It's raining when my grandmother lies on the bed and picks at the hem of her nightgown. Her cheeks are shrunk to two prominent bones and two hollow spaces mark the room for eyes. She cannot speak and we don't know if she can understand anything. The first thing my father does when the taxi has brought us to the house is go to her bedside. A small kiss. A sitting down on the chair next to her. A holding of her thin bony hands in between his. She looks at him. She looks at the ceiling.
I notice, for the first time, the green rim around her pupil holding a piece of round iris. Little Indian woman with green eyes.
My father sighs and stands up. When he lets go, her hands instinctively clutch to her nightgown. Folding it together. Then letting it go. A little pattern her eyes can't even see.
Outside, they remove suitcases and put them on the porch. There's a small table where my grandfather sits with one hand propped against the wood. Smoking a bidi and reading a paper. Today, though, he's standing next to me in a clean white shirt and a white mundu lined with a gold border. Everyone's here, standing in the small room. Inside the rain is a sound, and when I look at my grandmother she seems to not notice it much.
A random sound. That's all.
She doesn't notice my hands quickly wrapping around her own. Or the kiss I suck in my breath for. They're all very small sounds that drop like rain and dry away.
Who am I to bother any further. The granddaughter of three-year visits and a bitter mother. We'll stay here one night and go to my mother's house tomorrow afternoon. My father stays at his house.
It's been like that every visit. So has my grandmother, but she's worse now. They've stopped bringing her to the long hallway where she'd sit on a chair and look outside through the window. Sometimes, someone opens the door. A breeze creeps in and touches her balding head. Playing in it for a while. The three children play too, running through rooms with balls and toys. Past a grandmother with busy hands and a nightgown.
That evening, the dinner table sighs under the weight of plates and elbows. Chairs make noises and scrape the floor. My mother sits across from me. Prim face. Prim smile. My father and his two brothers talk of three years. Their wives busy themselves in the kitchen. Scatterings of ants walk around the table, carrying the morning's dropped sugar or a piece of rice.
When she's finished, my mother declares she'd like to sleep. 'The plane trip's been rather tiring. All I want now is a bed.'
'Of course. The sheets are in the bedroom. Do you want to take some water.'
'No. I'm fine.'
Fine, she declares. She looks at me and thinks I might go with her. When I don't, she leaves like a solitary sound drying away outside. Her orange nightgown blows slightly around her.
The laughing continues at the table. The smiling. The peeling of bananas after the plates are cleared. I sit next to them, but the only question I'm asked is how well I did in school. So I leave. No one notices.
The children are sitting on the porch floor. Pieces of chocolate are spread on old newspapers. The oldest one divides it into three shares. The last time I saw them, he was three and the smallest one WA5 still bulging in someone's stomach. They don't offer any chocolate. Three boys with American candy. They don't notice when I step into the yard. Neither does my grandfather. Neither does the bidi or the newspaper.
On the other side of the house, chickens squabble. Flies buzz. Mosquitoes suck. The ground is wet with water. Mud sticks to the crevices between my toes and remains there for a while. The light from the dining room settles on the top of my head. (Playing with long strands.) Beyond the yard grass grows high. Coconut trees settle. A little river runs through. Tiny fishes swim by but the sky is black and the only sounds here are grass rustles. The water's cool. Ankle deep and nothing more. Except for the pebbles resting at the bottom.
A breeze blows. The trees give a sigh.
I sit on the ground. Insects creep through my pants. The air is still, unaware of
anything.
The river flows. Solitary sound. There is nothing else for it to do but rest in its randomness, its lack of path or strength. Once though when I was two it nearly drowned me. I was trying to swim when my head fell through. My mother pulled me out.
Now it's not much.
It doesn't remember much either. It doesn't move its flow or shake its waters when my feet slide down through it.
Nobody crosses it often, except during rubber season When coconut shells collect liquid from the trees. A useless river my uncles cross it two steps.
But now the water's cool.
The sky's black.
Insects crawl.
Mosquitoes suck.
Sprays of light travel from the house. My father will be up today, sitting with his father and brothers. Tomorrow he'll be in a mundu, brushing his teeth in the yard. Spitting paste over the cement fence. For thirty days he'll be a bachelor again. Except for the occasional visits my mother and I will make.
A mosquito arrives on my hand. It starts its itch.
My parents don't understand my lack of wanting to come here. The lack of culture I've inherited from somewhere. Despite whatever family hatred resides in some room or another, they shop together every three years. They buy saris and pants pieces. They waste thousands of dollars on appliances and candy and film.
But once they're here, they separate.
My mother tells me 'people love you when you have money. Everyone does everything then. But before that, see who'll care.'
I see. But now the sky's black and the only sounds are grass rustles. Insects crawl. A solitary river moves along my feet.
Who am I to bother any further.
I lie down. My back becomes dirty. Clumps of hair play in the soil and settle. I am all dark, all covered. No one can see anything looking out a window. Perhaps though, a small bump is visible in the ground. A fly landing on a small mountain. Then leaving because of a tiny rising and a tiny lowering. A tiny breath. Maybe. If the light shines in a certain way.
The housemaid is changing my grandmother's nightgown when I return to the house. She looks up and smiles as I pass through the hallway. My grandmother sits on a chair. Her breasts sag downwards. Small markings of a woman, controlled by wrinkles and a simple hanging motion. Her hands are pressed together, sliding by each other while the maid tries to slip the green nightgown over her.
After that, she'll call someone to help put her in bed. My father will come in carrying two large hands meant for holding grandmothers. Together they'll raise her on to the narrow bed. He'll look at her and handle a small sigh carefully on his face.
That is for later.
Now he is on the porch. His mouth handles smiles and laughs and conversation. There's no light from the room behind the porch. When I walk in, my feet nearly stumble on a toy. Outlines of two beds and two suitcases and one desk clutter the space. The outline of my mother's snoring clutters the air. I don't go to her. I don't sit down on her bed.
After all she's fine, she declares. Even a lie spurned from a bitter taste is still a statement. Who am I to bother any further.
I climb in to the other bed. Despite the sounds from the porch, the distractions are not that bad. But something wakes me up. I amble towards the long hallway. Past my grandmother and the rooms of my uncles and their wives. The light is breaking now on this new today. The today that the bus will take me and mother away. My grandmother, though, is unaware of all this. I enter her room and sit on the chair. Carefully, I open her eyelids. The green part of her iris is still there. The beautiful green no one notices. I would like to keep it open a while longer but I'm afraid she'll wake up.
When I leave the room she's still breathing calmly. Solitary sound. They all expect her to stop soon. No one sees much of her anymore.
Ann John, 16, a New York Daily News reader. She lives in Brooklyn and is a junior at Stuyvesant High. Sponsoring teacher: Ann Held. Story: "Vacation."