If I Never Went Home (9 page)

He slid one of his hands down the front of his pants and shoved the other hand between her legs.

Bea closed her eyes tight. ‘You’re hurting me,’ she whispered. ‘Please stop.’

But Uncle Fred was not listening. ‘When she not home you must call me up and I go come and do you. You get it from behind and I sure you go be bawling for more. Just now you go be bawling for me to come fuck you day and night.’

He got up and pulled her round to face him. ‘Baby, kiss me.’ He clamped his moustached face down hard on her small mouth. His big wet tongue pushed to the back of her throat. Although the urge to gag was overwhelming, Bea tried to stay perfectly still.

‘Bea!’ Her mother’s voice rang from downstairs.

He let her go instantly.

‘Hurry up! I need help in the kitchen!’

Bea ran out the room and down the stairs.

Mira sneered as she passed by, oblivious of Bea’s tear-stained face. ‘You wearing that good dress? Anybody would think is your birthday.’

Bea looked at her feet. ‘I don’t want to change. Please.’

‘It don’t have time for that. Come put out the plates and cutlery.’

In a haze she took down the good china plates, reserved for guests, and set the table for dinner with trembling hands. As she laid the knives and forks neatly, it occurred to her that of all the many ways she had imagined, this was never how she dreamed her first grown-up kiss would be.

*

She had walked almost the whole way to Harvard Square. Her feet were damp and cold. A bus was approaching on the other side of the road. She dodged the traffic and ran to catch it, getting off at the end of the street where she had seen the salon, Universal Cuts. She didn’t notice anything until she was inside the door.

‘Can I help?’ asked the young Asian woman she had seen earlier.

‘I’d like a haircut now, please.’

‘Let me see. One second,’ she said as she pored over a huge notebook. ‘Oscar can do it. Just have a seat and I’ll go get him.’

Oscar turned out to be an amiable young Australian. ‘So what are we doing today? Don’t tell me you want to cut this beautiful hair off.’

‘I want it short. Very short. Maybe a number three razor all over.’

His fingers weaved through her hair, pulling it in all directions. ‘Honey, I don’t do razor cuts. You have fabulous hair. Let me shape it a bit. Take some of the weight out of it for you.’

Bea closed her eyes and saw Uncle Fred’s moustached mouth. She could almost hear him telling her never to cut her long hair. She cringed and opened her eyes. ‘I don’t care what style you choose as long as it’s short. If you don’t want to, then I’ll find someone who will.’

He shook his head, his lips in a tight thin line, and led her to the shampoo basin.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

St. Anthony’s had been Bea’s home for over three months now, and she had to admit she had begun to appreciate being there. She lived without the daily responsibility of details like grocery shopping or work. And it was clear to all that she was more robust – no longer constantly exhausted or obsessed with secret thoughts of how best to end her life. Having fought admission, she now dreaded being discharged back to her apartment in Mrs. Harris’s brownstone conversion.

And then it happened.

She was in her room debating with Nurse Sharon the calibre of Trinidad Carnival versus Toronto’s Caribana. Sharon had a sister living in Scarborough, and for the past ten years the sisters had bought costumes and jumped up on the streets of Toronto. Yes, Trinidad Carnival might be bigger, but she was sure she would not have a better time there. Bea defended Trinidad based on her observation and research. She had never actually taken part in the two-day beads-and-bikini parade. Then another nursing assistant interrupted the banter: Bea had a visitor.

‘There must be a mistake. I don’t have visitors.’

‘No,’ said the woman. ‘There’s someone here to see you. He’s waiting in the lounge.’

Bea felt as if her insides had been placed in a freezer and began shivering at the cold only she could feel in this well-heated building. So far, she had managed to bar everyone who showed an interest in her well-being at St. Anthony’s. Who would be so bold as to turn up unannounced, against her explicit requests? Nurse Sharon squeezed her hand.

‘Don’t mind, darling. I sure it go be somebody you did want to see.’

Bea continued shaking as she sat on her bed.

‘Come,’ said Nurse Sharon gently. ‘Get up and I will walk with you. Don’t be frighten.’

Bea took a deep breath and trailed slowly behind Sharon as they walked the few steps to the lounge. She tried to catch a glimpse of who it might be before going in, but all she could make out were some dark brown boots and blue jeans belonging to a man’s crossed legs. Nurse Sharon stepped aside and nodded at Bea to go through the doorway. The legs quickly uncrossed and a vaguely familiar, olive-skinned man stood up.

‘Beezy?’ he asked smiling.

‘Yes?’

‘You don’t recognise me? Michael? Michael Singh? From Trinidad? You remember?’

‘No way,’ said Bea looking him up and down. ‘What are you doing here? How did you find me?’

The stranger reached forward and bent to give her a hug.

‘How did you find me? Who told you I was here?’

‘It wasn’t easy.’

He beamed at her and held her hand. ‘You look exactly as I thought you would. Except for the short hair. I remember you with long hair.’

‘I only cut it a few days ago. It was always long.’

Bea became aware that others were captivated by this abrupt reunion. ‘Come with me to the canteen for a coffee or something.’

He followed happily, grinning at her as they walked.

‘It’s so good to see you again,’ he said.

They planted themselves in a far corner and began to talk in earnest. He had moved to Boston from London in the last year and kept meaning to get in touch, but finding an apartment and getting to grips with a new job had gobbled up his time. Their mothers periodically exchanged emails and he had been given Bea’s contact details. Both work and home numbers went automatically to voicemail. But earlier that day he had been near the university and decided to find her. There was a note on her office door explaining that Professor Clark was on leave, giving details of her administrative assistant. Michael had tracked down the assistant and, claiming to be a family member, was directed to St. Anthony’s. He had taken a taxi and come straight here from the university.

‘My assistant gave you the name of the hospital just like that?’ asked Bea.

‘I may have made it seem like I forgot the address and was directly off the plane from Trinidad,’ he said. ‘Please don’t blame her. Once I heard you weren’t well I really had to see you.’

‘I’m actually okay. Probably going home soon.’

‘You don’t have to tell me anything,’ he said, looking her straight in the eye. ‘I live here and I would want to help any friend, but especially one who was my best buddy from childhood.’

When Beatrice Clark had been brought home from the Port of Spain General Hospital, a healthy six pounds four ounces, Michael was already next door, having arrived a couple of months earlier. Neither child had siblings, so they clung to each other right up to the moment when his family moved to the UK soon after his eighth birthday. Since then she recalled several Christmas and birthday cards, usually with long rhyming verses stressing the importance of both the occasion and the recipient. Sometimes these cards included photos where he took on a new persona – distant and exotic in thick overcoats and boots set against the even more mysterious landscape of the Scottish Highlands. But the gaps between letters had lengthened over time. It had taken nearly two decades for them to find each other again.

Bea was slightly ashamed and surprised that she noticed how handsome he was with his dark hair and smooth olive skin even in deep winter, the result of having an Indian father and an Irish mother. She could discern the outline of his slim, gym-honed body. But it was his eyes she reconnected with most – vivid green and unafraid.

‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I have not allowed visitors.’ She hesitated. ‘My family, well, they don’t know anything about me being ill. And I would appreciate it if you could keep this confidential.’ In spite of herself a tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. ‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ she mumbled. ‘I couldn’t bear it if anyone in Trinidad found out.’

‘I won’t,’ he said handing her a paper napkin. ‘I understand about wanting privacy.’

She looked up at him. ‘Your Mom might tell mine,’ she whispered.

Michael laughed. ‘No she won’t, because she will never find out. Okay?’

He squeezed her hand tight. Bea recalled that his parents had started married life in Trinidad, but work in the oil industry had soon taken them to the United Kingdom. Michael filled in the gaps. He had stayed there for university and then his first job out of college. Now an experienced computer engineer, he had secured work with an international firm out of Boston with projects that would take him to Latin America and the Caribbean. They reminisced about two small children in their play house made of old bits of cloth strung from the branches of a spreading Julie mango tree. Days were spent digging holes, mango juice-stained faces grinning wildly as they ran amok.

‘Beezy, do you need anything?’ he asked. ‘I could go get whatever you need.’

‘No. Thanks. I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Seeing you after all this time is enough.’

‘I’m really glad.’

‘You probably want to know why I’m here.’

‘If you want to tell me. I don’t need to know.’

Bea paused. ‘How’re your parents?’

‘Doing well. They keep saying they want to retire in Trinidad, but I doubt they’ll move back after all these years.’

They chatted some more, recounting the births, marriages and deaths of people they knew in common. Less than an hour after he had swept into her life he stood up to go.

‘I don’t want to intrude, Beezy, but if you can stand to see me again I’d like to visit.’

Bea looked down so he would not see the flush she felt burning her cheeks.

‘I’d like you to visit,’ she said in a faint voice.

‘Can I come tomorrow?’

‘Sure.’

‘Are there special visiting hours?’

‘They prefer visitors from three to seven in the evening.’

‘I’ll come after work. It might be close to six if that’s okay?’

Bea merely nodded, afraid to let her face show that her heart was bursting with happiness at the prospect of seeing him again. They walked together to the main entrance and before he left he pressed each of her cheeks with a goodbye kiss. She floated back up to her room.

‘Somebody looking happy,’ said Nurse Sharon. ‘That the boyfriend?’

‘No. He’s an old friend from childhood. I haven’t seen him for years.’

‘And look how he find you,’ Sharon laughed. She bent close to Bea’s ear. ‘He coming back again?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh Lord. Well look how things changing for Miss Clark. I better keep an eye on you.’

True to his word, Michael did visit the next day, and the day after that. On the third visit she asked him if he would like to go somewhere outside the clinic.

‘I didn’t know you could leave.’

‘I’m due to be discharged next week, and my doctor has been encouraging me to go out more often, to get back into normal life.’

‘Cool. I’m going to take you to one of my favourite places.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s in Harvard Square. Bet you know all the restaurants, but the surprise will be which one it is.’

Bea took a deep breath. He had no idea how much of a step it was for her go out with someone, to take a taxi and to have a meal in a public space. Such seemingly simple undertakings all had to be remastered. But she wanted this to succeed – to be better, to do normal things again.

The taxi stopped on Brattle Street outside a Mediterranean restaurant that used to make her smile whenever she passed it, if only for the name.

‘This is your favourite place?’ she asked.

‘Yup. I love the food. You’ve been?’

‘I have.’

‘You’re okay with us going here, Beezy?’

‘Sure. Casablanca’s food is divine and I adore the mural of the movie they have on the wall.’

‘Oh, me too.’

She sighed.
Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, Michael had to pick this one for her first outing.

‘Fuck you, Paul,’ she murmured under her breath as she walked into the restaurant.

‘You said something, Beezy?’

‘No. Just talking to myself. Bad habit.’

Once they were settled in a booth by the window and the difficult part of ordering had been taken care of, Bea, without any prompting, began talking about St. Anthony’s. As casually as she could, without making eye contact, she told him of her depression and how much better she was. There was no need for the shameful details of the route by which she had arrived at St. Anthony’s. Michael admitted knowing little about mental illness. She joked about the different types of treatment she had been offered in the past.

‘You won’t believe what this one doctor suggested,’ she said.

He smiled. ‘What?’

‘He said I should join a choir.’

Michael nearly spluttered his grilled chicken breast all over the table. ‘He said what?’

‘A choir. Do you remember my singing? I got expelled from our Sunday school choir. I was that bad.’

He giggled, wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘You might have improved with age.’

‘Nope. Still can’t sing.’ She moved her mashed potato around the plate. ‘Sometimes I think it would be best to run away from it all. But not sure where I would go.’

‘I ran away once,’ said Michael, between mouthfuls.

Her eyes lit with curiosity.

‘Nothing alarming,’ he said. ‘I must have been about six, so still living next door to you.’

‘I don’t recall you running away,’ said Bea, as she tasted a tiny piece of her lamb.

‘I was angry with my mom, so I took a suitcase and loaded it up with my most cherished possessions, the brand new volumes of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
.’

‘See, that’s the difference between us,’ laughed Bea. ‘At six you thought the key to survival was the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
. I would have taken chocolate and my Barbie doll.’

‘The bloody thing was too heavy to take far. I remember the agony of trying to drag that dead weight through the house. Think I got as far as the front porch.’ He took another mouthful. ‘Gave up after that and snuck back into the house through the back door. I had a sore back for ages.’

She reached over and ruffled his floppy dark hair. ‘Poor baby.’

Michael scraped the last bit of chicken off the plate. ‘Well? What about you?’

She was silent. He smiled and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘You ever ran away?’

‘What? Apart from my whole life of running away?’ she asked. ‘Yes. Actually I was a repeat offender. Must have been a phase.’

He drained his water glass. ‘How many times?’

‘Quite a few,’ she said. ‘Problem was, no one seemed to realise I was running away.’

‘You weren’t missed?’

‘Not really.’

The waitress came to their table and cleared away the empty plates. ‘Can I show you the dessert menu?’

‘Actually, can I have a glass of house red, please?’ asked Michael.

‘And for you?’ asked the waitress turning to Bea.

‘I’m fine for now, thanks,’ said Bea.

‘Okay, where were we?’ Michael asked.

‘I was telling you how I ran away. See, I wanted to live with my Dad. So I put some clothes in a plastic bag and set off down the street. Never got far. Maybe as far as Carlene’s house. You remember Carlene? She lived down that steep street off the main road. They had this big red house with a cherry tree in the front and a swing at the back. Well, you know Trini people. Each day they welcomed me in as if they were expecting me.’