Swimming With Fishes

One

Katherine 'Kat' Lewis
Jamaica

Kat Lewis wanted a baby more than she wanted to live. Ever since her mother, Miss Ruthie, explained that she should never have a baby because of the risk it posed to her life. It didn't matter that folks told her any child she conceived would probably never survive, the slightest chance of success meant there was hope.

Kat had never been an observer of limits, and the restrictions put on her because of her illness were never adhered to, especially in her head. Her daily trek to the beach in protest against being constantly viewed as an invalid was especially true on this day, her twenty-eighth birthday.

Kat walked deep in thoughts, savouring the feel of the warm white sand between her toes, her sketch pad and pencils in a cloth bag flung over one shoulder while her flip-flops hung loosely between two fingers. Her hair, long, thick and black, was tied up in a ponytail away from her slim oval face, gently swinging from side to side as she walked. Her nose was straight and flared at the nostrils and when she smiled, her wide, full lips revealed a gap between her two top teeth. She had been told that she had inherited her father's brown eyes, huge and almond shaped, his proud angular chin and her mother's bronze, smooth skin. She was slender, no matter how much she ate, weight never stuck to her, one of a series of reasons why her health was such a concern to some Meadow folks, but she had curves in the right places and her walk was innate royalty.

With each step the soft-grains gave way beneath her bare feet. She shaded her eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun, which had transformed the beach into a sheet of shimmering silver. Some days it took a great deal for her to make these walks, but she did so religiously, making her way from her mother's house to the line where the road ended and the beach began. Only a crisis-a sickle cell attack-could prevent her daily trek, forcing her to take to her bed.

Kat was born with sickle cell anaemia. Her early childhood was a hazy mist of white hospital walls, doctors, morphine, drips, folic acid, penicillin and pain, rendering her a mere spectator of life. Like many people who've faced death and lived to tell the tale, she was fully appreciative of each second. This is the reason why her daily walks to the beach were so important. They gave her the chance to feel fully alive and often free from pain. She could watch children play and young pregnant women reclining on the beach, their bellies revealed, smooth and hard. She loved to watch those women the most, to marvel at the miracle happening inside of them, to hope, wish, dream and pray that one day she would have her own.

She had been like a sponge in water soaking up the old adages of the folks in her small rural town regarding childless women. Over the years she had witnessed that no childless woman escaped ridicule or the malicious lash of the gossips' tongue as to the reasons God had withheld the fruit of her womb. The older women believed children were paramount to a holy marriage, that children somehow made it impossible for Satan to tempt a man away from his wife. The men also lived by this, even in the twenty-first century, and if their wife could not give them an offspring, then they were justified in maintaining a mistress who could provide a home for their seeds. This fable had gained cultural status among the folks in the Meadows, where everyone knew everyone and in the church yard your genealogy went back generations; and where things were always in-keeping with traditions.

The Meadows could easily be called Jamaica's forgotten gem, with its culture of retaining these old-fashioned ideologies. It was a small fishing village on the coastal west of the island, framed by the ocean and four miles of powdery white sand and scattered with trees of every kind; palm, coconut, almond, avocado. Turning off the main road led you onto the dusty lanes and into the hills, where goats and cows could be seen roaming along the roadside, independently or being led by their owner, who was usually a farmer. The town's main income came from fishing and tourism. God and the church was the glue of society and a respect that held the elders in high esteem was unwritten policy.

Kat had lived her whole life in the Meadows. She had gone to the best schools, where the majority of the teachers were white and the pupils came from wealthy families. Thanks to a trust fund left by her father for her education, Kat was able to study Art and Design at university. After graduating, she started selling her paintings, taking on commissions and teaching art at the local community centre to make a living.

Kat continued making her way to the far end of the beach where few tourists ventured. At her destination she sat cross-legged on a large flat piece of stone embedded in the sand, shaded by the huge leaves of two palm trees. The stone was smooth and warm from the sun's glow, as she knew it would be and she swore by its healing properties, feeling the heat spreading through her like a pan on a hot stove. Reaching for her bag she pulled out the sketch pad and pencils, her eyes scanning the area for possibilities. Afternoons were the busiest time of day on the beach. She observed the swarm of tourists from the hotels and guest houses, the vendors and natives coming up from the valley or down from the hills to sell their merchandise and memorabilia. The smell of the jerk chicken, and freshly seasoned fried fish was carried on the breeze to remind her to eat. The occasional group of tourists passed her. A smiling couple, a child with his father, both smeared with white cream to fend off the burning sun, and a very large white lady who had turned pink and was accompanied by the thinnest young boy whose meagre arms struggled to fit around her. Kat knew him. He was the Post Office mistress Nellie Potato's grandson and though it wouldn't show in him, he would surely eat well this day. Some of the young men of the Meadows discovered a way of making a living out of pleasuring middle-aged overweight, white and sometimes black tourists who were only too willing to pay for their services. The vulnerability of these seemingly affluent and professional women only went to confirm to Kat that women gave away everything for love.

Out of the blue her attention was caught by the gliding of a white and grey pelican as it swooped into the sea, emerging with its snack between its beak; a struggling fish that was swiftly swallowed.

'Pssssssssssst.'

Kat startled, hearing the hiss but unable to see anyone.

'It's me, Miss Kat.'

Old Man Jaguar, the beach attendant, emerged from behind a coconut tree. He was dressed as though he had been or was going to a very important event, with a creaseless khaki shirt matching his classic trousers. His salt and pepper hair shone with hair oil and was neatly parted to the right. His bushy silver eyebrows met in the middle, partly concealing small dark eyes. He gave Kat a wide, friendly grin, revealing a gold tooth at the top. She smiled. Old Man was always a welcome sight for her.

'Wishing you many happy returns, Miss Kat. Beg you a little of your time please. A word in your ears about Miss Rootie,' he whispered as if it were a secret.

'Oh, Old Man, come by the house later, you can talk to Miss Ruthie yourself.'

He flapped his arms in frustration. 'I pass by earlier, but she chase me away like a dawg with rabies.'

She stifled a laugh knowing what a tyrant her mother could be, but also fully aware of Old Man's adoration for Miss Ruthie. Her mother sold provisions from their front yard and Kat could not remember a time when Old Man did not pass by their home on the pretext of buying a few limes, onions or eggs. He came with the crack of dawn, her mother would complain, although Kat knew Miss Ruthie deep, deep down in her soul loved his company as much as she enjoyed playing out annoyance at his presence.

'You know how she is. Try again later, she may be in a better mood.'

Old Man didn't seem to know which way to turn and it became obvious to Kat that he had more to say.

'Twenty-eight. that's plenty time left for a husband and babies. God has his plans, don't you mind bad talk.'

Kat smiled knowingly. No doubt Old Man had been witness to some recent gossip surrounding 'poor' her, which was no surprise. She could imagine it: 'Poor Kat, with no chick nor child. Poor Miss Ruthie, no grans to look forward to.' Kat had become immune to this kind of talk. Most of the girls she went to school with had migrated to other countries, were married or living with partners and nearly all had families. Babies. No-one expected the same for her.

'You know bad talk doesn't affect me, Old Man, but thanks for the concern. See you later.'

Old Man walked away, one hand tucked deep in his pocket with the other swinging like a member of a military regiment. Suddenly Kat spotted a familiar generous figure in the distance, floating along with the grace of a catwalk model. She recognised Mother Cynthy, feared and revered by many because they believed her to be an obeah woman-a witch. As a child Kat was a frequent visitor to Mother Cynthy's house, tucked away in the hills to the east. Miss Ruthie had been taking her to see the lady who lived in a house painted half purple ever since she could remember. The joke told by town folks was that after Mother Cynthy's divorce, the judge had said her husband was entitled to half the house. So she divided the house in two, keeping...