Not Without My Sister (12 page)

The pain of the white stick making contact with my bare skin was nothing compared to the pain of humiliation I felt as thirty sets of eyes burned into me. But that was not the end of it. After the beating, there was still the prayer of deliverance. I was made to go down on my knees while the whole room laid their hands on me. After much speaking in tongues and a rhythmic mantra of "Thank you Jesus, thank you Lord. Thank you Jesus, thank you Lord," it was my turn to "cry out to the Lord in desperation." Then Auntie Joy said another long prayer over me, resisting the Devil and all his demons and banishing their influence in my life...
Only a couple of hours later, the teacher realized I was burning up with a fever. They discovered a huge lump behind my ear. I had a bad infection and a cold in my ears that lasted almost two weeks. When they understood my short temper that day had been a reaction to feeling ill, Auntie Joy took me aside.
"Honey, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were sick. Why don't you go and lie down?"
A private apology was all well and good but it did not offer me any vindication in the eyes of my peers. But the shepherds could never be seen to be wrong in front of the class.
For some reason, it was assumed that spiritual sins, like physical sickness, could also be contagious. A year after I went to the Jumbo we began to notice a group of older teens who were in Quarantine. They were not allowed to mingle with anyone else. They did not take their meals in the communal dining hall; the only times I saw them was when they were engaged in their daily degrading hard labor, which consisted of scrubbing toilets, drains, and massive floors with a toothbrush. Often they would be made to do strenuous callisthenics like the Duck Walk and Starjumps, for hours at a time, until they collapsed with exhaustion. They were regularly administered the board, a piece of plywood with large holes drilled through for better leverage and a handle on the end. They always wore signs in bright red, which read "Quarantine," and often had duct tape over their mouths. They were called Detention Teens.
The youngest one—not a teen at all—was an eightyear-old African-American boy. He had expressed a desire to leave the Family, and so was imprisoned in a tiny room with an adult guarding him at all times. He was too dangerous to even mix with the other detainees. They fed him only liquids and read him Mo Letters all hours of the day and night for nearly a year. As he was so close in age to me, I often found myself thinking about him and wondering what I would do if I were in his place. A couple of times during Family Time, I caught a glimpse of him being escorted by an adult for exercise and I wished I could talk to him. Everyone avoided the Detention Teens like the plague, as if being close to them might contaminate us, and turn us into teen terrors too.
But I also had my faults, or so I was constantly told. My pride had to be kept in check. Pride was the root of all sin. Because my father was famous—thanks to his work with Music with Meaning and other projects—it was assumed that I must feel some kind of pride because of this. His voice was on every cassette tape, his face on nearly every video, and it was impossible to forget who he was, even if I wanted to. And I did want to. I did not care who he was. To me, he was just my daddy who I missed.
To suppress any un-revealed pride inside me, once in awhile I found myself sitting in a bathtub full of doo-doo nappies, a present from the Nursery. Usually the Detention Teens performed this chore, but every so often I was allowed to share their load. It took hours. I never could eat on those days. The smell of shit soaked into my skin, no matter how hard I tried to scrub it off. But worse than the smell was the humiliation I felt as my happy peers passed through the bathroom to watch, and feel vindicated for not having famous parents.
I did not care who Dad was in the Family; I just wanted everything to be like it had been. I had almost forgotten Mum completely by now The only memory of her was resurrected in my dreams. I would see her in the distance walking with Mariana and Victor and I would run towards her happily. "Mum!" I cried out. "Mum!" But somehow I could never reach her and she did not hear me calling. I would wake up crying hysterically.
Sometimes, kids were allowed to go for special sleepover nights with their parents. Sleepovers were a big deal to me because they created a semblance of family life that I missed.
Once, my foster mother Auntie Stacey promised me a sleep-over that I looked forward to the entire week. She had promised to pick me up after a meeting, so I lay in my bed waiting and watching the doorway for three hours, till even our teacher fell asleep. I would not allow myself to drift off, and kept awake by reciting along with the
Music with Meaning
drama tape that was playing. My eyes kept fluttering between the doorway and the clock, till they grew heavy. It was after midnight when I realized Auntie Stacey had probably forgotten about me. But I had looked forward to having that sleepover for so long that I crept out of bed and upstairs to Auntie Stacey's room. I found her sleeping with her small daughter and there was no room on the mattress for me. So I curled up on the floor at her feet and fell asleep there. It could have been a luxury bed for all I cared; I was happy, though I don't know why I should have been.

When I was seven, I was sent to Japan to live with Dad, to a very beautiful mountainous place near the sea. My new home was known as the Heavenly City School.
Although Dad lived just down the road from the school, I only saw him once or twice a week. As usual, I was put into a large group of seven- and eight-year-old children called the Shining Lights. I was surprised to see Davie and Danny there, although I shouldn't have been. Like my dad, Davie and Danny's parents also worked directly for Mo, who had left the Philippines for Japan; the World Services teams working closest with him moved wherever the King's House-hold moved, so there they were. As was Pierre—his parents, Paul Peloquin and Marianne, had also moved and taken up shepherding posts in Japan.
Many of the musicians from
Music with Meaning
had moved to Japan to continue recording music cassettes for the Family to sell. They had recently progressed to producing children's music videos for distribution, called "Kiddie Viddies." At night a stage would be set up in the dining hall for the
inspirations and the best musicians would lead the singing. Usually, all the children would get to spend an hour with their parents after dinner and sometimes I got to have an hour with my daddy. But on these inspiration nights, we had to sit in our groups and I would miss the hour of family time. Being with my daddy was such a rare thing that I came to hate the inspirations because they took away my time with him. I would sit and cry while everyone around me joined in the singing. Because it would be a bad example to catch a child crying on the video, I was often escorted out of the hall, and had to spend the hour alone listening to muffled singing from the bedroom.
The times I did spend with my dad were cherished. We would take long walks together or climb the hill to the pyramid building. Inside the pyramid, a miniature space city had been constructed according to Mo's revelations of what the Heavenly City would look like. I could sit for hours looking at the little gem-like buildings lit up with glowing lights, and the tiny trees and people. It seemed like a magical wonder-land and I would fantasize shrinking down to thumbnail size like Thumbelina anti living in that beautiful little world.
After a few months, Dad and I left Japan and returned to the Philippines to meet up with Celeste, who had come directly from Hosea's farm in Macau. The Jumbo was being disbanded three years after opening, and it was our job to scrub till we dropped until the huge building was sparkling and ready to be handed back to its owners. I had my eighth birthday there, and for the first time in four years, Dad and Celeste could celebrate it with me.
I desperately wanted a music box, after a
Life with Grandpa
story came out in which Techi received a music box with a little ballerina dancing around on a glass mirror. I wanted one just like it and begged my dad for it as a birthday present. Though I did not know it at the time, this sent him into a panic. No one in The Family was supposed to know where Mo lived, and Dad assumed that if he got me a similar music box to Techi's, I would guess that the Royal Family had lived in the Philippines.
On the day of my birthday, Dad, Celeste, and I went for an outing. He promised that if we found a music box like the one I wanted, then I could have it. Secretly, he hoped we would not find it, and he encouraged Celeste to help me pick an alternative present. But I had set my heart on something, and everything else paled in comparison. We must have combed through most of the shops in the city. By the end of the afternoon, we were tired and Dad agreed to try one last shopping center. He tried to interest me in little musical stuffed toys.
"Here honey, how about this little bear that plays music when you pull the string." He held up the stuffed animal and I wrinkled my nose.
"Daddy, those are for babies!" I wandered away from him, searching further up the aisle.
And then I found it! A whole row of beautiful music boxes—some with swans, others with dancing couples, and others with ballerinas.
"Daddy, daddy, I found it! I found it! I knew I'd find it!"
I saw amazement in his eyes. Even he had begun to doubt its existence. "Well honey, I guess Jesus is rewarding you for your determination!" Dad conceded. "Which one do you like?"
I chose a black music box with a gold and red design of swans flying over a lake hedged with flowery reeds. Inside was a magnetic mirror on which two ballerinas danced to the music of
Swan Lake
. I was enchanted by it and treasured that music box for years. On the way home, we stopped for an ice cream, which was a rare treat. It was one of the happiest days of my life and I was walking on clouds.
A few weeks later, we moved to a new house with the rest of the Family members still in the Philippines. It was a time of unrestrained happiness spent with my father. I would surprise him with chocolate oatmeal balls and watch him eat them with pleasure. On the nights I slept in his room, I would wear one of his T-shirts that reached to my mid-calf like a nightgown and curl up in bed while he told me stories of his cats, his days in boarding school and how he joined the Family. Lovingly, I would study his photo album packed full of pictures of the three of us, which invoked memories of hap-pier times. But I never found any pictures of my mother or brothers and sisters.
One picture ,caught my attention though. It was of a beautiful, smiling little girl around four years of age holding out a dark red apple in front of a Christmas tree. With big blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and long dark curls that glowed from the lights of the tree, she resembled a porcelain doll. "Daddy, who is this?” I asked, holding up the photo.
"Hmmm? Oh, that's your Greek sister, Davida."
"I have a Greek sister?" This was the first time I had heard of her. Dad never talked about any of his kids, and different brothers and sisters would pop up unexpectedly throughout my life.
"Yes. She's your age in fact. She was even born in the same hospital as you."
"We're twins?"
"No. I think she's a month older than you."
"Where is she?" I asked.
"I don't know. Somewhere in Greece I think."
I studied the picture for a long time and finally made up my mind. From that day on, I told people I had a twin somewhere.
A few months later, Dad announced that we were leaving the Philippines for India. This time was different from the others because Dad would be coming with us. However, when we arrived in Bombay, he promptly dropped Celeste and me at the Family boarding school there, and went to join the Witnessing Home. I saw him only a few times in the months we spent there.
We slept on bunk beds, and I had a top bunk next to the window. From where I lay, I could see out into the neighborhood. There was a town meeting hall across the road, where weddings were often held. They would blast loud Bollywood music from giant speakers for days at a time. I would lie at night watching the Indians dancing in their colorful wed-ding costumes; there were lights and flowers everywhere. It seemed like a fantasyland and I liked having a secret glimpse into that world.
One day we were having Get Out in the courtyard—which was when we were allowed out to play or exercise—when the doorbell rang. The Indian uncle assigned to answer went to the gate. A wealthy Indian family was outside. They had mistaken our school for an orphanage and had come to enquire about adopting one of us.
My heart thumped wildly. I wanted to go with them! They were a family wanting a child—I was a child without a family. I nearly jumped out and shouted, "Take me!" Dad did not even feature in the picture.
The uncle quickly put them straight. My heart sunk when they left. The rest of the day I imagined what it would be like growing up with them and I built it up so much in my mind that it became almost real to me.
Since the Jumbo, I had become a very quiet, introverted but resourceful child. I knew what made the teachers tick, and I had disciplined myself into a perfection of silence. For the first time in my life, I managed to get by without a spanking. I understood that to survive, I must become a chameleon, changing to suit every environment I found myself in. If it was silence and complacency they wanted, I gave it to them with hands folded neatly in my lap; if they wanted me to sing, I sang with gusto; I danced to all their tunes. My best disguise was transparency. I did not make many friends, how-ever, due to my newfound popularity with the teachers.
One teacher Auntie Peace, felt sorry for me. She was a kind teacher with curly red hair and bright blue eyes. Even when she was mad, Auntie Peace always stayed calm and never shouted at us like other adults. I had a phobia about my hair from being frequently teased about how thin and wispy it was. From the time I was a toddler I had been plagued with bad cradle cap, which turned into eczema. It covered my entire scalp and prevented my hair from growing. Bored at night, I would lie there picking at the dry skin, and my hair would come out with it. To my horror, the next morning I'd find giant bald patches where I had been picking. One of the girls in my class had long thick hair falling past her bottom, and feeling ugly, I would watch in envy as the teacher brushed it out. I never let anyone touch my hair, and always tied it back by myself into a lumpy ponytail when no one was looking.
Auntie Peace persuaded me to let her take it down one day and gently combed it out, telling me how beautiful my hair was. "There's different kinds of hair, Julie," she told me. "Just because your hair is not long and thick does not mean it is not beautiful. You are a very beautiful and special girl and you're going to grow up to do special things."
I never forgot this kindness, and always thought of her with the kind of affection I might have felt towards my own mother. In return, I would carry her baby around when she awoke screaming at night and the adults were downstairs in meetings.
"You don't have to cry," I whispered as. I rocked her. "At least your mummy's coming back. My mum's never coming back for me, and I'm not crying, so you shouldn't cry either." And I'd play my music box and sing to her till she fell asleep again. It was years later that I discovered that Auntie Peace named her next baby after me.
This was the first time I became reasonably comfortable in my environment, which enabled me to form delicate strings of attachment. Just as I began to develop some semblance of routine and belonging, Dad was recalled to the Heavenly City School in Japan. He flew with Celeste and me to Thailand and dropped us at the Training Center school in Bangkok, promising to return for us in a few months.
Dad was never good at keeping promises.