When he’s gone, sometimes I’m wound so tight, so much is bursting under my skin, I can’t stand it. I want to scream and rage and fight, and there is no one to do this with. There are no adults in my world. So instead I grasp the glasses in our kitchen one by one and throw them as hard as I can against the wall. The cataclysmic smash of each glass exploding, a necessary shattering. A crashing like sea surf against a cliff. I smash and smash until finally there is release.
In my skin is a buried chest that came forth on the tide with her birth. A chest I have lost the key to, and this crashing is the only way to break into it. Inside are unspoken names, bruises I cannot look at, flesh torn like a piece of paper. These things burst loose from between my bones, go crashing through the walls of our house, rise into the air, and are pulled into the sky, far away from us.
When I come back, the kitchen is like the inside of a glass cave, sparking ice on every surface, dancing prisms of light as in the aftermath of a storm. I sink to my knees, put my forehead on the floor, and sob in great gaping breaths, hair dredged over my face, shoulders shaking.
In her bedroom, Bodhi is huddled into a ball, her Winnie the Pooh blanket tight in her fist, a corner of it stuck between her lips, sucked clean. Her eyes are huge, tracking me as I approach. I push my hair behind my ears, smooth down my shirt, and say, “Mama had an accident. I’m going to clean it up and then we’ll go shopping. You can help me get new glasses. Okay?” I am bright again. She stares, no babble issues from her mouth. The child must be dumb, stupid even. I clench my fists to stop them from grabbing. An image of a child thrown into the ice cave in the kitchen. Bare skin touching a thousand icicles and turning frozen. No, no, I cannot. I turn away.
A few minutes later the kitchen is swept clean, a sense of relief, newness. The knowledge that everything ugly and shattered can be swept away so there is no hint of disorder left.
Twenty-one
I had longed for normalcy. I had wanted only these things—a marriage, a shared place, the serenity of a long-lived love. But normalcy is a miracle, not granted to all who ask.
I call him at the studio and he picks up and says, “Yes, what is it?” I can hear the rasp of annoyance in his voice. He pretends to listen, but I know that his eyes are snagged on the latest canvas, that assessments about color and form are being made. I shake my head as if he can see. I say, “Nothing. I just … I miss you.” The words leave my mouth in the tone of a petulant child. I cringe. When did I become this other person? He sighs. “I’ll be home soon. I told you.”
“You promise?”
He says, “Yes. I promise.”
Midnight comes and goes. I lie awake, watching the night pass through the room. Framed in the window, a high sickle moon watches, waiting with me. In the other room Bodhi twists and murmurs as if she can sense my rage.
Then sleep, and with it, Samson slipping quiet from behind the door. I have been running from him for so long. But I’m tired and now he’s here. He has found me even in this far place. His hair is plastered to his dripping temples; my father’s cast-off trousers are wrapped soaking around his legs. He smiles like something amphibious, comes closer, stands over the bed, teeth glinting.
My heart thuds against the walls of its cage. My mouth will not open, but the words come anyway.
“Samson. You disappeared. You died. You cannot be here.”
His lips don’t move, but I can hear his voice in my head. “No, Baby Madame, not dead. Samson has looked so long and everywhere for you and now has found you.” He leans over me, river water falling on my face like tears. His face comes closer. My heart will leap out of my throat. I will asphyxiate. I cannot tell if he will kiss me or bite me. He says my name, and again, louder and louder like a shouting, and I am being shaken and it is Daniel yelling my name into my face, shaking me by the shoulders, and I am awake and he is holding me tight to him and I am sobbing and he is kissing my face and wiping away tears and holding me to him.
He holds me for a long time. And then he says, “Will you tell me what it is?” I am stiff suddenly. Ice cold. He pulls away, looks into my eyes, says, “Tell me. Whatever happened, we can figure it out together. You have to trust me.” I cannot move; I cannot speak.
He sighs, settles both of us into bed, body to body beneath the blankets. His lips against my hair, moving. “If you won’t tell me, I can’t help.” I stay as still as I can, daring only to breathe. If I am quiet, the danger will pass. He hugs me close and kisses me on the forehead. It is the closest we’ve been in months. I inhale him. I cling to him, ready to love him more, ready to try harder, to be good. We fall asleep and it is the dreamless rest of paradise.