my welcome to Grenada « Letters from Grenada

my welcome to Grenada

When I first arrived in Grenada in April of 2005 I was so malnourished, my skin would bruise under the barest touch. I was drowning in depression, hardly able to bear food in my mouth. Thankfully, I was coherent enough to want to get better. I knew that living under the tropical sun would just have to raise my spirits. I was counting on it.

Pretty soon I was on the mend. Every day, I walked in the sun. I hand-painted our dinghy boat, Little Dipper. I learned to dance. I discovered soca, a Caribbean style of music that soon became my lifeblood. For the first time since I was 15, I wore a bikini to the beach. I looked good and I knew it.

But I was still wounded. My own body was a haunting reminder of my own sexuality, of my former relationship and how betrayed I felt. I couldn’t bear to be naked, so I would shower in my bathing suit, doing my best to hide from myself, to wash without touching.

One morning I stood alone at the edge of St. David’s Harbour. I was wearing my Grenada uniform – capri jeans, white sleeveless linen blouse, tevas, a neat bun slicked back with carrot oil, and my prescription sunglasses. The barmaids in the beach bar with only a view of my back surely thought I was relaxing, enjoying the sun, maybe watching the boats in the harbor. It was all so beautiful, yet tears ran down my face, stinging my sun-weathered cheeks. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just get happy? Why am I so scared? Why do I need to hide? What did I do to deserve this? How much longer until I get better?

I no longer fantasized about being hit by a bus. I no longer yearned for someone to randomly shoot me in the back. Back in New York, I had yearned for physical catastrophe to lend reason to my psychic pain. I wanted to obliterate my mind, to turn off my thoughts. I had craved tumbling into oblivion…

I no longer felt that bad, but I didn’t feel good either. I still cried every day, but only once or twice now, instead of incessantly.

I knew about Lyndon long before I met him. He was a good friend of my stepfather, John. John had died before I ever met Lyndon, before I ever came to Grenada, but John had loved to tell stories about his new friend. They had braved Hurricane Ivan together, huddled inside a concrete shower block, the only safe place in the boat yard. When there was a relative calm in the storm, the two of them ran out, together, and reinforced the safety straps on all the boats. Lyndon’s courage, honesty, and ability to have a real conversation, set him apart. John clearly felt both respect and affection for him. The last time I ever saw him, at a wedding a few months before the accident, I teased him, Oy, how many stories do you have about this guy? Do you have a crush on him or what? John let me tease him. I had, after all, learned it by watching him.

*

Late one night, about two weeks after I got to Grenada, I sat alone on a picnic table on the dark beach. Everyone was asleep, even the security guards. I reeked of bug spray, yet still sand flies were feasting on my ankles. I ignored them. I studied my cell phone, weighed it in my hand… I reread old text messages, messages I should have already deleted. I thought about calling my Ex in New York. I resisted, knowing he’d hang up the second he heard my voice. I reread the last text I ever got from him: I wish you all the best, Maria, but my life is better without you in it. I sighed, then pinched the bridge of my nose and wiggled it, shaking away the prickly taste of threatening tears. I started deleting phone numbers. First Ex, then his siblings, his parents, his friends, his secretary. Our cleaning lady who was now only his cleaning lady. History.

A figure appeared on the jetty. Oh, I realized, that’s John’s friend. Lyndon. I jumped up and ran to him, crossing his path so he had to stop walking.

“Hey! Hey. Hi.” He looked right at me, his eyes unreadable. “I’m Maria, I’m Kay’s daughter.”

He nodded once, crisply. “I know,” he said, already walking away.

Though I’d never thought of myself as especially attractive, being in Grenada was changing that. It seemed every other guy who worked in the boat yard was dying to talk to me, the pretty white girl with the big butt and little waist. Lyndon was the first one who seemed totally unimpressed, totally uninterested in chatting with me. I had to laugh at myself and my assumptions.

That Friday, after work, while the band played in the beach bar, Lyndon invited me to smoke a joint. I was thrilled to agree, not so much because I craved his company, but because smoking marijuana was, at that time, one of the only ways I could really relax. We talked for a couple of hours. “I don’t like you,” he assured me repeatedly. He told me about his children, about his ex-wife. He was the eighth of nine children. At nine he’d taught himself to hunt manicou and tatou to make money to buy himself his first pair of nice shoes. He could catch an iguana with his bare hands.

It was good to have a new friend. I was glad he didn’t like me. I had promised myself that I wanted to be single for a long time.

Lyndon speaks English that sounds almost like French. His skin is dark caramel, his eyes dark and big and deep. He keeps his raven hair greased into smooth waves and ponytailed. His skin smells like smoky cocoa butter. His cheekbones are graceful. His smile is feline. His arms are gorgeous. He’s built like a rugby player.

When Lyndon said he didn’t like me, he wasn’t lying exactly. He didn’t like me, he explained a few weeks later, because he loved me. I was suspicious. He barely knew me. “It’s a vibes, babes,” he insisted. “I love you and I will always be loving you.” I still don’t know why he loves me, but I know that he does. From the beginning I saw it and felt it in everything he did. The first time I kissed him, his mouth tasted as soft as it looked. Soon after I discovered that every inch of his body was smooth like velvet.

By August we lived together. He spoiled me. He did all the laundry, all the cleaning, and most of the cooking. I started eating again. I stopped showering in my bathing suit. I celebrated my first Carnival.

In September he brought home two beautiful puppies, a male and a female from the same litter. I named them Emily and Ivan, like the Hurricanes.

In October, I was offered a job in the boat yard. I eagerly accepted, happy beyond belief to have found work in Grenada. Then I discovered I was pregnant.

I was surprised. I was on the pill. Later I found out that many women had gotten pregnant while taking that particular pill. Some of us ladies, apparently, should not take low-dose birth control pills. But that was moot. I was 28 and I was pregnant. For most of my twenties, I’d barely given motherhood a thought. Now, I suddenly realized how much I wanted a baby. When I told Lyndon he was thrilled. When I told my mother she was so happy she cried. I hugged her, squeezing her tight. She’s a head shorter than me, so I had to lean down when I whispered in her ear:

“If it’s a boy, I’ll name him for John.”

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