room to change.

I stood in the doorway for a while. Takin
g in the home I was leaving—the standard, grey-green walls that were in every home, my small bed and yellow bedspread. I wasn’t really going to miss this place. To miss it, I would have had to have some enjoyable moments here. There were none I could think of. Not here. Not since Paulo came to live here. I put on my school uniform, grey-green again with a silhouette of the Pau Brasil tree on the front. Its tiny trunk completely out of proportion to its vast foliage, looking like a stick with a puffy cloud jammed on top. I looked in the mirror. A calm girl stared back at me, her brown and blue eyes steeled and determined. I had to make this work. I had to make a better life for myself. Anything would better than this. I combed my long, brown hair back into a ponytail and tied the allowable silver ribbon around it. A memory of strong hands straightening my uniform and tightening my ribbon swaddled my consciousness. Not now.

I looked tired, dark circles under my eyes. I wondered if Joseph would be there, feeling a sharp punch to my chest. I decided I wouldn
’t care if he was there or not. Hilarious that I thought I could decide such a thing. We weren’t going to be in the same class so it didn’t matter. But it did. It mattered so much more than I could ever admit to myself, bringing with it a crippling, doubling-over feeling of pain. No, I wouldn’t care. I couldn’t.

When I walked out to the living
area, my mother had composed herself. She had put on her best coat and also tied her hair back tightly into a bun, tiny slivers of silver showing through her dark brown mane. My bag sat open by the door, packed with clean clothes, with about five pens poking out of one of the pockets.

“
Thank you,” I said, trying to sound normal, unruffled, but my voice was quivering. I wanted to pat her arm but my hand was shaking so I left it where it was, by my side, as hers were. We stood looking at each other. Mother went to say something but the sound of the door being unlatched stopped her.

“
I forgot my jacket.” An oily voice slipped through the crack in the door.

Paulo arrived and surveyed the room. His eyes landed on the bag and he quickly put it together.
“Well,” he said, exultant. “We’d better get you to Ring One.” He swiftly picked up my bag, zipped it up, and threw it over his shoulder. I put my shoes on and had to run to catch up with him as he energetically strode down the front path. He almost looked like he was skipping. I suppressed a giggle. My mother locked the door and walked briskly behind us, hugging the papers to her chest. I looked behind me at the rows of grey houses—each one identical. I wouldn’t miss this bleak, nothing of a town. Our neighbor eyed us curiously as my mother and I struggled to keep up with Paulo’s cracking pace, watering the pavement instead of his lawn.

We passed through the gates to Ring
Two in silence. As we approached the gate for Ring One, Paulo spoke.

“
Rosa, you need to line up at the Class administration building. Esther, you can get her bags checked, and I will talk to the transports and see if they will have any room.” Paulo’s hatred was actually proving useful to me that day as he quickly and efficiently guided us through the steps we needed to take to get me on that transport and out of his life forever.

I don
’t think Paulo really needed to worry. There were two helicopters and only about ten scuttly teenagers getting ready to go. They were dressed in their school uniforms. All looked very nervous—fiddling with their jumpers, chewing on their fingernails. One girl bawled hysterically as her parents held and tried to console her. Everyone was staring at them. It was not normal to show emotion like this in public. Others were shaking hands with their fathers and giving their mothers light pecks on the cheeks. I scanned the area. There were two tables set up, one where they were checking identification and taking paperwork, and the other with twelve small bags with oversized, yellow stickers on them piled underneath. The stickers carried ID numbers. I walked to the first table and handed in my paperwork. They scanned my wrist.

“
You’re sixteen,” the man said, raising his eyebrow dubiously as he looked me up and down.

“
My mother, Esther Amos, is pregnant, so I am entitled to leave with this intake,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. He was young, mid-twenties maybe, muscular and stiff, with a pudgy face that looked odd atop his fit body.

Unsettled
by my attitude, he muttered, irritated, “You’re not on the list. Move aside,” using his arm to ‘guide’ me out of the way.

Changing
tack, I looked down at my feet, trying to appear humble, tugging on my ponytail, saying quietly, “I’m being surrendered.” It didn’t work.

Paulo expertly took control of the situation. He introduced himself and shook the man
’s hand. Paulo called my mother over and asked the man to scan her. The Guardian called up her information on his portable reader. It would all be there—her pregnancy, her due date, everything. Our lives were a transcript, a series of dot points and dates. I felt violated that someone could reach into our lives and take little pieces, but this was life in Pau Brasil. Nothing really belonged to us, not even our pain.

After
staring at the reader for some time, the man stood, straightening his uniform. “Very well, here’s your ID sticker,” he said, not even looking up as he scrawled my number across the yellow sticker in big, black numbers. “Put it on your bag and check it with the others.” He closed down his reader and left the station. I must have been the last one.

As I put my bag down and made my way to the middle where everyone was standing
, Paulo stopped. “Wait!” he said to the Guardian we had just spoken to. I was confused—was he having second thoughts? I had a sudden fear that he may have changed his mind. That he was going to make me stay. A tiny part of me flickered like the blue flame on a gas burner, not warmth, just the inkling of the idea of heat. Did he actually care about me?

Paulo spoke to the man for a few seconds. I couldn
’t hear what they were saying but the Guardian nodded and handed him an envelope. The flame was snuffed out in an instant, leaving a blackened, cold ring. The money. He was securing his payment for my early surrender. I returned my eyes to the center circle.

There were only a few of us milling around
. The circle’s large, paved sandstone ground and elaborate design was so out of place amongst the rest of Pau, which was concrete, plastic, and air conditioning. The center podium was darker than the rest of the stonework. Too much blood they could never quite get rid of, no matter how hard they scrubbed. I think, now, they put plastic sheeting down to protect it. Dark and light stones alternated from the center circle, like the circle was the sun and dotted stone lines radiated out from it like rays of light.

Everyone else had taken
his or her place near the helicopters. I couldn’t see Joseph but I knew he must be there. No matter how hard I tried he was always there, in the back of my mind, threatening to unhinge me. I needed strength at this point, not the heart-skipping vulnerability that kept creeping into my head.

The helicopters were stationed at the rim of
Ring One, just inside the low, sandy-colored wall that surrounded the center podium. They were waiting, crouching like black angels ready to lift us from this place, this hell, into an unknown world. A Guardian in black uniform with gold trim walked to the front of the choppers and signaled for us to come forward. Another one threw the bags in the cargo hold as he read from his list. Three girls and eight boys. Joseph’s name was not on the list. I felt a flood of relief that was washed away by panic. I was barely holding myself together as it was, seeing him was liable to make me fall to pieces. But he was supposed to be here.

Paulo
’s hand was on my back, pushing me towards the helicopter like I was an uncooperative apple on the conveyor belt. I was trying so hard to muster up some courage. Today I was leaving the only home I had ever known. I would never see my mother again. I felt the anxiety rising, the crushing pain of the separation I was about to suffer. Suddenly the grey-washed town didn’t look so horrible. It was home after all, I guess. I told myself it was fear that was making me feel this way. It didn’t help.

My
mother, who had been quietly following us around like a dazed puppy, pulled me to her in a tight embrace. She whispered, “Sorry,” in my ear before stepping back, fists clenched, showing the appropriate restraint. Some other mothers were crying and holding their children as the Guardian wrenched them away and led them onto the aircraft.

My mother
’s face was my own, the way she moved mirrored my own movements and mannerisms, but that’s where the similarities ended. Although raised by this woman, I was nothing like her. For the first time, I saw things from her perspective. Getting into trouble all the time, never showing Paulo anything other than contempt. I must have been such a frustration to her.

They called my name. Paulo put his hands firmly on my
shoulders, holding me in my place. His intense stare was impossible to look away from. “Don’t shame your family,” he spat at me. And with that, he made it easy to leave. I could feel the blades starting to move, my hair whipping around my face. I stripped away the fear and anxiety, leaving a girl that was fierce, empowered by his hatred.

“
Don’t worry, Paulo, I’ll stir it up, make a little noise!” I shouted through the wind. The Guardian that let me sign up was watching me, probably regretting his decision. My mother was standing rigidly, her handmade skirt billowing as the air churned around her, her hand outstretched, pleading. I could see it in her eyes—
please Rosa, don’t cause more trouble
. She couldn’t stop me, no one ever could. Paulo was already walking away, his back to me. Behind my mother stood a man, one blue eye, one brown, smiling. He lifted his hand to wave. I raised my hand, confused. The chopper lurched awkwardly and I was knocked back into the cargo hold.