Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

88 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Donna Hemans
houses and villas, some sheltered by concrete walls that are buffeted
by the sea, some elegant, others less so. Brad lamented only once that
he wished he could have gone snorkeling or taken a jet ski out on the
water. But he didn’t go on for long. He accepted as I had that the trip
wasn’t meant for us to enjoy. We hadn’t figured out if we were being
punished for some misunderstood deed or what Mom was searching
for. No other trip had ever been quite like that. We were younger then,
of course, less sure of ourselves and the world, more dependent on
our mother for everything—entertainment, money, food, clothes,
homework help, solace in our father’s absences. Now though, I think
she was weaning us, preparing us for lives without her present.
On our fourth night there, Mom disappeared for an overnight
stay. Her note was in the kitchen, partly beneath a bunch of mint leaves
and a plate with Monday’s fish and festival. She had already left for
Milk River Baths in Clarendon, her note said, and she was staying
overnight.
Shane pointed east when we asked of Milk River Baths. “That
way.” He said it as if we should know. “Mineral bath,” he said with
something like amusement. “She gone for some healing. The water
there can cure anything.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah, man. Radioactive water.” He sounded as if he knew what he
was talking about and I didn’t press for more. I didn’t ask for examples
of what the water could cure. After all how can water cure a faltering
marriage or a lonely heart? My father was not a faithful husband
and my mother was not then the brave woman who landed a plane
on her own. But my father wasn’t the only burden in her life. There
were also the other relatives, both in Jamaica and New York, who she
had to contend with. The relatives in New York treated our house like
their personal shopping mall and my mother as their personal lender.
Sheets and towels bought on sale and stored for later use were property
open for their taking, as was bulk rice or flour or sugar. When school
terms started in Jamaica, it was my mother who seemed to support all
the children. Come August, the phone calls would come or the letters
complete with shoe and dress sizes. My mother didn’t bother to attend
funerals and weddings in Jamaica. She simply shipped a barrel, filled
with disposable plates and cups, enough rice and flour to feed at least
a hundred people and a myriad of other things. She was the privileged
American with riches the others lacked, a mother to all.
Those burdens were not my own and I thought only of us, her two