< Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >
Locket #47:
Well, I have made a big decision. About my father and me. It has been
forming for years. I am only telling it here because I think it’s unhealthy to
keep certain things locked away in your vault. You can read it like a
confession, if you’re Catholic.
I used to think I'd inherited my mother’s genes, her anxieties. She grew up
in Canal District; poor, one of seven children. She decided at some point
she didn’t want to be like her mother and go through seven pregnancies.
She met my father, they married and they had only one child. That’s me.
So my decision? Well, my grandmother bore seven; my mother brought
one child into the world. I will not have any. We’ve reached the end of
this line.
I always thought my father was content in the marriage. He was a quiet
man, he read a lot. He encouraged me to leave the District, to study and
work abroad.
He has framed pictures of me, his only daughter. Tells everyone how I’m
doing. I have never felt closer to anyone else in my life.
Mom died of cancer when I was seventeen. We buried her on a Sunday. My
father insisted I go out to school the next day, ignore what people might
say. I came home early that afternoon and found him with the woman
who helped in our house.
Mom was not energetic at house cleaning. Too tired, or not inclined. She
hired helpers; Dad made sure they were well paid. She kept changing them,
or maybe they left on account of her “attitude”.
This woman was in her thirties. She'd been with us longer than the rest, and
there he was that afternoon doing it with her.
She was bracing herself on my mother’s dresser, her dress was up and he
was behind her, his buttocks (recently bereaved) jabbing away. I had
never before witnessed a display of energy like that from him.
My heart was screaming and racing up my throat. Why was he having her
like that, with her hands bracing Mom’s dresser?
I’m sure he heard something outside. It might have caused some
hesitation, the helper panicking a little, turning her head. He might have
said something to her, keeping her focused, hurrying now.
I slipped away. I walked to the end of the road. When I came back I
slammed the front door; a loud “Hi, dad”, my eyes locked on my phone.
And straight to my room.
I blamed my mother. This would not have happened if things were ‘normal’;
if somehow she’d had more children; if she had come home earlier from
work in Georgetown.
Dad and I never spoke about it. Since it "never happened”, there was
nothing to talk about. But my attitude to the helper changed. I could barely
speak or look at her.
At the dinner table we ate mostly in silence. He'd ask if something was
bothering me. It must have weighed on him, Mom not being there;
wondering if I knew about his carrying on with the house helper.
He believed there is a “context”, a set of circumstances for everything. He
wasn’t quick to accuse or judge anyone. He let the whole house helper thing
hang in the air like a puzzle. Now and again he’d drop clues for me to piece
together our context.
“Women aren’t all 100 percent faithful," he said one evening, opening casual
conversation with his only daughter, soon to be a woman. “Some drift into
odd behaviors as a way to escape”. Okay, like wanting to escape the house,
the village, the overgrown grass; insects and roadside stalls. Canal is Canal.
There are men in the District able and willing. Out of the goodness (or
lurking idleness) of heart, they offer to help in any way they can, behind
closed doors, out of sight somewhere. Friends and neighbours suspecting
something going on usually lower their suspicions to whispers. It’s easier
to get away with this, easier than hiding theft or prejudice. Anything was
possible.
Mom had always longed for style and security in her life. She had a sister
in Canada; she talked of moving there one day. Dad wasn’t eager to
emigrate. Longings can pile up.
Her afternoons late at work in Georgetown became excuses for coming
home late. She probably hung out with a few men, friends and
acquaintances; people in Real Estate, men who traveled, with business
to take care of in the world.
I imagined her laughing, talking excitedly, with men who gave her little
bows of admiration. Maybe having too much to drink once in a while,
and next thing you know she is taking off her clothes, and for the wildest,
brief moment a different life was passing through her body, outside the
Canal.
Her cancer swept in out of nowhere, like through a window left open. It
brought its own unimaginable pain. She had firm, beautiful breasts, and
never tired of shifting her blouse, checking her profile.
Dad wanted her to go abroad for treatment. She made excuses.This was
not how she imagined travelling to see the world. Besides, they told her
she was too far gone.
I think we were close to each other then, our sadness a quiet, tightlipped
denying thing.
+
So why didn’t Dad confront her? That would have been the normal thing
to do; saying something, on even a whiff of suspicion.
He probably did say something to her. I used to hear low-droning
conversations coming from their bedroom.
She might have said over and over, Nothing is happening in Georgetown.
Nothing. And he would be like, Okay, nothing happening. After all. what
purpose would it serve? scratching the surface, on the flimsiest suspicion?
starting fires that could consume their lives?
Still, I know! you wonder, how could any person react like that, calm
and even-tempered?
Men in the District are known for forcing issues. They don’t have time
for explanations. Instruments of pain are lying around, within hands reach.
The angriest I ever heard Dad was when he said once, You really shouldn’t
talk to people like that.
Here’s something else, another piece of the puzzle. The day I came into
this world. He remembers that day very well.
“They told me, Go home! She wasn’t ready to deliver; there was no point
waiting around the hospital."
The next day he saw the look on her face, a lingering grimace, tired from
all the pushing and pain. He saw the way she held me and breast fed me.
Totally relieved it was over.
It was clear to him, her mind was made up: she would not go through
the pain of child bearing again.
I think for Dad this must have been the heart-changing moment of his life.
I think it directed relations between them from there on.
Intimacy was now accompanied by her fear of pregnancy again (to put
her body through abortion was completely out of the question) so they
did it less and less, until eventually they didn’t do much at all.
Raising me (I would say she wanted me to grow up quickly, stop
demanding so much of her time) was her fussy, ‘good parent’ doing; but
the feeling of belonging to our family (I would say) was Dad’s work. He
was our house hold together.
I’ve had boyfriends. I’ve had sex. Certain acts I refuse to perform. I’m
not into helping anyone. They might ask, How was it for you? I just smile.
Can’t wait for our temperatures to cool; get back into clothes.
I don’t like people talking about me behind my back. I can tell, just the
look on the face, they’ve been talking; like I’m some weird person. I
find myself abruptly shutting down when the conversation slows, and
they ask, So where you from? Eventually we drift apart.
Sometimes I let them know, plain and straight, I have things to do,
important matters to think about that don’t involve them.
I could never return to our house, with Dad and the house helper; not
knowing if they continued helping each other.
Dad is getting older. I don’t think he’ll survive on his own back there. He
might become the target of another woman, fluttering round his head,
wanting to take care of him. She might tempt him to tell her everything ‒
about me, Mom, the house helper (maybe not the house helper).
At his stage he deserves days of quiet leisure. We must always be moving
forward, he told me once. So I’m working to bring him out the country.
Last I heard from him, his days were moving faster, the years slower.
He’d taken up meditation. He has friends but I won’t describe them as
men of ‘power and influence’. And for what it’s worth he never had my
mother’s hidden, sideways moves.
One morning he’ll wake up and realize, I’m too old for this. Meaning, by
‘this’, what’s taking place around him, for which there seems no rational
explanation.
He might start forgetting who he is. That ‘forgetting’ thing is popping up
in the District.
I’ve tried to say everything here within limits, leaving out details and
stuff. Not asking for sympathy. And please, don’t start some search in
the District, trying to find out about our family.
Anyone who thinks nothing like this could ever happen in that place ‒ she
must be holding back or making up stuff! ‒ well, looks like somehow I’ve
escaped your expectations. Sorry.
Anyway, this is where I draw the line.
Radeesha M.
Canal District, Guyana
Toronto, Canada
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 