Geet
A scrapbook of memories
Put together in a hurry
2: Mr. Tim
"Geet...!
Mom's voice whizzed past my six-year-old ears before the morning sun swallowed it up like it did everything else---the moon, the stars. Dreams. I didn't yell back a response. I had better things to do.
In the backyard, I stood barefoot on the wet grass. I love the way the green grass catches the sun in the early morning and how it crunches under my feet and bounces right back up after I've stomped on it with all my might. But that happens to be my second favorite memory. My first is Mr. Tim.
Mr. Tim was my friend. My secret friend. (You know how little kids like to have secret friends.) We first met behind the giant old beech tree. No one dared to go near it, but I did. Big trees don't scare me.
It was springtime. I know because I could smell the lilacs and the leaves were the color of fresh squeezed lemonade. The faded deck above me creaked like Nana's old knees as I eyed the steep slope.
Then, like always, I ran-skipped a few steps before I dropped down and slid the rest of the way on my bottom. It was so fun, even though I knew later Mom would give me ten with her wooden spoon.
I slapped my jammies to get rid of the mud and twigs then stood up and hugged the tree. I slid slowly around it, making loud squelching sounds as my feet sank into the ground, soggy from the sprinklers Dad had left running late into the night. I giggled when the tree scratched my face as my little fingers dug into the holes in its trunk. Someone had carved his name on it. Someone I didn't know. L-I-O-N-E-L. Another secret. I giggled louder.
Hush! Mr. Tim is here!
I looked up and saw him watching me from way up high in the branches. His big, bushy tail wiggled and snapped, up and down, side to side then stayed quiet.
I spotted something red in his hands. We had a long staring match. I didn't give up even when my neck began to hurt.
Then he was gone.
I decided he liked me.
The next day I offered him some peanuts that I sneaked from Dad's stash. Dad liked to gorge on them while watching TV. He would scatter the shells all over the carpet even though Mom made him clean it up afterwards.
Mr. Tim liked the peanuts very much. He snatched them from my hand and jumped into the tree, scurrying up the trunk in a flash. Then he came down for more.
The following week he let me pat his little head with my finger while he ate.
I tried to follow him up the tree, but I couldn't. I would slide down to the ground each time and scrape my knees. I think he figured that out because he came down to the ground and let me chase him around the yard. He ran, hopped, jumped and flew. Yes he did. Like a bird.
Then one day he didn't come. I waited and waited as I stared up the tree. Mom said maybe he forgot. (You see she'd discovered my secret.) But when she saw my face scrunch up in a pouty frown, she covered and said; "Maybe he found a new friend, Geet, and a new tree. Squirrels are like that. Don't fret.
But Mr. Tim didn't forget nor did he go anywhere else. I know that because I found a piece of him in the yard; his tail; under some leaves behind the tree. He had kept his promise. It was I who had been too late. I must have cried an ocean that day.
Chap 3 below!
3: Halfbreed
Memories
A few good times and pain.
Lots of pain
Nana. It was among the first words I ever knew. I loved saying it out loud and repeating it over and over for no reason at all. Maybe because it made me feel good, or because it brought Nana to me even when she wasn't around. The warm, cushy, teddy bear, big, booming voice and fresh baked cookie perfume of Nana. Then when she was around, I needed say nothing else. She knew exactly what was in my head. If I was happy or sad or just fooling around. Nana was my comfort soul.
We go way back. Nana and I. From my first tussle with mashed carrots (which by the way, I don't like very much) to the time when I figured the potty was the place to poop and pee. (I'd do it as long as it had the Blue's Clues seat on it.) Nana was the one who made me recite my ABC's, then hung around near the school gates waiting patiently everyday, a broad smile on her face as I ran screaming with joy into her arms. Seeing Nana meant it was time to go home.
Most of my childhood afternoons were spent in her little cardboard shack of a house but what I remember most is her kitchen--- my homing zone---ever cheerful and sunny bright; swimming in an ocean of yummy scents even when the world outside was coming to an end.
"Princess Geet lives in a fortress and nothing can harm her, Nana would say, her breath whistling in and out of her mouth as she stood behind me as we gazed out the fogged-up window at the sky falling down. I would believe her. At least at the time I did though there were other things she said that made me wonder.
Like when she looked at me and said, "Baby, you are impossibly gorgeous. She did so many times. I think I heard it first when I was about four or five years old. But Nana was giving too much credit to my infantile vocabulary. Then I began to read, and all grannies morphed into creatures who baked and talked weird.
Most times I'd try to ignore her, but that's when she decided to say more. I remember the day quite clearly. It was the 10th of June, Dad's thirty-third birthday. Nana had just finished cooking all the dishes for the surprise party Mom had planned to have at our place later that evening. I was helping clean up as Nana was going sniff sniff while turning the pages of an old album like she did every year.
Little, white snow clouds. That's what the lemon meringue cookies looked like. Irresistible. I stuffed one into my mouth, then reached for another. Nana blocked me with her bulk. She had a funny look about her.
"When you were not even two, folks would look at you then turn to your ma and say she better ready herself for trouble and get you a chastity belt.
A big, black fly was buzzing around like a mini helicopter. He had somehow managed to slip in through the screened back door. "What is a chast-tit-tee belt Nana? I asked as I watched the fly hover dangerously close to a large dish of spaghetti and meatballs. What was he waiting for?
ZZZIIIPPP! Nana's dish towel whizzed through the air leaving the dish miraculously undisturbed. Then she fell back into her rocking chair and hooted, her dentures going cluck-cluck in her mouth while her huge belly wobbled like jell-o. "Not something for you to know young lady. Not yet!
I gave her a stupid smile. Her weirdness didn't stop there.
"My dear Geet, the big man above took your mum and dad and put them together in a blender, and out came you. A sinfully delicious smoothie! She giggled.
I was sure the summer sun was melting her head.
There's nothing delicious about this smoothie, I thought, as I checked out the mirror a couple of years down the road. The green-brown eyes were too big and out of sync in the tan oval face. It looked like someone had taken a caramel marker and slashed wildly at the ebony black hair. A permanent marker. Oddball. That was me. Attracter of strange looks on the street.
School was worse. There my day wouldn't be done till some kid had pinched my skin or yanked my hair.
I'm a half-breed. I didn't fit anywhere. My Mom's name is Sameera, and she's,---an almond eyed, brown-skinned, slim-figured woman from an orthodox Hindu family with roots in Nepal. She hooked up with a gora called Andrew. Not just any man, either. Dad is a walking-talking CK model look-alike.
How did these two get together? Nana never grew tired of telling the story and I never grew tired of listening, because it was nothing less than a fairytale.
Dad owned a small used car dealership. Actually, he co-owned it, with Uncle Frank, his cousin. In a short time it had earned the reputation of being the best in town. Not an easy feat by any means because Monroe, Michigan isn't little. I wasn't surprised. I had seen him at work. Customers, women in particular, hung onto his every word.
Then one day Mom arrived. She was on the lookout for an inexpensive ride. New to town she had just joined an accounting firm. Dad sold her a lemon. When we asked him later, after I came along, his excuse was he wanted to see her again.
And he did.
In a week, Mom was back demanding her money and threatening she'd go to the police to get the fledgling dealership shut down. Dad, of course, was anticipating it. He turned on his charm and apologized, saying he would foot the entire bill for repairs plus chauffeur her to and fro from work as a guarantee. Mom ho--hummed a little then finally agreed. She was smitten with him as well.
"Then, soon, after several cups of chai tea in the coffee shop, walks along the lakeshore and ... you don't have to know that, Nana said with a wink at me. "Drew did the honorable thing and proposed, and you were born before the year had gone by.
I'd jump up and clap hard, though it wasn't long before I guessed what the wink meant. Nana deserved all the thrill she could get.
It didn't take much to spoil Nana's mood either. All I had to do was ask about Angela, my step-sister. Nana would suddenly get into a fuss. She would ho and hum, and try to wiggle out of it. Sometimes I succeeded in pinning her down, but her answer always remained the same.
"Your Daddy made a mistake, she'd say, her face all droopy while her knobbed hands hugged her tummy. "He was still figuring out his life and wasn't in his senses. He was stupid and so was Denise. It happens.
Denise is Angela's mom. Though I saw her only once and for a very short time---because Mom banished me to my room---her image pops up like magic every time anyone mentions her name. Maybe because she surprised and disturbed me at the same time. Denise--I'd been told--was Dad's age or maybe slightly older but to me she looked old. Really old. Older than Nana even.
I first noticed her hair, it was long, almost down to her waist, but real thin, colorless and limp. Her face was bloated, her cheeks hung below her jaw and there was a sickly yellow color to her skin that even the heavy makeup she wore couldn't hide. Nana was right. Dad was indeed stupid. She was also very skinny, her bony shoulders seemed about ready to crack under the weight of her thick leather jacket. Maybe that's why she kept stumbling all the time and was the reason Dad had to hold her up. Mom didn't like it at all. I heard the term alcoholic' dropped several times during their conversations about her.
Angela had nothing to do with any of it. Be nice to her. Geet, she deserves it, Nana would wag her finger and I knew she really meant it.
Now Nana was being unfair. What she was asking was something close to impossible. Angela didn't deserve nice. Besides she hated me. But I nodded and said yes with all the sincerity I could muster. Two weekends out of four spent in wicked Angela's company was something I could handle.
But none of us expected Denise to buy herself a permanent residence in prison after deciding to run her truck over a two-year old while under a suspended license. It forced Angela to come and stay with us forever. That's when I said to myself the deal was off. No more Ms. Nicegirl.
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