The small wooden stick perched at the edge of the receptionist’s desk mocked me. Lazily burning with a bright orange ember glowing in a tight coil, a fan blew its smoke in my direction and my cough was automatic. “don’t dead in here” i could hear Mama’s voice over the din of the organ in Our Lady’s Parish. Altar Boys would wait the entire week to drown the church in Frankincense. It made my head swim. i hated it. Even now i could feel Mama’s fingers gripping my knee with one hand reminding me to sit still.

“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow…”

She clutched her church program tightly in her right hand. In the middle pew of the parish, she was always poised to sing louder than most, stronger than most. “Praise Him, all creatures here below…” Mama’s eyes are always closed here. Soaking in the presence of doxology. Written solely for her to bask in God’s presence.

“Praise Him, above ye heavenly host…” i think now, in this cold waiting room, i miss her voice and the way she reveled in the incense and maybe i should send her a message to tell her about the Masses i haven’t attended.

“Doctor will see you now.” i’ll tell her later.

“Don’t dead in here.”

Would it be so bad if i did? i can think of no greater ‘Fuck you,’ than inconveniencing the old man sat across from me. His chamois creased face sinking into an off-white, dirt riddled coat. Does he have a wife? The overhead lights were clashing with the fading summer sun. “I bet it’s pink.” The harshness of the LED highlights gnarled fingers that led to slick oily nails. Yet, here i lay before him —bare. The thick white film on his tongue, an indicator that the haunting stench wafting between us didn’t belong to me. It was broken only by the shrivelled wax of the Airwick in the corner of his office.

Thrush and Potpourri. A really good name for a band actually. i’d listen to it.

“Open for me sweet girl”
Maybe not.

i can see the box of unopened gloves across the room and as his cold fingers slide easily along my legs, i wished they were ashy. Dry. Not the glossy highway paved by coconut body butter and oud. “You have no reason to be nervous” Asthma with one kidney? i have the tools to give this man mountains of paperwork. i’ll never draw more attention to myself though. Instead, i insert a polite smile in the tepid silence. “Lay back for me princess.” The paper beneath me crinkled as i shuffled backwards, the stirrups screeched as they were being pulled from the old rusty table. “you said you ride?” English saddle before daddy ruined us, western saddle when the season shifted.

i had nervously admitted it to him the day before in an innocent ramble powered by embarrassment. In the light of the market, the doctor looked like her late grandfather. The crows had visited the corner of his eyes, his jokes were sufficiently tame for a Sunday school class. He asked me about myself at the grocery store. The ramen was on too high a shelf. i knocked the display over and he assured me that it happened all the time. “don’t worry, I’ve done worse!” Mama says we should always have three facts about ourselves at the ready. So, when the good doctor asked me more about my life, the people that loved me into being, the passions that shaped my curiosity, i mentioned the stables that were tucked away off the Grand Bahama Highway. In the light of the grocery store, standing next to prepackaged soup and gummy candy, i talked to the old man about learning to jump for the first time. my face had twisted in the store aisle thinking of the transition from English saddle to Western. When daddy left, Mummy couldn’t afford English jump lessons. i heard the spit slap his palm before i saw it, “you gonna ride for me?” how? the grandfatherly figure from the grocery aisle was replaced with a Hyde of sorts. i focused my attention instead on the water-rot ceiling tile directly above my face. my gaze eventually travelled across the room to my discarded phone. Stuck on DND. i never need it until i do. “you gonna ride for me?” when his slick and wet hand forced my chin towards him it was punctuated only by his receptionist’s knock.

The woman who power stomped in looked as old as Mama. Rigid posture. Stiff A-line skirt, and a tight bun. She wouldn’t be nice but she would certainly be fair. She walked further into the room, her orthopaedic shoes bouncing against the dirty floor and touched his shoulder, “I rescheduled your 3:00. I figured you needed more time with this one.” Mama was right, i really do have bad judgement. The self-preservation of a moth in a lightning storm. She locked eyes with me “your card declined. Do you have another or would you like to pay cash?” That couldn’t be possible. She swiped my card for thirty. i left eighty in savings. How will i get home? “Don’t worry Mildred.” His hands had resumed their invasion; “I’ll cover it.”

“Good. See you in the morning sir.” The sharp click of the door marked her exit.
We were well and truly alone.

His hands were joined in now by thin chapped lips drawing a map from thigh to calf. Is this meant to itch? Small stiff bumps with static hairs appeared on both my arms. As his hands continued to roamed, i tried and failed to retreat further away.

“you need to relax” He was right. Janelle, who leads the commune’s free yoga class told me the same thing. “You carry your stress in your jaw Sean” i unclenched it “Your shoulders are always bunched up” i relaxed them. “Good girl,” he murmured against her skin as he continued to trace fingers and lips to what Mama always called the quiet place.

i hadn’t paid much attention to the plastic bird beak but maybe i should have. The way it squeaked when he pulled the clamp. How wide it was to begin with. It’s my own fault for being surprised by the impalement. The scream was right there. Packaged thinly in a bubble waiting to be popped. “you’re not uncomfortable, are you?” Yes.

“N-no sir.”

“Good girl, I knew you could take it.” a beat, “I’ll have to go deep,” his brow was beginning to drip sweat as his breathing increased. Eighteen-year-old Evan Moxey had said the same thing when he dragged my thirteen-year-old naive self behind the tents at Goombay Festival. His stutter made him a slight laughing stock among other children and a pity to the adults; but i found it endearing. “you ddddddon’t need to breathe right now,” He was the first boy to ever show interest. In truth, maybe it was my fault for letting Evan’s stuttery echo trick me. The small still bald patch on my head and the taste of strongly brined pickles still reminds me of that night. Am i a whore because i like pickles again? That’s not progressive. It was the first time Mama felt shame about me. When she found out I let Evan drag me behind the bridge of the Goombay Village it took a year for her to look me in the eye again. In that year, her unforgiveness was palpable until one day her anger and shame had expired. Evan had left for college, engineering, the neighbors said he got a full scholarship to go foreign. i had heard Mama yell for me from the stone oven at the back of the house, “Seany, you want a fritter?” and just like that his absence meant i was hers again. i had earned her gaze once more. i was allowed to sit next to her in Mass without fear of whispers. “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,” Drink communion without crying into the wine. “Praise him, all creatures here below” Mama had loved me again and I wouldn’t give her another chance to doubt my worth. “Praise him above, ye heavenly host…”

“So pink. I knew you’d be.” Right. I turned my head to the wall next to me, fixating on the UNHCR poster. i didn’t realize how many people died of dengue fever each year. How tragic. Mama hated every NGO but they piled her pantry with canned foods after Hurricane Dorian. i can see her now puttering around the small kitchen. Opening random canned beans. Reluctantly showing gratitude after the storm of a century, “I guess the two footed animals can serve a purpose.” It was actually the last peaceful dinner we had together before i announced my dream of moving to a bigger island. “you’re too ambitious.” She was right “there’s nothing wrong with staying home” there wasn’t.

“that island will devour you.”

“so pretty”

“you don’t have enough experience“

“so tight”

“wait a year. you’re too thin skinned”

“you’re so sensitive for me”

“they won’t be kind to a girl like you.”

“My. good. girl.”

His belt buckle made a clinking noise as it dragged along the exam room floor. “you can clean up now” you can clean up now. “Mildred will forward your test results in two weeks.” i look past his head and nod my understanding. My nose burned as i hold back tears. “I need to lock up. you have to go.”

With crepe medical paper stuck to me by sweat and God knows what else, i search the recesses of my mind for a dignified way to crawl off of this table. i’m trying to find the etiquette for this moment. At Mama’s behest, i read it cover to cover but Emily Post doesn’t have a chapter for this. Saturday morning etiquette classes didn’t cover the scenario of my current shame.

i manage to steady myself on shaky legs. Rushing through the locker room ritual of getting dressed in front of a stranger. A mumbled “thankyou” and a quick grab of my phone has me speed walking through the winding hallways of the public clinic. The water cooler i refused to drink from baits me in the now dim waiting area. The wooden incense stick has found its end at the base of the ashtray just below. Mildred’s chair is empty and the fan that taunted me just an hour prior has lost its power. i walk fast, and the faster i walk, the further the front door seems to get away from me. i don’t slow though. i stop only after i can hear the reckless jitneys rushing by, they dominate the road in ways i can only dream of. Rasta selling peanuts, fruit and juice; promising sweet guineps — “honey in da shell empress!” — that would eventually sour. School kids crowding the candy van, fighting over the last of rings pops and sour warheads. Only when i feel the sun on my face. A warmth that lasts five seconds before it’s swallowed by a cloud. Did the sun see my shame? Hidden behind clouds of grey leaving only an instantaneous chill in its wake, i wonder if it will somehow carry my news to Mama. Will she be embarrassed yet again? i drowned my indignity in the black box in my hand, turning on my notifications and preparing for a doom scroll.

School friends trying to make unrealistic social plans,
Cousins fighting in the group chat,
Samsung scammers with lottery tickets.
One by one, messages came in, none more important than:

“don’t dead out there” – Mama, 1: 55 P.M.
“I love you.”— Mama, 1:56 P.M.

“Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”