Melissa McKenzie

It had happened over two glasses of lemonade, on a patio, with a cool evening breeze in the background and orangey, purplish streaks in the sky. Her employer had been doing her customary end-of-the-work-week catching up. Joy, on the other hand, had been trying to think of a way to filter a money loan into the conversation. The questions and answers that had been exchanged had seemed as if they had been on autopilot. The money had been like a lead weight on her mind.

'So Joy, how was the week?'

'Fine, ma'am.'

'You are doing an excellent job, you know.'

'Thanks, ma,am.'

'I'm really glad I employed you. Good helpers are hard to find.'

Joy gave a half-smile at that. Somehow she thought it was expected.

Her employer went on: 'My daughter is supposed to come from England soon.'

Joy gave her glass a mild shake and heard the ice clink. She nodded slowly, gave the half-smile, thought of the money some more. It did not seem fair to go to her relatives any more; she had to stop while the bucket was still intact. Undoubtedly, she needed the money, but this time she was trying a fresh source. It was just taking a long time to find the guts to voice her appeal. It annoyed her that this was her lot in life. She hated having to stretch her minimum wage, and she hated the borrowing. But it was something she considered necessary if her daughter was really to be her ticket out of it all. Now that Lillian was about to start high school, she had to start covering some bases.

'Joy … ?'

Joy started. She was surprised at how unexpected Mrs. Rogers' voice was. She looked at her employer: forehead wrinkled from concern, eyes worried, head tilted. Her glass was now on a coaster on the patio table. Joy still held hers.

'Sorry, ma'am.'

'What seems to be the matter? The conversation seems to be going along without you.'

Was this her opportunity? She held off just to be certain.'Mi ok, ma'am.'

'I don't expect you to lie, you know. You've barely touched your drink and I have been doing most of the talking. Something is troubling you. Tell me. Maybe I can help.'

There it was, on a platter, ready to be made use of. Joy could not believe the offer. It was so atypically English. According to what she had heard, people from England were tight. Especially the retirees. But Joy was still willing to take a chance. Mrs. Rogers was just too nice. With the quickly waning sunlight as a backdrop, Joy inhaled, put down her glass of lemonade with its slivers of ice, and told all.

Remembering that evening and how nervous and ashamed she had been made her even angrier at what she was now hearing. Her daughter was pregnant! Jesus, tek di case and give mi the pillow! Fifteen, and three months pregnant. Joy did not dwell on the fact that she had missed the signs. They had not been something she was looking out for. Hadn't she stressed enough the importance of Lillian getting an education and saving herself?

Joy had used herself as an example. The stories of hurried romance in bushes and stolen 'feel ups' in buses had not been spared. The girl knew them. Over and over and over and over, she had told her. Lillian's disregard of her mother's warnings and her resultant pregnancy had been drummed into her daughter's mind. Teenage love was not a guarantee to a happily ever after - that was something she reminded Lillian of without fail. She had told her: 'Keep yuh legs shut and yuh mind open to book learning.'

Mrs. Rogers had been so willing to help because she loved the sound of ambition. The poor lady had even decided to sponsor all of Lillian's high school needs. A girl with such promise deserved the best, was what she always said. Joy thought so too; that's why she had sacrificed. It had been her faith in her daughter which had led her to appeal to Mrs. Rogers that fateful evening.

A wail emitted from her. Liliian looked momentarily startled. Joy felt what her mother had felt. The pain was relentless: the disgrace, the whispers, the interrupted hope. Call it vicarious living, but Joy had hoped that her daughter would do what she hadn't done because of 'hard ears'. Prescribed or supplementary, she had got the school material so that Lillian's schooling would be relatively challenge-free. Joy had thought that telling her about her mistakes would have inspired her to keep her head up.

But all that had not mattered. According to the figure now standing in front of her, she did not know how it had happened. Protection had been used, she said. She had been just been 'trying a thing', she said. She thought they had something special, she said. But the boy had denied fathering the child. Joy hardly kept in contact with her own mother but she would have loved her counsel now. But she had run away from home because of the same 'something special' her daughter was now talking

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about, and had shacked up with a manfor four years, until he had decided the two of them weren't 'connecting' anymore and had kicked her out, clothes and everything hauled out, a four-year-old bawling somewhere. Shame had held her back from seeking out her mother. She had sought out some relatives instead. Done what she could to brush herself off. Now this.

Joy looked at her daughter. The uniform she had on was a travesty. Joy's hands itched with the urge to slap Lillian, shake her, squeeze her. This was the thanks she got! She thought of the things she had denied herself in the name of a future.

Joy looked around the tiny bedroom. It held a bed with a hand-me-down mattress whose springs were now coming loose, a chest of drawers that was now tired-looking, its handles missing, its wood finish stripping, and a barrel that contained odds and ends that she made use of in times of need. Nothing more.

She looked at the walls that badly needed painting and acknowledged that they had often braced themselves for, and endured, her tears. More than anyone else, it was this room that knew the truth. She had done without for so long, nursing the belief that it would all end through Lillian. What was she to do?

'Mommy, I know you're mad.'

'Pickney gal, you nuh know di half.' Joy heaved herself up from the floor where she had been sorting clothes and walked over to her daughter, who was standing at the door. Joy knew she did this as a means of keeping a safe distance. Lillian drew up when she neared her.

'What wi gwine do? Yuh si how hard a haffi work. Yuh know di mistakes mi mek. Weh mi do yuh fi yuh do dis? I tell yuh di truth. Ah mek yuh know what ah did wrong. Ah know yuh fada is not around but ah push yuh to hol' yuh head up. Weh mi do wrong, eeh? What?!'

Her daughter's only response was tears seeping from her eyes. Joy shook her head. Somehow they had to work through this. She heard herself order Lillian to go to her room, to think about what she had done. But it was really so that Joy could calm herself. She closed the door, closed her eyes, and left her mind open. Her thoughts ping-ponged.

Getting rid of the child was out of the picture. That was murder, and besides, she did not have the money; plus, her daughter was too far along. She had to cope with it. Also, there was no way she could go to Mrs. Rogers. She was quite sickly now and a personal nurse had to be taking care of her. She could not burden her with this. Joy thought of her relatives, and the shame that washed over her left her unsteady. She could just picture them. Their voices would be raised, accusations would be hurled, arms would be folded, heads would shake, lips would purse, grunts would be let loose. Then she thought of her mother and her father.

Her father would be in the Cayman Islands now. That was what she had heard the last time someone updated her on her parents. That was where he had been when she had told her mother about her own pregnancy. Her mother later told her that he thanked God he was not there to bear the shame. And he thought, too, that he would have done something he regretted. Her father, gone away to work on random construction sites so that they could benefit from remittance. Her mother, making the most of the money she got, just as Joy had, and having it not pay off.

Outside, a heavy breeze sounded. Joy heard leaves shuffling; she listened as the zinc protested and saw the curtains do a Mexican wave. People would be preparing to turn in now so they could start Saturday as early as possible. On a normal night she would be doing the same. But tonight, everything was different. A different course had been charted. She thought of her mother again, wondered what she was doing. Was she still an avid follower of The Young and the Restless? Was she talking to her husband via the cellphone? Did she still labrish with her neighbours on the verandah? At any time, did she think about her prodigal daughter? Joy wished it.

She heard loud, dry sobs coming from her daughter's room. At a time like this she needed advice. The advice that her mother had once so freely given had been scorned. Now she craved it. The more she thought about her mother, the more Joy knew she had to go to her. Something needed to be mended. It would start tomorrow.

The taxi reeked of the smell of weed. The road that they were travelling was uneven and filled with potholes. Lewd music boomed from the radio. Joy did not ask the driver to turn it down. He seemed the type that would lash her with the most vulgar disses. So she kept quiet. Instead, she took in things periodically. The passing landscape that was now a stretch of green, then houses of different sizes, colours and signs of progress. Then there were the corners shops, the bars, the post office, and a church here and a there. She saw people she knew, some she didn't. They looked at the car but could not see inside. All tinted windows had been wound up and the air conditioning was blasting; she had requested it. Paid extra when the driver showed signs of protesting.

She knew how it was in Goshen; the grapevine was fertile and news blossomed and bore fruit as if a magical spell had been cast. With the speed at which the car had been reduced to travelling because of the road, someone would have seen her, recognised her and news would have reached her mother in no time. She preferred to be the one to surprise her.

Lillian was silent beside her. She had not asked anything when Joy had told her that they were visiting her grandmother. She accepted that the right was no longer hers to question anything. She sat with her hands clasped on her knees and legs together. Joy exhaled sharply. If not for the life growing inside Lillian, she would look like the perfect daughter. In about five minutes her mother's house would creep into view. Her heart felt like lurching but she did what she could to stay calm. The music echoed through her mind.

Lyrics about what guns could do to a bwoy who love to what and what to b—tty flowed sluggishly through her mind. The driver slapped his hand on the steering wheel in support of the sentiments. The car dipped, jerked, and hit smooth road. The final stretch to her mother's house. Daddy had got a part of the road that led to the house marled long ago and still kept it up by the look of things. The house came into view. It looked the same.

Same off white structure of three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a garage. Awnings had been added, and the cheap grill work of the past had been replaced by stylish wrought iron. The garden was still thriving. And there was her mother, showing a man in well-worn clothes how she wanted her bougainvilleas to be trimmed. He wiped sweat from his brow and nodded. Her mother walked away to examine her other flowers. Joy recalled her mother always saying that worms were her friends and her enemies. They were good for the soil but once they made the soil rich for growth you had to watch what they did with the flowers and leaves when they started to bloom.

She stopped the driver, who braked two feet from the gate. She did not have to tell her daughter they were here. Joy opened the door and the music rushed out. She saw her mother look up, revealing a face morphed from disapproval to curiosity. Joy took some time before she put a foot, then her whole body, out of the car. When she turned around, her mother's hand was at her throat, her mouth open. Lillian came out next, and her mother's jaw dropped some more.

They slammed the door simultaneously. The car drove off, turned in a clearing and returned the way it had come. Now there was no turning back.

It was 9:00, and apart from the typical morning noises - donkeys braying, dogs barking, the occasional birds singing or chattering - a silence dragged on amongst the humans as they stood looking at each other. Her mother made the first move. Her mother would be 53, but her movements were fast and lithe. She slowed at the gate and beckoned to them. Joy held her daughter's arm and they covered the remaining feet to the gate.

'Is that really you, Joyceline?'

It had been so long since she had heard her full name. There were somany connotations that came with it being said. She nodded.

'And my granddaughter?'

Another nod.

Someone passed by and offered an early morning greeting. They returned it.

'Come inside. More privacy.'

As they walked past the man tending the flowers, her mother told him to continue without her for now. Joy did not recognise the face that looked up respectfully and said, 'No problem, miss.' The wrought iron gate was opened; chairs were offered and sat in tentatively. Her mother remained standing, looking at Joy expectantly. Joy looked away and saw the familiar rolling mountains in the distance. The search for bauxite had eaten into the greenery, exposing a cream-like filling. Everything was changing.

She heard her mother ask Lillian how she was doing. The girl barely answered; her shoulders were rounded, her head bowed. Her mother fixed her eyes on Joy once again, on the dark circles under her eyes and the puffy eyelids. Joy did not have to see the dawning on her mother's face. Joy had once had that same posture that her daughter now could not hide.

'I tried,' Joy said baldly. 'Mi think mi could mek up fi mi mistake. She bright, she have sense, she know, but mi still fail. Mama, help me.'

That was how she told her mother about what had happened to her daughter. She did not know any other way to do it. Her mother's head dipped in understanding. Joy thought of all the things that were being left unsaid by all three of them and knew, at least for now, it was the best thing. Her mother had always been wise, but she had never truly listened to her when it mattered the most. She had listened to everybody else.

After a moment's thought, her mother sat down. Joy waited.

END

- Melissa McKenzie