Not Just Ivy

Celeste Baker

 

I step off the plane, not on my island, where I grew up, but on another island where the beaches are just as beautiful and the hotels are a lot cheaper, with a big grin on my face. I had worked hard to get all my body fat where I wanted it. I had searched for just the right bathing suit that wouldn’t ride up or fall down in the water. I had practiced four easy to do hairstyles for my long locks. I was vacation ready. I was exhausted.

In the taxi the driver asks me if I need to go to the bathroom because I’m squirming so much, pushing hard on my own imaginary gas pedal.

“No,” I tell him, “I’m okay, I’m just happy to be here. I’m only staying two nights.”

Two nights. To rest without thinking in my sleep. Without having to be ‘on’, having to conform, cooperate, collude.

I sigh, pushing out recycled airplane air.

“It woulda been more—shoulda been more—but those people I work for, back in de States, they’ll make my life more difficult if I don’t come back on Monday to help, and by help dey mean come up wid all de ideas to advertise dis new drug.”

My shoulders relax and I hear my Caribbean accent coming out, my speech pattern changing.

“Is something like LSD. You remember LSD from back in de day? Here dey come now wanting to sell dis new drug to people dat need to calm down, people dat want to escape reality. So dat’s everybody, right? But even though I tink it’s a bad idea, I going do it, of course.”

Just like I’d helped to redefine words like organic, grass fed and natural. Or changed the perception of blood clots, rectal bleeding and suicidal thoughts to acceptable risks.

“Dey’d really like to fire me,” I continue, even though I know better than to throw my ‘good job’ problems at strangers, “because I’m a Black woman and I talk back a lot. But de ting is, I’m good. So now I only have two nights ‘cause I gotta keep paying de rent on my overpriced studio apartment and it takes two paychecks to do it. So, there you go, mutual hostages in a struggle for survival. Oh, good, it looks just like de pictures.”

De taxi driver, a big belly man wid a splotchy beard, who had looked at me wid concern before, now ignores me as if I’m just another whiny American tourist, but I too happy to care.

Five two story buildings scattered up a small hill, painted in what folks think of as tropical colors, blues and greens, pinks and oranges. Lush grounds, coconut trees, palm trees, white sand beach. Outdoor bars and restaurants. Blue sky, blue sea, little puffy clouds swirling from bunnies to trains and back again. Familiar enough to be comforting, but without the obligation to visit with family and friends. I need time alone, to purge, to push ‘necessity me’ to the back of my life for a little while.

After a quick drenching and some actual swimming dat leaves me heart-poundingly out of breath I lay on de sand wid me feet and legs receiving de gentle massage of de waves, soaking up Mother Nature’s joy-inducing Vitamin D. I let meself fall asleep. Sun dreams are de best dreams.

No one bother me. When I wake up, I see de stars gon soon be in de sea. Dat’s what we used to say, when I was little and Mama and Daddy would take us to de beach after dinner. Dey would cuddle on de sand and talk while Reggie, Amelia, and I ran around and yelled and screamed and stomped in de waves ‘til we were worn all de way out. After a day of school and homework and chores it didn’t take dat long. We weren’t alone on de long walks back up de hill to our house, either. We shared de trail and crossed paths wid mongooses, turtles, iguanas and frogs, and other creatures. Mama made us learn de names and uses of almost all de plants, too.

So I not frighten when I wake up, alone, on de beach, in de dark.

De sea take back some of she own and leave me feet and legs dry and itching. I suspect de no-see-ums and mosquitos is what had really wake me. I ain’t had much of nothing to eat or drink, since a coffee at four thirty in de morning so I thirsty and hungry. On de plane, which was too cold, and nerve-wracking, what wid everybody tinking everybody else is de enemy, I only had some water, refusing de dog biscuits dey pretend is cookies.

I get up a little creakily and stumble through de sand, back up to de chair, where I left my towel and cover-up. My building is de furthest from de beach, and not by coincidence, de cheapest, and I ain’t want to take de lighted pathways all de way around de other buildings when I could see de balcony of me room right dere through de carefully designed bushes and trees. I look at de bush—not what I would have called bush, trees and plants left alone to grow however dey want—but dis cultivated bush, tamed and trimmed for admiring from a distance. I go on in.

 

 

I was always alive, but when the sun went down I was alive and awake. I knew it was late afternoon when I began to feel restless. Small tingling sensations stirred through my stems and leaves. My flowers began to yearn to unfurl, to enjoy the touch of the cooling evening air. Was it windy? How many bugs were on me? Where and what kind? Aphids? Whiteflies? Thrips? I prickled with anticipation, moisture rippling through me, up from my roots. Twilight was my time. No sun, no moon, a time of transition. Were any of my fruit ripe enough to burst? To spread my seeds? I was growing well here, flourishing in this carefully tended landscape. But I no longer wanted to tolerate having my sprouts weeded away, unwelcomed and unwanted.

A certain something resonated through the ground. Faint, from far away. From the sand, near the water. It got stronger as it got closer. Closer to where the sand gradually changed to dirt. Stronger still as the dirt morphed into soil made rich by life’s victims. A human. A woman. A woman with the potential to carry me with her, in her. A woman already carrying seeds within her, not unlike my own.

This is the right one. This presence on the sand, on the ground, with feet and arms and the scent of far way.

In preparation, I pulled the life from the hibiscus plant on my morning sun side. A common thing, ordinary dull red flowers that shamelessly opened to the sun. Its already-wilting petals dropped to the ground as I stretched my roots, made contact, and sucked. No more hibiscus tea for the gardener from this one, at least. Leaves curled and fluttered down as I seeped its strength. I took the allamanda behind me next, its bright yellow flowers had always annoyed me. The gardener made an elixir for human babies with jaundice or colic from its leaves. Not anymore. Not from this one. Dead. I stripped the jasmine of any hope for a future. I was a bit regretful as I latched onto the oleander. I had some respect for it, being poisonous, like me, but it’s toxicity would strengthen my own, so it too withered and died.

I withdrew my roots and eased back, loosening myself from the soil, raising myself skyward. Dirt and dead bugs fell off as I rose, as I reshaped myself to resemble the form coming towards me.

 

 

I step around de stupid Do Not Enter sign, still hearing de music from one of de hotel bars, not dat far away. I start dance-walking, dancing, but still making forward progress, tramping, like we do in parades. Having a great time all by meself, dancing among and wid de trees, enjoying de dirt under me feet. Taking in big breaths of de sea salt air. Greeting de stars wid de names of me family members who gone to live in de sky. Complimenting de night blooming flowers. Chirping back to de crickets and frogs.

I doing my signature move, a kind of back-bending twirl, when de song change to Whodini’s “The Freaks Come Out At Night”. I straighten up, dizzy, grab out for something, find a sturdy limb.

A sharp pain stab me palm and another pain shoot up me wrist. I try raise me arm closer to me eyes, to see how bad de cuts, but it can’t move. I can’t move me arm. What de rass? What I grab has grab me back. I feel de branch pierce me hand, a hard chook. Cold, spikey liquid threading up through me hand, me arm, into me shoulder and neck. De ground shift de way de sand does slide under you feet. Me throat close up, like I going cry, blocking me breath. Me eyes blur wid tears, and I tink I see a tree where wasn’t no tree before. A tree, shaped like a woman. White flowers around a face of bark. Each second de wood more mobile, more flesh-like. Eyes big and staring, like de eyes of a owl. Stems, leaves and branches arrange into neck, shoulders and torso. More flowers, darker dan de rest, hanging down like a skirt. Brown legs shading into white ankles and white feet wedded to de dirt.

De ting holding me. De plant-tree-woman ting. One scratchy arm grasping, puncturing me forearm, de other holding me tight ‘round me waist.

She wrap she roots, stringing out from she feet, ‘round me ankles and pull me in close. She move like she tink she dancing. Dust swirling ‘round we feet. Me knees bend when she pinch de back a dem. She push me hips back and forth, left and right wid she slender twig fingers, each one like a hot coal stick on me flesh. De leaves whispering, but I can’t make out de words.

I scream and scream, but nobody hear. Nobody come.

I try snap de twigs, break de branches, but dey supple and only bending. I scrabble one foot round de other, trying to tear de vines tying me feet to hers. I curse and spit, but de plant woman ting only bind up me hands and wrap more vines round me throat.

I could see de people at de bar over she shoulder, through she branches and leaves, as she swing me around in she wild version of dance.

De other plants and bushes ain’t swaying like she. Ain’t no breeze, just hot humid air. I feel de feathery ferns and salvias licking me wid night dew as de plant-tree-woman ting pushing and pulling me up de hill. Sea grapes falling, as we bump each tree along de way.

Dis ain’t real, I tell meself. I must really be tired to tink I need dis crazy ting to help me back to me room. I just gotta keep moving. Is only me imagination. T’ain real. Is only a scratch. Couple scratches. I gon soon be dere, in de hotel room, where I gon order a room service dinner, drink lots of water, and clear me head. ‘Cause no way dis could be real.

 

 

She wasn’t hard to enter. I pushed myself into her, mixing my sap with her blood. She went limp in my arms, and I wrangled her around to my back and inched us both closer to the lights, my feet firming with each step. My veins merging with hers, my needs becoming ours.

I was most of the way through the trees and bushes when I had to stop. The moon above too bright. The surrounding sky too dark. My time of the night over. My strength ebbed. I drooped to the ground, spread myself over her legs, belly, chest and head, hiding her, keeping her safe, weaving my seeds into her hair, pushing them into her ears, tucking them between her toes, sticking them onto her clothes.

I kept her like that through the rest of the night, through the morning, and on into the day. At twilight, I roused and found more places to sow my seeds. Dark places, moist places.

 

 

I wake up on me back, half buried under a datura bush. Branches atop me like dey trying to hold me down. Me skin itch and I feel swollen, bloated and heavy. Me breath coming short and I feel me pulse in me neck, feel de hotness of de blood in me head. De sun high and me sweat trickle ‘cross me cheeks and into me ears. De earth’s dampness seeping in through me clothes. I ain’t self move yet, but I dizzy and nauseous.

Datura, moonflower, jimsonweed, used for fever, pain, arthritis, asthma. Invasive. Causes hallucinations, can permanently change de brain, poisonous. Me mother lessons come back to me plain plain.

I push de damn ting off me chest, kick and thrash to free me legs. All dat exhaust me already. What had happen? Why I find meself sprawl out under a datura bush, like a dying cat trying to bury sheself? I raise up on me elbows, wait a bit and raise up some more. Is so I make it to me feet. De colors all wrong, as if I seeing through a tint of dried blood, muddy red. Me knees almost buckle wid each step, but I making it. Making it back to me room, de world spinning around me.

All I tinking as I nearing me room, card key in hand, is dat I want to bathe. Me skin itching me so bad. I want water. I want food. I want sleep. I so glad nothing bad happen. Nothing worse. I had fall asleep in the bush, had a bad, crazy dream. It coulda been much worse.

I step inside and de tile floor almost throw me down. A paper slide across de floor from where me foot had kick it. Damn blasted stupid people. Why dey gon’ leave something on de floor, make people fall? I slam de door, hard, and me head almost explode from de noise. I put me foot on de paper and drag it to de bed where I go to sit down.

Is de checkout notice. Can’t be. I here for two nights. Is only been one. I ain’t self get to sleep in de damn bed. I hunt ‘round for me phone. Check de date. Turn on de TV. Check de date. Call de front desk.

I been in de bush for more dan a day and a half? What de rass?

And I’m going to miss the plane if I don’t leave now. Right now.

I fling a dress on over my bathing suit and cover-up, and I’m out of the door, hurrying to the hotel lobby, to find a taxi, to get to the airport, to get back to my job, dusting strange grit off myself off all the while. I wish I could have taken a shower, but other than that, I’m doing better than okay. My headache is gone and the sun feels good on my skin. I’m just a little thirsty. My trip was bizarre—I don’t understand how I could have lost two days with no recollection of what happened—but I feel renewed, transformed. Ready to go on earning my place on the planet.