AMANDA HAYNES
Traffic was backed up for miles that morning. There was no rain falling or wind blowing to cool down the highway as it smoked under the sun. Who didn’t have the A/C on had their car windows rolled all the way down, horn blowing, cursing any driver that cut in front of them from an equally packed side road. It was a cacophony of road rage, sweat and pollution with a tragic end confirmed on the evening news: a pedestrian had fainted from the heat in the middle of the road, causing a driver to slam his brakes, a van man to swerve, and three cars behind all of them to crash into the cut rock beside the road. Crowds gathered long before the ambulance, police, or insurance agent arrived at the scene.
That morning’s delay was nothing new to Monica Maynard. She was sitting on a full bus with an aching pelvis, on her way to the NGO she’d been working at in Town for the past six years since returning home after studying overseas. Six years of this same route, in this same traffic, with these same people — save one or two of the older ones who’d passed away. Too many years of sitting in pain on the bus and wanting…wishing to reach her cubicle as quickly as possible.
It felt as if her future had shrunk to bare survival since stepping off the plane. All she could think about was paying her bills on time and scrimping just enough to get her hair and nails done every other month. Praise God she didn’t have to pay rent, but living in the family house came with its own set of drama.
When the bus finally jerked forward, Monica reminded herself that she truly loved her aunties; three women, a teenage girl, and the family dogs in a small house were bound to butt heads every now and then. She just wished her aunts would respect that she was grown now, too. And that her paycheck couldn’t stretch as far as they’d always dreamed it would.
“All that schooling we put you through fuh a ‘lil berry, Monnie?” they’d say. “Wuh, you might as well had gone and work one time! And look, almost 35, you not getting any younger, you know. But Monnie, you don’t meet nobody nice at work? Wuh bout your school friends? I see your doctor friend doing real well; he was in the paper the other day, married to…wuh the girl name? The one that won your school pageant back in the day? Anyhow, she pregnant now; she still looking sweet. And yuh know —”
Her aunties always meant well, but their words left her heavy. She didn’t have the heart to tell them she didn’t want children and probably couldn’t have them. It felt like lead, man, her conversations with them. All her old friends lived away now, as her aunties loved reminding her. It was only her left on the island. She kept telling Auntie Paula and them she was still applying for other jobs, overseas jobs, but nothing was coming through. Her answers and their replies seemed to loop across minutes, days, and years, leaving her to wonder if life was always like this and she had just never noticed as a child.
Safe in her cubicle, Monica collapsed into her chair, winced, and adjusted to a more comfortable spot. That heavy feeling was coming over her again. She told herself she needed to be more positive; she needed to close her eyes and hold on to something tangible and grounding, just like a counsellor once taught her to do. For what felt like the millionth time that week, she found herself digging into her bag for the tea-stained pamphlet she always carried with her: Lady Dee’s Traditional Bush Bathes, Herbal Remedies and Ancient Luxuries for Modern Women. Monica had first learned about Lady Dee’s years ago, when the store owner sat next to Monica on her routine bus ride to work. She noticed Monica grip her stomach and curse when the bus driver hit a particularly rough pothole.
“You good?” the woman had mouthed.
Monica took out her headphones. “Pardon?”
“You okay, honey?” She had a kind voice.
Monica nodded. “Yes thanks, sorry, just…woman pains. I’m good.”
“Ah, fibroids?”
“Endometriosis.”
“Oh,” the woman nodded politely, handing Monica the pamphlet. “You are welcome anytime, dear. These things seem to be affecting more and more young women lately.”
At that time, it never crossed her mind to visit the woman’s salon out in the country, especially a pop down one that misspelt its own name and had no social media. Monica never saw the woman on the bus again but found creative uses for Lady Dee’s pamphlet over the past four years: to fan herself with in waiting rooms or as a handy coaster for bottles of water or mugs of soothing chamomile tea. In a strange way, the pamphlet ended up being something comforting to hold on to in uncomfortable moments, a constant companion from the start to the end of things like multiple doctor’s visits, her latest incision surgery, long bus rides, and even longer days at work.
Monica shook herself and pinned Lady Dee’s pamphlet to her noticeboard before laying out her laptop, pens, and thick stack of dogeared reports. She needed to concentrate on work. The NGO was in the middle of an application to an international fund, and as usual, the donors were asking for more information than their small staff of two could provide. By brunch, Monica had finished typing up the latest draft of the funding application. She ate her ham cutter quickly and headed to the conference room to present her progress at that week’s board meeting. Monica’s boss and chairperson, Ms. St. John, strode into the conference room first.
“You all set for the presentation, Monica? Sorry I’m in late; my meeting at the women’s shelter ran over time. You know how their director likes to talk. Monica…Oh Monica, did you lose more weight, hon? You don’t look very well.”
Again, Monica regretted telling St. John about her situation. She’d broken down and told her everything one afternoon, about the blood clots and the surgery. Her ill-fitting clothes. The older woman had cradled her like a mother and let her cry. Later that week, when Monica went by her office to thank her, she overheard St. John gossiping about the incident on the phone. Words like unprofessional and unstable floated around Monica’s mind as her feet carried her back to the desk. Since then, she’d been careful not to show any signs of illness at work and limited sick leave requests to major emergencies only.
The Body in Neutral. 11″x8″. Portia Subran.
“Monica?” St. John repeated. “Are you feeling okay? Do you need more time off?”
Her concern sounded genuine. Monica smiled tightly. “No, no. I’m fine, Ms. St. John; it’s just the heat.”
“Ah, yes, I heard someone fainted this morning. And I forgot you take the bus.” St. John ran her hands over her large ankh necklace. “Government really needs to convert all of them to the electronic air-conditioned units. I’ll see if I can talk to the minister about it. Oh, Patrick! Lovely to see you.”
St. John rose from her seat beside Monica to welcome the board members who were filing into the room, paying special attention to Patrick. He was the newest board member, a businessman who owned half of the country and contributed the most to their organisation’s local seed fund.
The meeting began, and Monica presented the application without fuss. As she talked about project budgets and staffing, Monica vaguely recalled that she used to talk to them about bigger things — like the project associates before her, she’d presented what felt like millions of business cases, external reports, beneficiary testimonials, and transformation strategies that would allow the NGO to work better and help more people. Somehow, decisions would come down to the appetite of overseas partners, or the board would change, issuing new priorities. She wondered if this was what someone somewhere intended — for people to be talking or shuffling papers in tiny board rooms while the major decisions happened elsewhere.
“Thank you, Monica,” said St. John. “I move to approve the application for submission to the international association. Who seconds this motion?”
“Hold on,” said Patrick. “Sorry to be a bother, guys, but I do have a question about the budget. Why are we spending so much on human resources, man? A percentage breakdown available?”
St. John deflected to Monica. “Great point, Patrick. Monica will shed some light on this.”
Monica opened her mouth, ready to point out that Patrick had reviewed and approved this same budget via email the week before and that charitable programmes couldn’t run themselves, especially in a place where people delivering the programmes were living on the poverty line themselves. Instead, she felt a heaviness rise in her again, threatening to clog her throat. Her hand absently rested on her stomach, the usual source of unexpected pain, but this thing wasn’t physical. Everyone around the table looked at her, smiling expectantly while she imagined their faces turning into distorted versions of her aunties. Eventually, she heard her voice declare, “I quit”. The heaviness in her expanded and burst, thinning into nothing.
Monica rose to her feet, quietly closing the meeting room door behind her. No one followed. Back at her cubicle, she grabbed the Lady Dee’s pamphlet and her bag. It felt like someone else led her legs out of the office door, right into the peak afternoon heat that hit her skin like an inferno. Monica smeared sunscreen over her forehead, nose, and cheeks and trekked past the board members’ row of shiny cars in the parking lot, across the street, through the park, down the main road, and into the bus terminal. She boarded the two ‘o clock Sargeant Street bus, turned off her phone, and closed her eyes.
***
Lady Dee’s Traditional Bush Bathes, Herbal Remedies and Ancient Luxuries for the Modern Woman was a sprawling chattel house overlooking the East Coast. Nestled at the end of a narrow cul-de-sac lined with smaller houses, its decadence surprised Monica. Lush coconut trees, gardens, and wild bush lined its perimeter, enclosed by a loose fence of sea grape trees with unusually plump blossoms. Glazed ceramic pots sprouted not flowers but fountains of flowing water that sparkled under the sun. Like most houses in The Gap, fluffy snowy mountain shrubs marked the spa’s entrance — only Lady Dee’s rose high into the sky, its ivory petals complementing Basquiat blue walls covered in intricate iridescent symbols Monica didn’t understand and didn’t want to. The scent of fresh lemongrass and some kind of basil peppered the air.
A tall woman, about Monica’s age, opened the front door. “Hello, welcome to Lady Dee’s. How may I help you?”
The woman’s voice was perfect. It flowed like honey, instantly calming Monica’s frazzled nerves. The woman’s skin was impossibly smooth and spotless, like one of those old L’Oréal ads. And her short hair was so full, bouncy. Monica suddenly felt very self-conscious, awkwardly tucking a loose strand of her straightened hair behind her ear. She showed the woman with the beautiful voice the pamphlet.
“Um, good afternoon…I’m Monica… I came for the bush bath… I’m sorry I didn’t make an appointment, but the lady said I could show up anytime and…”
“It’s okay; it’s okay. My mother must have given you this,” the woman said, gracefully waving away Monica’s worries. She took the pamphlet and smiled kindly. “I’m Patricia; I’ll be your therapist for the afternoon. Please follow me.”
They walked through a pleasantly wide hallway filled with photos of young and old women in white. Some of them were dancing, and Monica recognised that the largest photo, a large portrait framed in red, was of a younger version of the woman she’d met on the bus.
“These are beautiful. Where were they taken?”
“Oh, different places. The one of Mummy was in the back yard, which is where we’re heading. I think the open air will do you good.”
The hallway led to a grand foyer with three doors. Again, Monica was stunned by the scale of the house. Patricia looked back, chuckling as Monica couldn’t help staring at the intricate fish-scale chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It played pretty sounds every time the wind blew, as if lulling Monica’s mind to rest. And the scent — whatever candle, or candles, they had there — had to be born of sea spray and vanilla because what kind of fire could burn so pure?
They walked through the middle door into the spa’s backyard which overflowed with greenery and multi-coloured lilies of all sizes that overpowered Monica’s senses. She recognised some of the leaves amongst scattered plots of wild bush – clammy cherry, blue vervain, and castor oil. A large copper tub, a standing shower, a simple massage bed and bucket of dried leaves were set in the centre, shaded by draped linen. Behind the spa’s fence, a panoramic gully stretched on and on, and Monica was sure she could hear a natural spring running somewhere in the distance. She started to fall apart a bit, choking back something between a laugh and a cry.
“It’s just… It’s just very beautiful,” Monica said sheepishly. Patricia nodded. There was no judgement, only understanding — and a twinkle of play.
“Don’t worry, it’s not just you. Happens to a lot of our first-time clients, especially the ones from Town.”
Monica laughed, relaxed by Patricia’s honesty. She let Patricia relieve her of her bag and guide her to the chairs beside the bed. Patricia explained how the treatment would work, using the technical terms most therapists and aestheticians use, but Monica understood she would be starting with a full-body massage, followed by a cold shower and a “soft” bush bath tailored to her needs. The whole session would last up to three hours, ending at about 6 p.m. Monica ran the numbers in her head, and dread crept in for the first time since she entered the spa. She had quit her job. She quit her fucking job this morning. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Three hours… how much is that going to cost?” Her face heated — even she could hear the desperation in her voice.
“Nah, you good,” Patricia said gently. “Once Mummy invited you, it’s on the house.”
“Ah, okay, cool.”
“Monica, yuh look tense.”
“Well…it’s just… I’m thankful it’s just… I work with… well, I used to work with charities. And yuh know, well, I just know everything always costs someone something. Especially when it’s free.”
“Okay. I get where you coming from,” Patricia nodded, thinking for a bit. “I’ll just say this. Mummy passed away a few years ago, I’m guessing maybe a year or so after she met you, and I have been running the place since then. Changed up a few things,” she said, gesturing to the beauty around her. “But most of my days are spent doing the usual things — lymphatic massages, waxing, nails, and sometimes braids too. But a bush bath? No one ever asks for those, not even when I tried renaming it something else. If anything, you are the one doing me a favour. Plus, as I said, anybody Mummy invites is complementary — and yuh know old people not loose with money.”
Monica gave in to the magic of the afternoon. After filling out the usual medical forms and having a short chat about the nature of her endo pain points, Patricia guided her to the massage bed. She disrobed and lay face down on the bed which was covered with soft linen sheets. She closed her eyes, breathing in the calming aroma of lavender and soft mint that mingled with the fresh air. Patricia took good care of her, kneading away the mounds of tension gathered in Monica’s shoulders, back, and waist. When she turned over and fluid hands moved closer to her lower abdomen, Monica tensed, pleasantly surprised when Patricia circled the area rather than pushing directly into the spot. The circling motion sent tickling tremors to the area, as if unravelling the invisible tightness that typically clenched or stabbed her pelvis. Satisfied, expert hands moved on to other aching muscles, lulling Monica’s mind and body to rest.
“Monica? Monica, you can wake up now,” said Patricia gently.
Monica’s eyes fluttered open from the best sleep she’d had in years. She blinked, stunned by the brightness. As her eyes focused on the pretty butterflies flitting around the yard, her ears tuned to the tranquil sounds of birds singing somewhere nearby. She rose from the bed, pleasantly surprised for the second time that afternoon. The mild pain she usually felt at that angle had loosened. Patricia’s voice flowed to her again.
“I’ve put a fresh robe right there for you. You can join me by the bath when you’re ready.”
Monica’s body was soon enveloped in warm water and tender clammy cherry leaves. She’d been expecting something rank, like cerasee bush or gully root, not the luxurious scent of peppermint Epsom salts and spices. Monica leaned back against the copper bathtub, letting Patricia add more leaves and hibiscus petals or pour water over her neck and shoulders in a soothing rhythm until Patricia said, “It’s time.” They’d discussed this part, the head washing, which would require Monica’s hair to get wet. Her eyes sprang open at the shock of the cold water on her scalp, trailing from her crown to her upper back before merging with the body of leaves and water already filling the tub. Twice more, Monica’s head was doused with cold water, transforming her from languid to alert, until the water was replaced by oiled hands coaxing her back to rest.
“Monica, I want you to close your eyes and imagine all of your worries as a large block of concrete,” murmured Patricia as she massaged Monica’s scalp. “Every worry you have, just pile it there. Then, imagine yourself, with your little finger, lifting that heavy block into the air and smashing it. Smash it until the load is all gone. And you are just floating, light as air.”
The lingering tension in Minica’s body melted. She found herself murmuring and crying quietly to herself in the bathtub after the session ended.
“That’s okay,” said Patricia. “Your things are right there on the chair — a microfibre towel and things for your hair too. When you ready, you can wash off and meet me at the front. No rush.”
By sunset, Monica was finally able to move. Her first thought was that she felt the most alert — no, the most in her body than she’d felt since she was a little girl. She inhaled deeply, smiling as fresh, cool air peppered with the sharp scent of lemongrass and other beautiful herbs in Patricia’s garden flowed into her nose. Even in the fading light, the yard around her was a vision, overflowing with new colours, scents, and shapes that seemed to wake up around this time.
It was only when the cries of crickets replaced the sounds of birds that Monica caught herself — it was late evening. The 6 ‘o clock bus would be coming any time now, and she was still stark naked, in a tub, in a stranger’s backyard, after quitting her job some hours before. The thought had her jumping out of the tub and chucking on her carefully laid-out clothes. She grabbed her phone and started swiping — missed calls from her boss, messages from her aunties, a formal email from work — the subject line: About This Morning.
Monica finished putting on her clothes and scampered up the back steps to get to the bus stop on time, and then stopped. The back door was slightly ajar. Through its old-fashioned louvres, she could see Patricia, face contorted and tears flowing down her face. She was trying to keep her voice down, to keep her tone professional, maybe, but whoever she was talking to wasn’t making it easy. The same voice that soothed Monica was hot as ice now, but it got lower and weaker as the other person walked into the frame.
Monica turned away from the door and sat on the back step. Patricia’s Garden overlooked gullies of lush coconut trees and creeping vines that ran onto the East Coast, where waves rolled to and from the shore and alien shadows of mountainous clouds drifted slowly over the ocean until the evening sky turned from amber to pitch black. Monica stayed right there on the step, watching the waves and listening to crickets, until she couldn’t see any shadows at all.
