On Such A Full Sea

16

We are the sinister and the virtuous and most everything in between, and we know too well that in their visitations the fates appear to pay us scant attention. One might ask our good Cousin Gordon how he thinks of his current affairs. Or in a certain frame of mind, perhaps Quig would offer some thoughts on the wayward procession of his life. Or if we were put on the spot to take a philosophical stand, we might well decide to no longer demur and full-throatedly say, We do welcome our turn.

That it may never come only prepares us more.

And things can change. We don’t fret so much, despite what is occurring. Instead of anxiety we have discovered, in the face of alarm, a burgeoning hope. Hope that if our livelihood dwindles we will learn to do something else. That we can remake another place. That we have one another and always will. And in certain rare moments, we think, we feel as free as Fan.

This may sound strange, given where we last left her, barely delivered from the most vile of clutches. But she was free, wasn’t she, and maybe well before she left us? For we must now realize how even in the confines of the tanks, Fan had begun to understand the true measure of her world.

Of her control, however, there is a different story. That night in Mister Leo’s house she was terrified, as anyone would be, and we shudder to consider not just what would have happened right then but on subsequent nights, and for a lengthy, miserable epoch. We would like to think that we or our loved ones or especially Fan would have somehow repelled the assault and immediately ended any further terror; but then certain cruelties have a way of engendering compliance, which only feeds the hideousness, the sequence cycling on. Poor Gordon knows this, as no doubt did the girls on Mala’s viewer, and the reality is that Fan might have had to know it, too, for the rest of her days.

Instead it was Mister Leo who was trapped in a dark equation, slackly sitting in the sunroom most all of the day as Mala brought him food and drink and, when necessary, called over Tico, the new home nursing aide. Tico was there to lift him up from his wheelchair and onto the toilet basin, or to hold him up so that Mala could change his pajama bottoms. At supper Tico rolled him into the dining room, where Miss Cathy was already eating. She was still fragile but the incident sparked something in her now, a new savor or hunger piqued each time she looked across the table at her husband slumped before his bowl of blended food, waiting with a blank face for Mala to come and spoon it in. Sometimes Miss Cathy rose and helped him herself, took the spoon and gently nudged it in between his resistant lips, patiently waiting for his tongue to remind him what to do, her hand prickly with the memory of how she struck him, just once, at the base of his skull, with the head end of a stone statuette, the bulbous nude on display in the hall. It must have left no mark. After they followed the ambulance to the Charter health center and waited around, the doctor woefully informed her that Mister Leo had suffered a massive stroke, which they’d treated just in time to save his life. He woke up like this in the health center bed, wholly palsied and mute. He could no longer write or read or do his minerals trading, but of course, they had enough money to live several lifetimes, even Charter ones. Now, Miss Cathy missed him and also didn’t. When he gagged on the spoon, she awoke from her uneasy reverie, but try as she might she didn’t relieve him right away, keeping it there and maybe pushing it in just until he made a funny sound she never heard before he was stricken, this wan, alto squeak.

Fan would be a witness to these dispositions, but not Quig and Loreen; they left soon after coming back from taking Mister Leo to the hospital, Loreen anxious to bring Sewey his treatment. Quig and Loreen bid Fan good-bye, and she bid them well, and they drove off in the old car after a quick embrace. No one seemed to be much bothered by what had befallen Mister Leo, or even to wish to comment on it. Miss Cathy honored the deal her husband had with them, promising to send the drill, as well as giving Loreen a second, equally necessary set of vials her husband had been holding back (in case they’d balked at leaving Fan). She handed them a wad of money, too, for the purchase of another geno-chemo round, if they so needed.

But all this was in trade: she wanted Fan to stay. She wouldn’t say why and Loreen said fine but Quig told them, with a finality that seemed to shock Loreen for what he was willing to give up, that it should be up to Fan. He hadn’t said a word since the commotion on the other side of the wall roused him and drew him to Fan’s bedroom, where Miss Cathy was standing over a seizure-gripped Mister Leo, whose fit was causing him to bite his tongue. It looked as if he was eating a slick piece of ham. Fan had pressed herself back against the headboard, wrapped up in the bedsheet. She had a superficial scratch on her cheek but otherwise she was unsullied. Mister Leo was bleeding all over himself and the carpeting, and the blood had begun to choke him, as he was lying on his back. Quig simply stared down at him, seething with weariness and disgust at the scene but perhaps as much at himself as for the foaming mess of a man at his feet. For was this not yet another instance of his wrong-pathed life? Was it not a variant of the same ill-made picture? He had not much countenanced this girl but it turned out from the first moment on the road she had somehow latched on. Or the other way around. But Miss Cathy was panicking and imploring him to do something. Quig finally turned him on his side, and when the man momentarily rested between fits, Quig stuffed the corner of a pillow between his teeth, if too forcefully jamming the material back between the molars. Mister Leo reflexively bit down and caught him, but rather than automatically try to escape, Quig let himself get gnashed for a long breath, the sharp pain from the man’s teeth digging into his finger bones so searingly pure it was nearly self-erasing.

And what of our Fan? The more we follow the turns of her journey, the more we realize that she is not quite the champion we would normally sing; she is not the heroine who wields the great sword; she is not the bearer of wisdom and light; she does not head the growing column, leading a new march. She is one of the ranks, this perfectly ordinary, exquisitely tiny person in whom we will reside, via both living and dreaming.

We know, of course, that Fan decided to stay. There was no talk of how long, but after a week, it soon became apparent to Fan that Miss Cathy was not conceiving of an end.

In fact, it was quite pleasant at first, just as one might expect life to be if you were the only child of a Charter family. Miss Cathy decided that it would be best if Fan stayed at home to be schooled rather than take the huge leap into the hyperdriven Charter system, but instead of junky handscreens loaded with ancient storybooks to wade through, Fan was visited by private tutors in math and writing code and finance and design and everything else that was useful to know. Brought in as well were athletic coaches, who looked immediately crestfallen on seeing her size but were soon impressed by how strong she was, and swift, and nimble with her feet and hands. Though when a swimming coach arrived, she decided it was best not to show what she could do and Fan said she was afraid of the water. She was seven weeks on and didn’t yet look pregnant, just perhaps like she was gaining some weight with the regular, wholesome Charter meals. She was certainly hungry, feeling this new volume steadily opening up below her, this canyon she could eternally fill. So she ate as she pleased. Miss Cathy was tickled at this, as if her perceptions of this deprived lone waif were being duly confirmed.

Each afternoon they went out to town, where they would have lunch at one of the many sushi bars or brick-oven pizza places, then visit the galleries and confectionaries and shops filled with trinkets for the home and garden, and then end up at Miss Cathy’s regular salon and spa, where they took skin treatments and exotic massages of the feet and hands and face and neck. Miss Cathy was having her hair regularly colored again and had her stylist give Fan a cut in the current popular Charter style, a messier, slightly teased version of her bob. Although Fan didn’t mind it, on certain nights she’d brush it out and straighten it, and Miss Cathy would bemoan the job the stylist did and have them go right back again. But perhaps Miss Cathy’s favorite activity was to go to the children’s clothing boutiques, where the thrilled salespeople would crowd around Fan and dress her in a dozen outfits or more, shoes included, little party dresses and pantsuits and loungewear just like Miss Cathy’s and then take half of them home to model in front of Mister Leo in his wheelchair, his eyes straining with some dire message or emotion no one could begin to decipher.

When they returned home, Miss Cathy always rested and this was the time Fan spent with Mala, often helping her in the kitchen during the late afternoon while she ironed linens or polished silverware and prepared a small supper for Miss Cathy and Fan. It was Mister Leo who had wanted big, elaborate meals, and now that they also no longer entertained, Mala hardly needed to cook, usually just throwing together a salad and some buttered pasta and never any dessert, which is how Miss Cathy preferred it. Mister Leo would get a blending of mushy rice and some canned meat. Often enough Mala would make an extra, tasty dish like chicken adobo for herself and Tico to eat, which Fan always had as well, as it was by far the best food she made, and the three of them would eat while Miss Cathy watched her programs in her husband’s office, different shows going on the multiple screens, with her muting whenever there were commercials. Tico was a huge young man who didn’t talk much and always ate as though it were the last meal of his life, which in this case meant very, very slowly, the fork looking like a baby’s utensil in his fat mitt of a hand as he placed the morsel in his mouth and closed his eyes and very gently nodded. Fan and Mala always finished in half the time and, while cleaning their dishes, would sometimes make each other giggle by mimicking him, which Tico didn’t mind in the least, and which, in fact, made him giggle as well, the shelves of his wide, womanly breasts shaking in alternate time with his jowls. Once done, Tico would go give Mister Leo his nightly sponge bath and medicate him and lift him into the bed in a former mud/storage room adjacent to the garage that Miss Cathy had Mala set up for him with a screen, as it was the only spare space on the main floor that was wheelchair accessible and had a toilet room nearby. There were no windows but it did have a utility sink, which was handy for Tico for the sponge bathing and whenever the pathetic man soiled himself.

Meanwhile, as they dried and put away the clean dishes, Mala would ask Fan how each of her lessons went, or what Miss Cathy had gotten her that day, and Fan would describe everything in great detail whether it made any sense to Mala or not, and then invite her up to her room to see whatever fancy new blouse or dress or shoes they’d brought home. It was a pity that Mala’s daughters were too big for any of it, as Fan didn’t really care about the clothes, which had never been of interest to her back in B-Mor. It was simply stuff to wear to town, acquired in order to buy more outfits to tour town again the next day, and so on, and mostly, of course, for satisfying Miss Cathy’s whims, the dormant blooms of which had seemingly burst open with the permanent diminution of her husband. Miss Cathy no longer seemed depressed; in fact, if anything, she had swung too hard to the other end, seeming now restless and overboosted and collecting all that buzzing for Fan, adoring her bedecked in the outfits and adorned with new jewelry (the silver locket had long been tossed into the compost heap of the garden) and sitting with her among the other ladies in the handsome eateries of the village.

Fan enjoyed these excursions enough and didn’t want to displease Miss Cathy, but the secret reason she dressed up each afternoon without hesitation was the slim chance that she’d come upon Liwei, whom she hoped might appear in a shop or on the street and be immediately recognizable to her. She imagined he looked something like her, though perhaps with the steely expression of a brilliant student, but with each day he did not appear, her belief that he had remained in the new Seneca after the villages combined steadily eroded. Still, she asked if they could explore other sections of the village, even the service people’s neighborhood, which Miss Cathy dutifully took her to like any good mother enriching the life experience of her naturally curious, bright child.

There were plenty of shops and eateries there, too, though they were clearly not as elegantly designed and appointed as in the sections Miss Cathy frequented, being more like the mall stores and restaurants of B-Mor, which you surely didn’t patronize in order to lounge about, but simply because the prices and dishes were good. It was all very respectable, the idea being to offer these people a true sense of participation in Charter life, even as the sidewalks weren’t quite as hygienically scrubbed, the window displays of merchandise not as thoroughly dusted and polished, maybe the spackling of the wallboard featured a rougher finish, the coats of trim paint not as numerously or thickly applied; and the same could be said of the “dorms,” which was where Tico was born and raised and was living with his parents before being hired through an agency, these thirty-story-high brick-faced towers of modestly sized apartments with glassed-in balconies festooned with air-drying clothes, surrounded by grounds planted with sturdy shrubs and large sections of lawn but that lacked the ornament of artfully chosen annuals and topiaries and blooming fruit trees that graced the best avenues of Seneca. Indeed, by any measure it was a very decent place to live, a setting we B-Mors would be more than content with, though the lingering feeling was that here was a place that, once settled, was not easily decamped. Of course, you could say the very same about B-Mor, but with us, we know from the start this is the case, we understand it in our bones, and because we’re mostly among brethren and share a storied past and can take a daily pride in our productive, orchestrated labors, we feel fortunate to remain, rooting in as deeply as we can.

But the truth of the dorms, as Tico would tell Fan after she first saw it, was that life happened behind the doors, the people rarely coming out and communing. Unlike us, they were from everywhere and were derived from all strains, universally diverse but perhaps too much so for their ideal collective good. And then there was the more significant matter of their work, as with Tico’s and his parents’ before him, which was mostly off- or long-shift service jobs, one-to-one or solo tasks such as home nursing or tutoring, waitressing or village security. Of course, the children got together in the neighborhood academies, but there were limited slots on the few sports teams and choral or theater troupes, and most had to go back to the towers right after the last bell anyway and look after their younger siblings, as every able-bodied parent was working to cover the ever-rising costs of rent, and food, and schooling. Though some moved up and out, most dormies were stuck, as Tico’s parents had been since they were young people, never quite making enough to make an entrepreneurial stab at opening a main-street business or to save for a down payment on a real Charter condo.

Miss Cathy had never actually driven into a service neighborhood — why would she? — and after a few moments parked in one of the lots beside a tower, she put the car into reverse to leave. But Fan spied an empty playground behind the building and asked if they could try the seesaw and swings. Miss Cathy looked repelled by the idea, but she agreed when she saw how much Fan wanted to, deciding the poor girl had probably never seen a playground before. So they rode the creaky seesaw, Miss Cathy having to sit toward the middle for balance, and then took turns on the swings, with Miss Cathy in fact going first, as Fan insisted on pushing her. Which she did, with all her strength, digging in and bursting forward like a sled driver while timing her push on the woman’s soft rump and ducking beneath her to send her soaring. Miss Cathy gave a whoop at the height, and when she began swinging her legs on her own, Fan quickly ran into the lobby of the building, from where she could see Miss Cathy happily propelling herself. She touched the screen and scrolled down the names to see if she could find any Bo and/or Liwei in the resident list. But there was nothing. A woman and her son came out of the elevator and Fan asked her if she could bring up a master listing of the residents of all the village’s towers. The woman asked why and Fan told her the reason and she said she wasn’t sure it was possible but would try, but then an urgent knocking on the glass window of the lobby stopped her. It was Miss Cathy. Her face had gone pale, her expression one of acute hurt and bafflement, her jaw now threaded through with cords of rage.

I didn’t know where you were! she shouted, making herself clearly heard through the glass. She entered the lobby and grabbed Fan’s hand from the screen and said, Don’t touch that, and dragged her to the car.

When they got home, they had to wash. They had done something like this before but now Miss Cathy knew exactly how she wanted it done, her brow tensing with expectation. Mala was ordered to get fresh towels and the bar of green laundry soap flecked with grit while Miss Cathy ran the water in the vegetable sink in the kitchen until it was hot. First she took Fan’s hands in hers and moistened all four of them in the water. She then used a tile scrubber to brush the skin of their palms and backs of the hands, spreading out their fingers to get in between. She used a different brush to clean under their fingernails, just as a surgeon might, working between the fingers and again on the palms and up the forearms, right to the elbows. And when the soap arrived, she rubbed the bar all over the prepped, reddened skin, softer now and pliant, which harshly stung, though not as much as when she redeployed the first brush, working the soap into a lather before spraying it off with the steaming water. Only then did she let Mala blot their hands and forearms with the towels, and after Mala took them away to be laundered, Fan thought she could catch mixed up with the pine oil and lye the babylike scent of raw new flesh.

After that, though they never went back to the towers, when they returned from their afternoons out, they went through this ritual. Miss Cathy never mentioned venturing into the service neighborhood, or the fact that anything was at all different, and that they had visited only her customary shops and lunch places was of no consequence; for once the shopping bags were set down, they had to roll up their sleeves and run the hot tap, Miss Cathy retrieving the brushes from under the sink while Mala fetched the soap and towels. It was as if after that brief moment in the lobby a dormant circuit had been restored, an accidental rewiring that changed nothing apparent in the woman’s revitalized mood or other routines but which set in motion this one, unerring operation. Fan complied without a word, scrubbing her skin as vigorously as Miss Cathy did her own, though the action seemed more to awaken the woman than punish her, her eyes never as lighted and alive. To Fan it was painful but the pain was made worse by the iron schedule of it, the thought of the hard scrape of the bristles to come, and once she set her mind to blocking the anticipation, the sensation itself could be endured. In fact, if she cast it right, she could believe that she was being honed instead of abraded, ever sharpened in her resolve to find Liwei, despite having no signs of him whatsoever and no other way to search for him. She was certain all she needed was time, and time — Mister Leo now comprehending this best — was plentiful in this house. Indeed, of the three of them, it was Mala who appeared to be most distressed, for she had to attend to their washing and simply stand by, wondering when Miss Cathy would reprise what she had done with every other girl before.

One evening after dinner, when Fan was sitting with Mala and Tico having a snack and tea, Miss Cathy appeared in the kitchen. She had appeared so before at night, always viewing her programs in the office. She was holding a remote, and when Mala saw this, she immediately apologized for removing the recharging deck from the office, as it was not working anymore. She said a new one would be delivered in the morning, but if Miss Cathy wanted, she could call and perhaps have it delivered tonight, but now Miss Cathy was completely unconcerned with this fact. Instead she was glaring at Fan sitting before the plate of mochi at the kitchen table as though she had committed a terrible crime.

Have you been here since we ate dinner?

Yes, Fan said. I often help clean up.

I thought you went to your room to study or watch. That’s always where I find you.

Fan told her she did, usually right around now. At this point Tico excused himself to give Mister Leo his bath.

I thought you were in your room, Miss Cathy said, with a sharpness that officially ended the conversation. She dropped the remote on the island and left.

When Fan went up to her bedroom, Miss Cathy was already there, waiting for her. Usually Miss Cathy came in and sat down on the bed, and they briefly talked about what Fan was doing, either in her studies or the program she was watching, though never for very long. She was not terribly interested in the details Fan offered, as Mala always was; it was simply about their convening before each retired for the night, checking in, as a mother would, to make sure her child was comfortable and happy and ready for sleep. But of course, Miss Cathy would take the many extra steps of inspecting Fan’s hands and nails and teeth and hair, the soles of her feet and toes, to make sure she was as clean as could be, though still rarely touching her. In fact, she almost never did, except for that first time they did their scrubbing, nor did she ever caress or embrace her.

But that night she did, gesturing Fan forward and hugging her; she even kissed Fan on the forehead, her lips dry and cool. She pressed Fan to her chest for what seemed a very long time. And then the woman took a step back and beheld her, with what to Fan could only be described as a great welling of satisfaction and pride.

We’re finally getting to know each other, aren’t we? Miss Cathy said.

Yes, answered Fan.

We want to be happy, don’t we?

Fan nodded.

As happy as we can be?

Again she nodded.

And do you know, Fan, how we can make that happen?

No, Fan said, taking a step back now, from the wildness in the woman’s eyes.

It’s how it always happens. You’re young, but I think you know. It’s this way: We make our special place. Our very own little spot. Our little world. Where we’ll live with one mind and heart. Do you understand me?

Fan said she did, though this time just with her eyes.

Oh, Fan, you’ve done so well here!

Miss Cathy leaped forward and embraced her tightly enough that Fan nearly became faint, her face jammed between the woman’s plush breasts, which smelled of nervous dampness, a fast souring.

I’m so proud of you. Everything’s changed since you’ve come!

Fan figured she was referring to Mister Leo, and that she had somehow spurred Miss Cathy to do something finally, though seeing the woman’s heightened, almost disordered, expression, it wasn’t clear this was what she meant at all.

Miss Cathy asked her if she wanted to take one of her “friends” with her, namely one of the many dolls and stuffed animals she bought for Fan on their sprees.

Where are we going? Fan asked.

To my place, Miss Cathy said. You’ve not been there yet but I know you’ll like it. We have a special spot for you.

Fan shook her head but Miss Cathy did not notice, or did not want to, and simply cupped Fan’s shoulder and walked her down the length of the house, to the far end, where she and Mister Leo had had their separate suites. There were double doors to each, and when Miss Cathy touched the knob, there was a click and they entered through the doors on the right, which automatically locked behind them. The suite was an immense multichambered room, the first part of which was furnished with a loveseat and armchairs and coffee table. Next was the bedroom, where Miss Cathy’s king-sized bed was made up with fancy linens and abundant throws and shams. Beyond the bed was another entire section of the suite behind curtained glass French doors, which Fan assumed was where the dressing room and bathroom were. Miss Cathy led her around the bed. On the far side was a young child’s mattress on a low steel platform, short enough in length that Fan’s own feet might hang over its edge. It was made up very plainly, with just a white sheet and a thin gray-brown flannel blanket, which made it seem almost penal, particularly in contrast to the opulence and great size of the bed beside it.

Miss Cathy was almost teary-eyed, she was so pleased with the sight.

This is where you’ll stay, she beamed. Right next to me. No one else but you for the next three days. It’ll be so nice.

I prefer to stay in my own room, Fan told her. Or else downstairs with Mala.

That’s no longer possible, Miss Cathy said. This is your place now. We’d like to keep you.

You and Mala?

Mala? Miss Cathy said, her voice gone totally cold. Mala has nothing to do with anything.

That’s when a giggling could be heard coming from behind the curtained French doors. There was a tiny knock. Miss Cathy said, Yes, dear, and the door opened. It was one of the girls from Mala’s viewer, though a few years aged. She wore a simple white cotton nightshirt with an embroidered collar, rustic and old-fashioned. A second girl came out, wearing the same, though she was much taller and older. And then another followed, and another, until it was all seven of the girls Fan had seen in the album. Some were grown women, twice as broad as the youngest. But something was different about all of them, and not just that they had grown older. All of their eyes were huge and shaped in the same way, half-moons set on the straight side, like band shells but darkened, their pupils being brown. They were all giggling now, shoulders scrunched, their high pitch cutesy and saccharine. They crowded about Fan, bright of teeth. They smelled laundered and dryer-fresh. And now one of them was gently touching her face, others her hair, the rest clasping her arms, her hands, already vining themselves through her, snatching Fan up.