The Shape of Family Read online

  She ran up the stairs and into the bathroom, where she locked the door and ran the shower at its hottest setting. Her breath was still coming fast, her heart racing. The bathroom filled with steam; when she took in a big, deep lungful, she began to cough. She ran cold water from the bathroom faucet and drank directly from the tap. When she looked up, the mirror was covered in condensation. She drew a big heart on it with her finger. “You’re okay, Kiki,” she said to her partial reflection, then dropped the towel and stepped into the hot shower.

  She scrubbed at her body with an orphaned loofah and every bath product that lined the shower wall, until the chlorine on her skin was replaced by mango, kiwi, coconut and cocoa butter. Eventually, the water ran tepid, then cold, and she reluctantly turned off the faucet, feeling as if she was breaking a spell, and this made her cry all over again. Her eyes burned, her head throbbed and the pain of it was the only thing that stopped her from crying more.

  She cracked the bathroom door open and, hearing loud music coming from the salon downstairs, felt relieved she wouldn’t have to face anyone. She crept quietly down the hall to her room and pushed open the door. Inside, a single lit lamp illuminated Micah’s figure lying atop her bed, his legs crossed at the ankles and hands clasped across his chest.

  “I was worried,” he said, without turning to look at her, and she was grateful for this small mercy. “What happened out there?”

  She sank down on one of the plush velvet chairs that had formerly populated the room, several feet away from the bed. “Nothing,” she said, then caught herself just as Micah turned his head toward her. She sighed. “I just didn’t think that was funny, what Justin was doing.”

  “Floating in the pool?” Micah asked.

  “Dead man’s float, he called it,” she said, unable to control the sharp edge in her voice. “It wasn’t funny.”

  “I don’t think he meant it to be funny,” Micah said. “He was just doing something that felt good to him. Meditative, I think he said.”

  She snorted out a rude chuckle and shook her head. Then, to her horror, she started crying again, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks like children racing down parallel slides at a playground. She was gulping for air, her breath ragged and punctuated by cries coming from low in her throat. Then she was rocking, forward and back, putting a hand on her forehead, because a hand needed to be there, but it wasn’t cool like her mother’s, and brought no relief. She felt her hand replaced by Micah’s, soothing against the fire that raged inside. Micah pulled her out of the chair and onto the floor, where he held her, his arms wrapped around her, rocking with her. When she stopped crying, they were still in this position, lying sideways on the floor.

  And she told him about Prem. This time, she shared everything. Not only that she was the one to discover Prem and could not save him, but her slow-motion realization that she had caused this unspeakable thing to happen. She was the one who had neglected her baby brother and his innocent pleas to go swimming that day. She was responsible for the pain that transformed each of her parents in their own way and led to the ultimate dissolution of her family.

  “You’ve been punishing yourself ever since, haven’t you?” Micah stroked her hair from behind.

  Karina closed her eyes. “I used to do things to . . . hurt myself. And that actually made me feel better for a while. Isn’t that fucked up?” She gave a wry laugh.

  “Look at me.” Micah turned her around to face him. She expected to see his pity but met only compassion in his eyes. He placed his palms on either side of her head. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “It wasn’t your fault. You were just a kid.”

  “Then whose?” She had never voiced this before, the unyielding blame she’d absorbed.

  “Well, your parents for one, for putting you in that position,” Micah said. “And for neglecting you afterwards. That’s why they can’t help you with this. They have their own pain consuming them. But you have me. You have all of us now.” He held her in a tight embrace, and she allowed herself to stay there until her tears ran dry.

  “You’ve crossed an important barrier, Karina,” Micah said. “You allowed yourself to look at the pain in your past, to look at it head on and say, You don’t have power over me. You don’t define me.” He looked deeply into her eyes.

  She nodded, holding his gaze.

  “You know why that is? Because you’ve opened yourself to the message, to the power of being here and living in this way. You know you deserve something greater than what you’ve had until now. You’re destined for it.”

  He stood up and walked past her, closed the door to her bedroom and locked it. He leaned his back against the door and, as if by magnetic force, she was drawn to him. “I know what you’re feeling,” he whispered, reaching out to caress her cheek with the lightest touch. “It’s undeniable, between us.” They kissed, and soon they were on her bed, the culmination of so much heat simmering between them. Micah was confident as his hands moved over her body, yet gentle as she knew he would be. Afterwards, she began to cry again, but it was from a rush of emotion and gratitude. Karina did feel as if she had crossed a threshold, leaving behind Henry, James, college, her razor blades and everything else that had plagued her. Before they fell asleep, she rose to open the door, but Micah told her to leave it closed. That night, as she lay watching him sleep, she was struck by her fortune: to have met Micah when she did, to have the power of his love and presence in her life.

  * * *

  The next morning, Karina woke to find Micah gazing at her. “Serotina,” he said.

  She looked at him quizzically.

  “Serotina,” he repeated, “is the Latin word for ‘late-flowering.’ You see it associated with a lot of fruit trees—plum, wild cherry. I was thinking it’s a beautiful name. For you.”

  “For me?” Karina laughed. “I already have a name.”

  “You have to be brave about crafting your own life now, your own story, not just accepting one that was given to you. You’re moving on from the past, from that person who suffered such trauma.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “And ‘late-flowering’ has such a lovely connotation. It means: be patient, the best part’s still coming. It’s very pretty. Serotina.” He smiled at her. “Maybe Sero for short, like Sara.”

  Karina smiled back at him. She had, of course, spent years as a child wishing for an easy American name. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

  * * *

  The next afternoon, during group circle, Micah sat across from her and held her eyes. “Today, we’re going to talk about pain,” he said to the group. “Each one of us carries pain around inside. And the more we hold that pain in, the more it corrodes us. But it doesn’t have to be that way. Today, Karina is going to be very brave and share her pain with us.” Micah smiled and nodded toward her.

  She took a deep breath and began.

  By the time she finished, she was crying. But so was Micah, and so was every other person around the circle. Ericka and Zoe sat on either side of her, clasping her hands in theirs. Across the circle, Justin stood up, walked over and knelt down in front of her. “I’m so sorry, Karina,” he said, and leaned forward to embrace her. With his touch, a flood of emotion rushed out of her and she wept in his arms until she was ready to let go. Looking around the circle, she saw everyone around her feeling what she was feeling, sharing her pain. They were celebrating Prem’s presence in her life and mourning his loss from it. They were dividing and diffusing and diluting her pain, the pain she had carried around with her for so long. She had mistakenly thought that if the people who knew and loved her best—Dad, Mom, Izzy (indeed, the same people who had known Prem best)—if they couldn’t help lessen her pain, then no one could, ever.

  But, as Micah had explained to her the previous night, the Sanctuary was here for her, not only to share food and work and joy, but to share pain and grief as well. She didn’t have to feel guilty for
reminding them of something so painful. She didn’t feel like she owed them a certain kind of signal so they could stop worrying about her. They didn’t want or need anything from her, except to hear and honor and share her pain, to lift up the community as a whole.

  * * *

  The next day, she and Micah worked together on caging and supporting tomato plants that had grown to be over five feet tall. “I’m really proud of you for sharing yesterday,” Micah said. “How do you feel now?”

  “I feel . . . lighter,” Karina said. “I didn’t realize I was carrying so much around with me, all these years. And now, I just feel unburdened.”

  Micah handed her the roll of twine. “Told you.”

  “You did.” She smiled, snipping the twine with clippers. “I’ve been thinking. I am ready to leave all that behind—the person who carried that story and all that pain for so many years. I’m ready to leave it all. Even my name.”

  Micah smiled, took the twine and clippers from her hand and dropped them to the ground. He pulled her close and put his lips near her ear, kissing it through the brush of her hair, and whispered her new name, Serotina. And as he spoke it, it became hers, wholly.

  35 | prem

  I’m not sure why Kiki finally decided to tell everything. Maybe she needed all those people around her to soak up the hurt she felt. Or maybe she just got tired of carrying it around inside her for so long. She thinks these people she’s living with are special. She never gets annoyed even though she’s with them all the time, day and night. And she’s much nicer about sharing the bathroom with them than she ever was with me. But as far as I can see, they’re just like everyone else: they still worry about fitting in with the group, and the guys still fart in their sleep.

  Kiki doesn’t really seem like the sister I knew. I’m not sure I like this new person, but the truth is, everybody else in the world keeps growing and changing while I stay the same. I don’t know how I would have changed during the past six years if I was still alive. Maybe I’d have glasses, or braces, or I’d even be publishing my first graphic novel now. This makes my family the saddest, when they think about all the what-ifs and how I would have turned out. They imagine only the best things happening to me, and feel cheated.

  But as I watch my friends grow up, I know it might not have turned out all good for me. I could be like Tommy, who punched a hole in the wall and got sent away to military school. Or Brendan, whose parents yell at him every time he gets a B, so he chews his fingernails until they bleed. Or I could just be like everyone else my age, embarrassed about my pimples and nervous around girls, and frustrated when no one understands what it’s like to be me. It’s not right for my family to play the what-if game, so I don’t either.

  Even though I don’t grow any older, I watch everyone else and I’ve learned a lot. Dad still thinks of me as being eight years old, and Mom looks for me everywhere. Karina was growing me in her mind for a while but now she’s stopped.

  I don’t get what’s so important about growing up anyway. All that worry and work. Maybe I’m kind of lucky I get to stay my favorite age forever.

  I try to imagine how we would all be together as a family if I hadn’t gone swimming that day. The thing I loved best about my family was the togetherness. Like the time we went to a drive-in movie for an old-fashioned experience (according to Dad). The radio was crackly, and Kiki and I were fighting over the pillows in the back seat, and I spilled vanilla milkshake all over myself and was sticky the rest of the night. All those things went wrong and we still had so much fun. I remember laughing at the movie and resting my head on Kiki’s shoulder when I got tired, and Dad carrying me out of the car and up to my bed. Those times the four of us were together, that’s what I miss the most.

  We are all alone now. Mom, Dad and Kiki each have their own lives. They don’t see each other much. They hardly ever talk, not about anything important. Kiki doesn’t tell our parents the truth about what she’s doing, and the truth is growing bigger in the background, like the giant alien ship looming behind the Space Rangers captain. She doesn’t ever talk to them about me. In a way, I have it the best, because I can still be with each of them when I want to, but they can’t really be with me. And they’ve stopped really being with each other.

  I don’t know about this new group of friends, but maybe Kiki is finding togetherness with them. Maybe they can be like her family since ours is gone.

  36 | serotina

  FEBRUARY 2015

  Micah was poring over some paperwork at his desk while Sero waited for him in bed. “Anything I can help with?” she asked.

  Without looking up, he said, “Not unless you have an extra 30K lying around.” He closed the file folder and shoved it into the desk drawer. “I was really hoping to get those solar panels installed before summer, but it’s not looking good.”

  Sero had been contemplating how she could contribute to the Sanctuary in a meaningful way, beyond purchasing groceries at NatMark with her employee discount and caring for the horse. “I have some money in my savings account,” she said as Micah joined her. “My security deposit, plus what my dad gave me for this semester—about ten thousand dollars. It’s not enough, but it’s a start?”

  Micah, his arm around her shoulders, pulled back to look at her. “You would do that?”

  “Sure,” she said. She didn’t need that money for school anymore. Though now she was reminded that she would have to, at some point before summer, tell her parents about withdrawing from college. She pushed that thought away. “I don’t pay for much, other than groceries. Maybe the others can chip in too and we can get enough?”

  “They already have. That’s how we collected the first half for the down payment,” Micah said. “You know everyone with outside jobs contributes their paychecks to our collective living expenses. And that’s just enough to get by, truthfully. Some months are a little tight.”

  She noticed the lines on Micah’s brow and thought for the first time about the mechanics and finances of managing this place. Not everyone in the house had regular paying jobs. August and Zoe were in a band that played gigs on evenings and weekends. Others, like Ericka, had shown up without a penny, and now worked only at the Sanctuary. They grew most of their own produce and had the chickens. David went to the local farmers’ market most Sundays to sell their extra organic eggs and produce at a steep markup.

  “I’ve been working on another idea, to bring in some additional income . . .” Micah trailed off.

  “What is it?” she asked. Micah remained silent, stroking her bare shoulder with his fingers. She looked up at him. “Tell me.”

  He studied her for a few moments, as if he was trying to decide something. Then he sat up. “Sero, I’m going to share something with you, because I trust you. I can trust you, right?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  He nodded. “Put your clothes on.”

  She followed him through the quiet house, out the back door and down a few stone steps to an exterior door she hadn’t noticed before. He drew a key from his pocket to unlock it and led her into a brightly lit basement. It was a cavernous space separated into a few rooms, empty but for two folding rectangular tables, the kind her parents had kept in the garage for backyard parties. On each table were a dozen potted plants. Sero took a few steps closer, examining the distinctive leaves. “Is that . . . ?”

  Micah smiled. “The purest, organic medical-grade marijuana.”

  She looked at him, unsure if he was serious. “That’s your income idea?”

  “What you see there, fully grown and harvested, will go for about twenty thousand dollars. Imagine if we converted this entire space into a grow farm?” He spread his arms wide. “It could be ten, twenty times that. The previous owners used this as a wine cellar, so it already has its own temperature and humidity controls.”

  “Don’t . . . don’t you need a license for that?” Sero felt her heart beat quickly and leaned against one of the support pillars. “Yes.” Micah pointed at
her with his index finger, as if she’d landed on an important point. “Yes, we do, and we’ll have one. It’s in process.” He put his hands in his pockets. “So, what do you think?”

  She hesitated, unsure what to say or think. “I . . . suppose it’s a good idea . . . if it’s legal?”

  “Well, it is legal in California now.” Micah plucked a leaf from one of the plants and rubbed it between his fingertips. “These are absolutely top-grade premium seedlings from a reputable source. I got them in December. Should be flowering soon. But, Sero, you can’t say anything about this. I trust you, but no one else knows.”

  She nodded. As they returned to his bedroom, the secret and the fact he had entrusted her with it filled her with pleasure.

  * * *

  The next evening, after mulling over the idea all day as she worked outside, she went to Micah with the questions that had been edging into her mind.

  “Tell me again why you like this idea? Aren’t you worried about the risks?”

  “Well, first off, it’s no riskier than growing and selling any other crop, now that it’s legal,” Micah said. “Growers and dispensaries are licensed, product is tested at independent labs, everyone pays taxes—a totally legitimate industry.

  “Second, it’s a lot more profitable than any other crop. That vision we have, of building a zero-impact community that can be replicated as a model around the world? Well, fueling a big dream costs money. We have to fund those solar panels, drill another well on the property, all of it.” Micah tilted his head and smiled. “And that is where your expertise comes in. Hydroponics and low water usage.”