One Last Wave

One Last Wave

J. A. Taylor

One Last Wave

Copyright © 2011 by J. A. Taylor

All rights reserved. Neither this publication nor any part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from The Message. Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group.

EPUB Version ISBN: 978-1-77069-486-6

Word Alive Press

131 Cordite Road, Winnipeg, MB R3W 1S1

www.wordalivepress.ca

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Taylor, J. A. (John Alexander), 1956-

One last wave / J.A. Taylor.

ISBN 978-1-77069-261-9

I. Title.

PS8639.A9515O64 2011 C813’.6 C2011-900837-8

Dedicated to my family and all who lived the African adventures with us.

PROLOGUE

It happens in that momentary blur between dream and reality, between past and present, between all you dread and all you hope for. The racing pulse, the breathless wonder, the spiritual terror clutching and grabbing and threatening to drain life while hacking open the dam of memories hidden away.

The breach in the dam started on a stormy summer evening. An unexpected leak and a trickle flowed out of my soul as I opened up the throttle on the Honda Rebel 250 motorbike. Something inside began to unravel as I spied the majestic stallion pawing at the thunderclouds and defying the lightning. The defiant snorts and whinnies of the other rebel captured my imagination. I was gripped by an unexplainable force inside. I had to race.

It’s when I’m eye to eye that I feel fully alive. Like now. The wind, tugging at the stream of my tangled hair, reaches down to my very soul. There’s an ecstasy in gliding inches away from the mane and the rippling muscles of the thoroughbred galloping full stride as he refuses to back off. I wind up the motorbike to another level and stare down the midnight champion as we battle side by side. The thunderclaps, streaks of lightning and pelting rain only compel me to race faster.

Time seems to stand still for a split second as we see each other fully melded. Wildness with wildness. Breath with breath. Life with life. The wind whistles across the black helmet and leather that fully cover me while it also slides over the glistening satin hide of the stallion. I feel free and invincible.

We streak across the fallow fields of farmland. Two midnight demons, side by side, eye to eye. Too late, I see it. Denman’s gully. And then we are airborne. Sky and ground begin their insane dance—a kaleidoscope of greens, blacks, browns, and flashes like a dozen cameras. I cartwheel head over heels, like a maple leaf in autumn, and in a moment lose myself in a well of blackness. The thunderclaps disappear. The lightning ceases.

I awake, alone, with the twisted frame of my motorcycle pinning my right leg at the knee. And that’s when the blur between dream and a past reality breaches the dam of denial. Just for a nanosecond. An image and a thought brush by my mind with the force of a spider web in the dark. It was that eye. I’d done this before. A dozen years ago. Once with a striped stallion on the African plains. Once with a fierce leopard in the bush. I know wildness at the innermost core of my spirit. I know pain everywhere else.

I don’t dare move as I slowly do a mental inventory of every bone and muscle screaming in protest. I feel the oozing goo on my face and through my hair. I lie in a rivulet formed by the storm and my body is a saturated sponge. The sky is clear as the sun prepares for hibernation. It caresses me with one last ray of warmth.

A snort nearby lets me know I am not alone. The guardian stomps impatiently nearby, willing me to rejoin the race. I attempt to catch his eye but only see movement far overhead. The circling eagle drifts around and around and around as I fade mercifully away.

My next recollection is of a starry night, voices, the bouncing lights of Uncle Jimmy’s pick-up and then nothingness. For some reason, the breach in the dam of memory increases a fraction.

The week in hospital is a miserable start to a holiday among the wheat fields of the Red River Valley. And yet, it is the start of rediscovering a life I once lost.

Hobbling around in this cast leaves me very susceptible to manipulation. The amnesia isn’t helpful either. I fall for a guilt trip about doing my part for the environment. Some forgotten celebrity tromping through the wards promises to sign my cast if I will think a little greener. I feel sorry for the guy. My reluctant agreement is to clean out my storage locker once I get back from the 500 acres of freedom in Minnesota. It isn’t supposed to change my life.

I feel like my life is nothing more than a puddle of melted vanilla dropped from the bottom of a half chewed cone. I just can’t remember why. I am okay to leave it that way but I figure no one left me in charge of the universe. For the record, my real awakening starts to happen on a Thursday. Before lunch. The rain is pounding on the roof. I have nothing better to do but to sort through my junk.

By now the records of my past life should have been shredded and recycled. Trashed with my high school transcripts and last plane ticket from Kenya. But no. The cobweb covered roll of journals is snuggled down behind the last box I move. It only takes a minute to dislodge the five or six spiders who have entrenched themselves as guardians of this crypt.

As I fan those pages the first time, I am afraid the scribblers will break into scraps. As I scan entries here and there, my soul is hyperventilating. Once upon a time, somewhere, somehow, I have known wildness. Heart to heart. Eye to eye.

Now my wildness is nothing more than a scrap yard of images and ink scrawls in some dog-eared scribblers long ago strangled into a roll by a fat green rubber band. I probably should never have opened these pages of my past but when that band snapped in my hand it seemed to be fate. When I discarded these journals, I buried the old me like a tulip bulb in the fall. I had forgotten the life hidden inside.

One thing I didn’t forget. I deliberately chose to establish the winter of my life by moving to a small West Coast town and finishing graduate school across the border in Canada—near to the grandparents who always housed our family on our absences from Africa. I settled in beside new faces that changed all the time and embraced new routines. I became a prisoner of the present. Yesterdays were a mirage. Tomorrows were a permanent vacancy.

But now the spring of my life has arrived without warning. Slowly, but surely. The first blades of a lost past start merging with my new journey. A hidden power works its way through my memory.

Soon after I escape my cast, I begin to remember the oddest things in the oddest places.

ONE

Memory is a funny friend. Just this morning, as I turn the corner by Bromiley’s supermarket, I feel the slightest caress of a summer breeze and I am suddenly transported half a world away to my girlhood days in Kenya. As I finish negotiating my way through the jungle of buggies and shoppers, my mind refuses to snap back.

A black face moves toward me and my tongue finds a former life. Jambo. Habari. The Swahili greeting falls on deaf ears and my smile is met with a confused expression. I feel my cheeks heat up and I turn to examine the salted peanuts.

Right beside the peanuts lie the cashews. Old cravings for that familiar taste resurrect in my mouth. Past images flood my mind—images of Kenyans pushing newspaper cones overflowing with cashews through our car window as we try to board the island ferry from the city of Mombasa to the south coast beaches. I can almost feel the crush of my brother and sister pushing against me to get their share.

Passing the fruits in this store, I notice the ones that are missing—the loquats, coconuts, mangoes, papayas, custard apples, dates, figs and the gooseberries.

Today, the soaps and perfumes in Bromiley’s carry strange and exotic scents. My mind is captivated again with the images and aromas of the luscious gardens of the Kenyan south coast. The smell of frangipani, jasmine, poinsettia, oleanders and gardenias seem to mingle with acrid body odors and the sour salty sea air.

I have walked down the aisle of spices a hundred times in this American border town supermarket, but this time the curries, the cardamom, and the cinnamon seem to leap strongly into my nostrils. They yank me away to a life I’ve tried so hard to put behind me.

Are you okay? The voice penetrates my memories and it sounds so much like my tenth grade English teacher at the Rift Academy in Kenya that I involuntarily reply, Yes, Mrs. Flannigan.

The familiar face of Dora Sanchez begins to take shape. She has cashiered here for all six years I can remember in this place. Too much celebrating, Katie?

I feel trapped, as if I am Lucy emerging from the Wardrobe after meeting Mr. Tumnus in the land of Narnia. Who can believe that a few stimulated nerve cells would turn a well-respected professional into a vacant-eyed grinning zombie. Instead of me being the counselor, it feels like I should be making an appointment.

Doc, you going a little nuts? I spin around to see the grinning face of Charlie. He is my Tuesday morning appointment. Or, maybe you’re trying to stop a little cold—you know, Ca-shew. I catch his glance at my shopping cart and turn to see what is going on. My shopping cart holds at least thirty bags of cashews.

Dora has her hand out waiting for me to unload the lot onto the conveyer. I see you’re trying to bribe your patients these days.

I feel that cold and clammy sensation overwhelming me. My grip tightens on the bar of the buggy even as my eyes dart around the room. The person in front of me is still packing her groceries. Charlie is shoving in close from behind. The magazine racks seem closer this week. My vision starts to blur. I have to get back some control.

I’ve changed my mind, Dora. Excuse me, Charlie. You’re right. I think I picked up a few too many. I nudge my way past Charlie and head back to the empty cashew shelf. I abandon my cart and head for the exit. Not even the smells of the coffee and donuts can slow me down.

Jambo. Habari. Those were the first two Swahili words I learned in Kenya. They mean, Hello, how are you?

I stand trancelike in front of the bathroom mirror for twenty minutes when I get home. At first I don’t notice anything unusual. The blue eyes don’t look histrionic or delusional. The shoulder length sandy-brown hair seems to be in order. The blond highlights need touching up but there seems to be nothing unusual to see. Then I notice.

I haven’t worn this black high school sweatshirt in a dozen years. Its warming ability makes it a special friend. The crest of the Cape Buffalo sewn near my heart stares defiantly back at me. Piercing black eyes, flaring nostrils, wide curved horns.

I feel like I am becoming like Rudi—the dissociated identity disorder client with over a dozen personalities. She is my Friday afternoon appointment. I’m not sure who I am anymore. I’ve never experienced memory lapses this bad. At least none that I can remember.

The memories create eeriness inside me as a long forgotten child seems to be staring into the mirror that clearly captures the face of an adult. Confusion shackles my mind as I witness two images. A little girl staring out of a plane window as it leaves the land she calls home. And a not so little girl struggling to move her hand back and forth in one last wave.

The tears running down my face are real. Something is happening deep inside. I straighten the cranberry bath towels and move the three vanilla candles a little closer to the electric toothbrush in its holder. I rub a speck off the mirror, left there from the last time Bruce flossed here. I wonder when I’ll see him again. The news overseas is not easy to hear these days.

I pick up the phone to call Mom, but only get half way through dialing before I hang up. I think it is the chai that helps me turn the corner. As I stand, stirring and smelling that boiling pot of milk and tea and sugar, I think back to the special memories that Andrea and Sarah and I made in a far off boarding school in Kenya.

I feel dreamlike as I take my mug of hot chai and settle in by the fire. I fish out one of my old journals. The one I wrote after I knew I had to leave my home in Kenya. The one I wrote to anyone who really wants to know the ‘me’ behind the face. It is so easy to forget who you are. For a moment, I am tempted just to throw the journal into the fire and to leave the memory of who I am as something best forgotten.

I move Alice-like into another Wonderland of years ago. Trancelike, I open the journal.

***

My name is Katrina Joy Delancey. My friends call me Katie. I was born in our station hospital at Kijabe, Kenya and I’ve lived here for almost all of my 16 years. This has been my home for as long as I can remember. I’ve dreamed of graduating from the Academy here, but my parents are moving back to North America and I have to say goodbye.

Saying goodbye to the place you love—and the friends and pets and people who fill your memories—has got to be one of the hardest things in the world. All I know is that I’m leaving home and it feels like my heart is being ripped in two.

I’m sitting on my bed reading an email from one of my best friends. My fingers are playing with my half of the friends forever heart-shaped charm on my necklace and I know she’s probably doing the same with her half. We thought we’d never be apart. I haven’t written anything in my diary for days and I’m not sure if I’ll ever write down another word in here.

***

I try to recall being that frightened little girl. Sitting in my old black sweatshirt and jeans looking out at the Rift Valley and the Ngong hills. Listening to the bright green parrots squawking and swarming around a nearby Wild Olive tree as they gobble up the little dark berries. Watching the tortoises basking in the warm sun in our back yard near the chickens. Following the energetic shouts of my school mates playing soccer on the upper field. And there in the distance is that single white streak across a clear blue sky. A streak following a jet which will some day take me away.

The next few pages are blank but as I fan the journal the pen scrawls make their comeback. The urge to be remembered is sometimes as strong as the pain of remembering. I half expect the smells and sounds and humidity of these pages to recreate themselves in my mind as I wait.

I think about my years in Kenya. The facts of that place are burned into my brain from a research paper I had to do in grade ten. I was determined never to forget the place of my birth and even now I can sense the details streaming out like something erupting from my printer.

My home province was the Central Province of eight. The Kikuyu people form the heart and hub of community life there. One out of five people in Kenya is Kikuyu and their six million member tribe forms a political stronghold. Kenya is 225,000 square miles in area. It sits on the equator on the east coast of Africa.

The Greeks were sailing there on trading expeditions in the days of Alexander the Great. People from West Africa and Mesopotamia began to migrate here several thousand years ago. Some archaeologists, like the Leakeys, believe that East Africa was the cradle for mankind. Since 1000 AD, the Muslims and then the Portuguese, and finally the British, have come to gain from this land.

The Muslims and Portuguese took slaves and ivory. The British stopped the slavery but took over some of the best land. That land was the heart of the Kikuyu homeland and created a lot of tension for the colonialists. I am glad the war of independence settled things so that people like me can live in that land mostly in peace.

I smile at the efforts of a sixteen year old to sketch a jet streaking off into the horizon above a miniature Africa with tear drops forming on the side. I start to read those words which seem to have been written so long ago.

***

Some people think that us girls get emotional about every little thing, but leaving your home is not a little thing. Besides, I know a lot of guys who’ve cried buckets when they had to leave this place. Sometimes I feel that no one else in the world, except those who’ve lived in Africa, can understand what it’s like to be at home here.

No one else knows what it smells like after the rain falls on the red dusty roads and withered brown grass. No one else knows what it tastes like to sip chai with that sweetened flavor of tea and milk boiled up with plenty of sugar. No one else knows the sounds of the birds and the bush babies and the baboons and monkeys—and the friendly calls of one Kenyan to another along the trails. No one knows what it’s like to lose yourself on the endless savannas of Africa with everything around you totally wild and totally free.

No one else can imagine the sight of the umbrella-shaped acacia trees silhouetted against the clearest blue sky—or the rainbow colors of bougainvillea bushes climbing tree-like to compete against the fiery red poinsettias. No one knows the feeling of the muddy gumbo between your toes or the piercing fire of a cactus thorn in the sole of your foot. No one knows unless they’ve lived here, or someplace just like it.

No one else knows the fire you feel when the ‘ciafu’ (pinching ants) crawl up your pants and get their revenge, or the anxiety you feel when you walk to the bathroom at night and feel the cockroaches scurrying around your bare feet. So often I feel that I live through yearly plagues rather than seasons. Locusts descend by the millions. Moths are so thick they cover every wall. Flying termites block out the street lights after the rain and crawl in under the doors to fill the homes with the whir of their wings. The Nairobi eye acidic beetle leaves its burn marks on faces and hands. The katydids nearly deafen you with their buzzing. The millipedes and centipedes move like miniature trains across your feet. The aphids crammed on the roses pack together like the rush hour traffic on New York streets. The flies fill every nook and cranny of every room and are consumed by the thousands of spiders that await them. Every day is a new adventure.

I guess, while I sit in my world, I have to admit that I can’t jump into your soul and smell and taste and hear and see and touch all the things that make up your memories of home. All I can do is tell you of mine and maybe that will help us both appreciate the world in which we’ve been privileged to live. Maybe you’re glad you’ve moved away from your first home. I haven’t got there yet.

***

A chill echoes through the chambers of my soul. I know it doesn’t come from the dying fire or the empty chai cup. I inhale the faint odors of the smoky charcoal embers, listen to the last crackles of a log well spent and tuck my feet up under me. I snuggle down into the duvet and hug it a little closer. What I would give for a few minutes in the arms of Bruce right now. Our time had been so short.

TWO

Bruce and I still argue over who was staring at who. I’ll tell you the way it really happened. It was a Thursday. I’d finished my last appointment—a single mom working on boundaries and anger management. She was trying to get herself under control so she could get her kids out of foster care. The wind was blowing extra hard that evening and I was worried about my hair—since I had a dinner engagement with Danny—an old friend from College days.

I happened to be walking by a new Tae Kwon Do Dojo and I caught a reflection of myself in the window. My favorite sky blue pullover worked nicely with my white capris. I flipped the Africa charm that hung at the end of my necklace. The light was just right for some reason.

The reflection of the passing traffic and the endless noise of groaning cars, waiting in the border line up, encouraged me to move a little closer to the window. I was mesmerized at the way the Cirrus clouds danced like wispy tufts of hair caught in the wind. They skittered across the whole expanse in the mirror-like surface in front of me.

I involuntarily began to worry that the same wind that drove the clouds had messed up the curls I had sprayed into place. So, I walked closer and tried to tidy up my hair a bit. Meanwhile, inside, Bruce had just performed a front snap and side kick combination on his partner and was looking toward the window. He insists that I was staring at him and waving.

That’s all that happened that day. It was the following Thursday that I happened to be walking by the same place, and that’s when things really got started. I was looking back at the Stars and Stripes flapping wildly on the pole beside the Maple Leaf when I almost thumped him. Bruce stepped out of the doorway in full regalia and came to a stop right in front of me.

Were you impressed?

Needless to say, I nearly got whiplash, and was stunned to have a six foot 3 inch mountain of flexing muscle step in front of me without explanation. His white ribbed cotton uniform was loose but captured my imagination. His black hair was close cropped and neatly combed. His smile filled a strong square jaw. His eyes danced with delight at the shocked expression on my face.

I was speechless, since I didn’t have a clue who he was or what he was talking about. He saw the blank look on my face. "Last week. That move you were watching.