SCAR

The white pillow case is streaked with last nights make up, again. After months of this, it now looks as if someone has been trying to paint it black. She doesn’t remember crying on it. But then the sleeping pills do that; erase the previous ten hours, often without the benefit of sleep. She gets up, throws the case into the waiting bucket of bleach and wanders towards the bathroom, lifting off her nightdress as she walks.

Helen has many scars. One of them is a thin red line circling her neck, the aftermath of a massive spine operation. She covers this now, conscious of how eyes divert away quickly, awkwardly, during conversations, from what looks like the remains of a brutal attack. Assorted repairs on an infected hysterectomy have left her swollen from scar tissue and her stomach engraved with red crosses that look like burns. Her daughter Ruth had teased her about her ‘untidy-looking’ tummy, comparing it to a cross-word puzzle, twelve across, fifteen down. Within the confines of her home she has always felt free with her body despite all its stains, content to walk around the house naked in front of whoever happened to be living with her at the time. Besides Ruth, an assortment of nieces and cousins have sought refuge in the family’s only permanent shelter. They laugh now remembering how in summer, on returning from work, she’d take off her clothes at the poolside before even entering the house and slide into the water. She swam naked all the time in fact. And this habit did not change when they’d got together, when she’d “got a squeeze” Ruth had teased. He would approach the pool quietly with a beer in hand for her, not saying much, for he knew that she needed this time alone. And so she would float on her back, clear red scars facing the sky, in defiance it seemed, at having to hide herself under her clothes all day. She would lower her head so that the water covered her ears and she could hear only the rushing sound echo in her head. They knew then that it was time to draw the pining dog away from the pool edge and postpone the day’s questions for a while, and just leave her be.

She begins to get dressed. The process of getting ready is easy, for she need only choose a different colour of one of the many identical-styled outfits: loose fitting garments that hide her swollen middle, coupled always with a scarf around her neck to hide its scar. She applies mascara to lift her sunken eyelids, and is ready for the day. Convinced at times that dying would be her only relief, she’s questioned her belief that killing oneself is just not an option. Religion is no longer reason enough, as it may have been before. It is because of Ruth, who - insecure and isolated - would never cope with the death of her mother. So Helen has found a way to live, working and studying, the latter being the last remaining interest she has. Trained as a teacher, she has always harboured a passion for knowledge. Although she knows now, that the motivation to learn more is fuelled further by the desire to know more than others. This, she thinks, gives her some credibility in society - one good thing that shines through the ruins of her life.

It is at a seminary, high in the midlands, that she spends her days. Lonely, foreign young men, desperate for softness and sympathy, have come to need her as a mother. They don’t realize of course, that she needs them; their own eccentricity and vulnerability, a tacit acceptance of hers. Although her work here offers her occasional happiness, more importantly, it is the type of routine that provides enough activity to ward off a nagging daughter and friends to “get out and do something, meet people!” She arrives early to do some last minute marking. The hustle and bustle of morning lectures has not yet begun, and the grounds are still quiet. She sees John approaching the classroom. His body is stooped, he looks old, as if his 27 year old proud stride has aged overnight. He is a regular early morning visitor to her classroom, his gentle face breaking into a large white smile before shouting “my mama!” his arms opening to embrace her. He shares stories of his life in
Nigeria. He mentions often the girlfriend, Sarah, he had to leave, how it broke her heart, and how two years later, its breaking his.

A part of her wishes she could take better care of them. Particularly John, who because of his maturity and radiant spirituality, will most probably stay, climbing the ranks of the catholic priesthood. A lonely lonely life. She wants to warn him against what that means, sure that he has no idea. He enters her classroom. But its not the usually open face and straight white smile that greet her today. His face is heavy and his eyes dark. He hasn’t slept. His shaking hands funds, fumbling, draw clumsily the vacant chair towards him, his gaze fixed on her. She knows not to ask, but to wait for him to speak. A part of her hopes he wouldn’t even start, that the rest of the class would enter, early, eager. But of course they won’t, they never do.

“She killed herself. Last month, I didn’t know, I didn’t know!” his head fell onto hands, covering his eyes, the tears running between his fingers. “They didn’t tell me, my own family. They think that it make me feel better this way. That if I don’t know, no pain. But I wasn’t there to help her. I know if I been there, I take the sickness away. All the pain, it would just leave her. But she didn’t know I still love her. And now its too late.” He removes his hands from his face and places them in his lap, like a defeated little school boy. Facing down, she covers them with hers, keeping her eyes on them, afraid to look up directly at the pain, at the tears streaming down his sunken cheeks. She didn’t know what to say, but knew that whatever she did say would sound empty, just as all those silly utterances by concerned friends and family had to her. All that platitudinous lip service to the dead. Bullshit really.

She felt sick. Unsure why her heart was beating faster, why the sense of urgency to leave the room grew more intense. She wanted to runaway from him. Oh where were the students?! Where were they? She willed the time to pass quickly. She tried to swallow down the growing lump in her throat, afraid that saying something might reveal a break in her voice. All she could think about was when the students would arrive. She had to teach, she could not cry now. And so they did. They both heard the approaching laugher in the corridors; Happy, grief-free chuckles.

John got up and walked out, head high. On seeing his tear streaked face, his peers grabbed and squeezed his shoulder as he passed, becoming silent. Jean Paul, the eldest began to pray, speaking in a way that made Helen realize that this was normal and right. “For our Brother John, that the peace which transcends all human understanding be with him now and always”. Her bowed head grew hot. She would have liked a prayer.

And so it was only on the way home, alone, that she let herself remember the day he died. How it was so hot, and how the smoke from the fire breaks made her eyes water, the burning smell made her choke. And how she prayed so hard, begging, as she drove, for “it might be his time now” the nurse had said. How, too frightened to cry, she drove and drove as if in a trance, not really breathing. And when his breathing stopped, it was because she’d said he could, that she would be fine. And how his last sigh was one of relief, and that he was grateful to her. A hot day, she took off her scarf, her clothes, and slipped into the pool. Underwater, the tears didn’t feel so hot on her face.

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