Not Without My Sister (26 page)

"I'm not sure what I want to do," I said, "but I'd like to visit my dad, and from there I'll decide. All I know is that I can't stay here another minute without going crazy."
Galileo agreed to let me travel to England and then on to Uganda to visit Dad and my sister Juliana, who I hadn't seen for nearly two years. I was given enough money to buy a three-month round-trip ticket from London to Kampala and headed off to the continent of Africa.

Juliana

Deep sadness like a shadowy blanket of spiders crept over me. I needed my fix; craved it with the obsession of a hungry addict. Locking the door so my roommate couldn't surprise me, I stripped in a hurry, longing for a glimpse...the mirror was so close; my body tingled with anticipation. I reached for the handle to the bathroom door, swung it open and slowly raised my eyes to the reflection in the glass.
My bones jutted out in every direction, my stomach was so concave, the hip bones so prominent. I stroked them lovingly, allowing my hands to travel slowly upwards to stroke my tiny shrunken breasts and frowned slightly. If only they had not disappeared with my weight. But it hardly mattered; the rest of me was beautiful—a nearly perfect skeleton.
The desire for food had faded long ago, and all that remained was the obsession. I could stand it no longer. I stepped gingerly on to the scales, feeling the bumpy texture under my bare feet.
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the thinnest of them all?
The scales did not disappoint; down another little red line, another little unit of weight, down to 43 kilos. The shadow receded; I could breathe again. I even allowed myself a little smile of pleasure, while my body shivered in its bony frame.
I turned back to the bedroom and tugged on my baggy clothes. The clothes did not matter, only what was underneath. The clothes had never mattered.
I had never mattered.
Nothing mattered anymore.
I was sixteen years old when Dad sent me away again. Only this time he dismissed me to protect himself. That alone hurt more than anything else. Our visas in Japan had to be renewed, and Dad feared if immigration officials investigated they would discover he had changed his name to re-enter the country, after which we would be blacklisted and deported. It could re-open a can of worms. So I was the sacrificial lamb. Dad's quick disposal of me had wounded much deeper than I liked to admit. I felt like a worthless, ugly person; the obvious reason no one had ever wanted me, or loved me.
Dad wanted to send me back to my mum who was now in India. I begged him to send me anywhere in the world but India! I did not ever want to end up there again and my relationship with Mum was not close. I applied to a commune in Ireland, and was accepted.
I arrived at the large house in the suburbs of Limerick. It had a sprawling lawn, tennis and basketball court, and was surrounded on three sides by Irish bog. There were five other young people there, plus three families. The Home shepherds had nine kids. We were under no illusions who the boss was—Uncle Elkannah, who ran the place like a "mom and pop sweat shop."
It quickly became obvious how he could afford the rent for such a large property. We young people raised it through ballooning and face painting in malls across the country. I got to see a lot of Ireland; well, a lot of Irish malls anyway. We traveled to wherever we had bookings and spent twelve-hour days twisting balloons into shapes, animals, cartoon characters—you name it, we made it.
And we raked in the money!—all for a psychopathic Home shepherd. One minute he'd be hugging and kissing me, the next shouting and cussing. He had long stringy hair and a large bulbous nose with purple veins running through it. His face turned two shades redder whenever he erupted into one of his unpredictable furies. His constant fits were turning me into a nervous wreck and my weight started dropping drastically.
Over twenty people lived in that house and the noise was constant. One nay, I awoke early on my day off, after a long weekend of ballooning. The racket made sleep impossible, so I got up and made my way to the kitchen for a coffee. Elkannah was in one of his chirpy moods and greeted me with a cheery hug.
"Hello, Julie! And how has your night been?" He gushed in a singsong voice that betrayed far too much enthusiasm. I should have guessed then.
"All right. I'm a bit tired though," I answered. "Couldn't sleep, there was too much noise." What followed was completely unanticipated.
His face changed color as quickly as a chameleon. "You ungrateful little bitch!" He suddenly shouted.
"What?" I was completely bewildered. Was he kidding with me? This had to be another joke. You could never tell with him.
"I feed you, house you, take care of you, and you dare complain that you can't get a little sleep! You murmuring, rotten little terror!" He grabbed me suddenly and started shaking me. I was sure he was going to hit me, so I pulled away.
"Please, you're hurting me." I mumbled.
"I'm hurting you? You don't know what pain is!" I could feel his spittle hitting my face. I had enough. I had done nothing to warrant such treatment.
"According to the charter," I said to him, "you can't touch me!" I spun on my heels and ran from the kitchen to my room and locked the door. Elkannah followed close behind and pounded at the door. "Open the door this minute!" he yelled. "Open up, or I'll kick it down."
My roommate looked at me wide-eyed. "What's happening?" she asked.
"I think he's gone insane," I whispered.
"I have to open it." She looked at me. "If I don't, he'll kick it down. I know him. It'll only be worse for you."
"Okay. Open it then," I said, and slipped into the bath-room, locking the door behind me.
"Where is she?" he shouted.
"She's using the toilet," my friend explained.
"You come out of there this minute!" He hammered on the bathroom door. "Or Charter or not, I'll slap some respect into you! I mean it! Open it now!"
I could hear his wife Tamar beside him. She was gentle, motherly and the only person in the house that he listened to. The racket had alerted her, and she came down to discover the cause.
"Honey, calm yourself down first, and then you can talk to her," I could hear her whispering.
There was absolute silence for a minute. I could feel the beads of sweat running down my neck, but I did nothing to wipe them away. I did not move at all. Then his voice spoke with calm menace.
"I want to see you in my room within the next five minutes, and that's not a request."
The entire house was holding its breath. I slumped down on the toilet and sat there, willing courage into myself while my stomach churned with terror. It was the same fear I had felt as a child when the teacher called me for a spanking.
I squared my shoulders, clenched my fists, and walked straight upstairs to his room. To my relief, I saw that Tamar had insisted on remaining in the room to prevent Elkannah doing anything he would regret. The minute I walked in, he resumed his tirade. He started throwing insults at me. His hair stood on end as if he'd been electrocuted; his face was a livid purple and when he called me demon possessed, I thought that if anyone was possessed it was most definitely him.
After listening to Elkannah bluster for nearly half an hour, Tamar finally managed to discern the cause of his fury. I had mentioned that there was too much noise in his house. Obviously she thought there was some truth in this because, between Elkannah's incoherent ranting, she told me this was ridiculous and I was free to leave.
Not only did I leave their room, I left the house. I could not breathe. I yearned for air and light and freedom. I climbed through the window in my room, and started running through the bog, allowing my legs to carry me wherever they pleased. I lost track of time. When at last I felt well enough to return, I strolled slowly back to the house, climbed in through the win-dow and lay down on my bed.
My roommate found me there soon after and gave a little yelp of delight.
"You know, you've thrown the entire house into a panic. Tamar has been driving around every back road for the past two hours looking for you." ...
"What? Why?" Up until that point, no one had paid me much attention at all unless I was late for work.
"Well, after Elkannah freaked out, Tamar felt really bad and she came down to see if you were okay. You weren't here, or anywhere else in the house, so we panicked and thought you'd run away."
"Just tell Tamar I'm here, please, so she won't worry." "She's still out looking for you."
I felt bad then. Tamar was a good person. If I had wanted to run away, just knowing what I would put her through would have prevented me. She returned five minutes later, and hurried straight to my room.
"Julie, you're okay? You had me so worried!"
"I'm sorry. I just went out for a walk in the bog."
"You gave us a scare. Listen, whatever Elkannah said to you, he didn't mean it. He just had a bad day. He really does love you." "Sure." I found that particularly hard to swallow She left the room and I lay down on my bed, exhausted.
Suddenly, the door burst open and Elkannah's overpowering figure filled the frame. I sat up quickly, bracing myself for another outburst.
He fell dramatically to his knees, grabbing my feet and kissing them while he blubbered. "Julie, I'm so so sorry. Please forgive me. I love you Julie. I would never want to hurt you. Never! You're a Gemini like me.
You understand we have moods. You know I love you, right?"
His hands were fawning all over my legs, and if I hadn't thought so before, I was now certain that the man was insane.
"Yes, yes, Elkannah. It's all right, I forgive you." Cringing, I tried to extricate myself from his paws. I just wanted him to leave. Tamar returned to the room and, seeing her husband's ridiculous display and the pained look on my face, interrupted.
"Okay, honey, that's enough. She's forgiven you."
After a few further reassurances on my part, he got up and left the room to my relief. I now desperately wanted to leave Ireland. But I had no money and was completely reliant on Elkannah, who was loath to let me go. I was trapped in a world that I did not want to live in, with no purpose for an existence I found unbearable. Like a caged bird staring longingly at the freedom of the skies, every time I tried to break free, my wings were clipped a little more. They had wanted to break my spirit and finally they succeeded. There was no fight left in me. I was tired of picking myself up every time I was beaten down, tired of fearing where the next blow would come from, tired of wishing for dreams I could not realize, tired of bouncing back from countless disappointments.
I was tired of living—and I was only seventeen.
There was nothing left but to wait while I faded away a little more with each passing day. Eating less, talking less, laughing less, until I became a mere remnant, a flesh and bone shell of myself. And when that too was gone, then the mistake that was my life would finally be over.

Luckily for me, Mum returned to Europe with her family. They had had enough of India and the small-minded Family members they encountered there. They were back to raise money to go to Africa.
I wrote to Mum saying I was not well, and asked if I might visit her. I knew I had to get out of Ireland before things got worse. I flew to France and she met me at the air-port with Luke and Crystal. The transformation in me was shocking. I was in such a bad state that Mum sat in the front of the van for the ride home so I wouldn't see her crying.
My family united to help me get better. My half sister Mariana had just flown in, and for the first time our broken family lived together. For the first time too, I was shown unconditional love and acceptance. We lived in a big old stone farmhouse in Vigy, southern France. I spent most of the days on long walks through the fields and forests with my brother and sisters. It was a time of uninterrupted peace for me.
Mariana literally force-fed me at mealtimes. She put the food on my plate herself, despite my angry protests, and watched me until I had eaten every last bite. Sometimes I would dissolve in a pool of tears and wanted to gag, but she wouldn't back down. I thought she was being cruel, but she followed through relentlessly for my good. If it had been anyone else, I would have dug in my heels.
Then unexpectedly, after two years of being hidden away, World Services allowed Celeste to visit briefly. She came from England with Dad and brought her baby, Cherie, whom we had never seen. It was the first time since the Philippines, fifteen years before, that we spent a day all together.
This visit should have held more importance for me, but I was oblivious to everything. I walked around zombie-like, unable to express any kind of emotion. I could not feel. I did not experience joy at their arrival, or sorrow at their departure. Because of this, that visit remains a blur in my mind. I do remember taking a short stroll with Celeste and relaying to her my experiences in Ireland.
I celebrated my eighteenth birthday in France with my family around me. The few months spent with them had rallied my spirits, but I still was not strong enough to venture back out on my own. I lacked any self-confidence. I was wafer thin and continued to battle depression.
By now my family had raised enough money to move to Senegal. I was invited to join them and I jumped at the offer. There was a quote that stuck in my mind from one of Mo's stories, of his mother when she was contemplating suicide: "If you're going to throw your life away, why not give it to some cause." I decided that that was what I was going to do. Before I knew it, I was on a plane heading for West Africa.
The care my family gave me started me down the road to recovery, but Africa cured me. It took seeing people much worse off to put my troubles back into perspective.
Senegal was hot, dusty, and wonderful! It carried an exotic blend of Arabic, African, and French culture. The Senegalese people are tall and striking. It was a land rich with color, music, and life. We started working with a home for street children, which was a big problem in Dakar. We would put on clown shows to entertain them, and raised regular sponsorship for food and clothing for the kids.
New Year 2000—Y2K—was to be dramatic. A prophecy announced that this could be the beginning of the End of the World—again. All over the globe, we were to pray and rededicate our lives to the Family in "The Foot washing Ceremony." Someone acted out the role of Jesus and washed each of our feet and then we read out our pledge of dedication.
When midnight struck on New Year's Day 2000, and no lights went out in the city, we were mildly surprised. Queen Maria explained it away through prophecy that Jesus was delaying the inevitable Endtime so we would have more time to "spread the gospel." The turn of the millennium was seen as a milestone, for we were now "ordained warriors" wielding the greatest power in the Universe.
One day, quite unexpectedly, I received a phone call from Dad. He was moving to Uganda to start up a radio ministry and wondered if I'd like to join him. He thought I could put my talent for writing to use scripting the shows. Before I might have jumped at such an offer, but now I declined. I no longer wanted to live with him. Since he had left me in Thai-land aged eight years old, our relationship had suffered a steady erosion. He was not the fun, caring father I remembered. More than ever he seemed a stranger to me. I felt safe where I was with my family, and I loved Senegal.
But Dad persisted. He said they had received prophecies that "the team for Uganda had been personally handpicked by the Lord" and my name was called to join them. I could not ignore the summons.
By this time, prophecy was fast becoming the new method of dictatorship. It could be used to badger people into doing things they did not want to do. No one dared risk stepping out of God's bubble of protection by not obeying a prophecy.
All my family in Senegal received "prophecies" saying I should go to Uganda, so I could no longer refuse my father. Mum thought as long as I stayed, I would always be living under Mariana's shadow. I needed to carve out my own life. They wanted me to go. The old feelings of rejection broke over me. I was gutted. I went up to the roof of the house and cried for hours. Just when it seemed I had found a family and a place I belonged to, I was being kicked out. It was the age-old question—if they loved me, why were they sending me away?
Heartbroken, I flew to Uganda.
I identified each of the many countries I lived in by their individual smell. Uganda smelt of vegetation before rain and the rich red dirt. It is known as the Pearl of Africa. I loved the sudden cloudbursts between sunny skies, when I could run out into the rain and feel it pounding into my skirt. It seemed both powerful and sorrowful at the same time. It released something in me. Other times, I would climb up on to the roof of the house and lie watching the stars for hours. I wanted to fade into the blackness and disappear into a tiny twinkling star, watching the world from a distance.
The Home consisted of my dad and Sunshine, an elderly woman called Kathleen, who had come to be Dad's secretary, a young man named Sims, who was a studio technician, and the kids. Dad and Sunshine had had a third child by now, a boy named Rory. It was obvious to me Sunshine had not wanted a third child. She wanted a ministry and a life, not to be tied down with masses of children, which was the ministry Dad wanted her to accept. Dad thought a woman's place was to bear babies and take care of her man. Dad was actually proud of his reproductive record, boasting that he had fathered fourteen children of seven different nationalities.
The day I arrived, Dad asked me how I felt about taking care of Rory. It was more of a strong suggestion than a request. I had come believing I was going to help start a radio show. Dad had misled me to get me there. I felt betrayed. I had left a place I loved to come and baby-sit Dad's growing family, cook and keep house for him.
Although I was upset by Dad's deception, I felt for my baby brother. The whole move from Japan to Africa, coupled with his mother's rejection, had turned Rory into a fussy, insecure child. He very quickly grew attached to me to the point where I could not even take him out of my arms, much less leave the room, or he would start to scream and shake with terror. He clung to me constantly like a frightened little monkey. It always took me a long time to calm him down when he fell into one of his fits.
Dad's solution to Rory's crying was to spank him. This surprised me. I had never seen my father spank a child in anger till now. He used to be fair and rarely resorted to beatings.
I often took Rory for long walks along the red dirt roads in his rickety little pram. We would spend the morning with my African ma; a. Mary was a tiny, wiry old neighbour who was tough as nails and unofficially adopted me. She would be out digging her vegetable garden with a hoe every morning, hacking at any elephant grass that dared sprout on her little plot of land. She was always trying to fatten me up and taught me how to cook grasshoppers and termites, the local delicacy. Rory was always very calm around her and she loved our company.
Not long after we opened the Radio Home, Dad's friend from Japan joined us with his large family, and a single girl, followed shortly by another young couple. We were now a noisy, bustling commune again—a situation I dreaded. I had to move out of my room, as I refused to share, so I made a space for myself in the garage with some straw mats pinned up around a mosquito net. It was not much to look at, but it was privacy and I could be alone.
Sometimes we went over to another nearby home for fellowship. During one party, I met a couple that were visiting from Kenya. He was an elderly Australian man, married to a young Eastern European girl. When I walked into the room, I saw Dad chatting animatedly with him. Dad waved me over.
"Julie, this is Michael! He's an old friend of mine from way back in the day!"
"Oh really? From where?" I had heard a great deal about all of Dad's old friends, but I did not recall hearing of a Michael.
"Well, we knew each other from back in India! You know who he is!"
"Yeah, we both married the same woman!" Michael offered in his Australian accent, and the two of them laughed together. I did not get it.
"He married Celeste's mother after me." Dad clued me in.
I had no idea that this "Michael" was formerly Joshua—my half sister Kristina's abuser. If I had, I would have punched him, or would have expected Dad to. Instead, they acted like best mates. To Dad, anyone who was a Family member was a brother.
Towards Christmas 2000, we heard from Celeste. She had left World Services, and wanted to come and visit us in Uganda. Dad was ecstatic. It was his dream to have her work with him. She arrived looking much thinner than the last time I had seen her in France. I knew she had been living in Queen Maria's Home and I was eager to milk information out of her about what it was like. She was pretty tight lipped and uncomfortable talking about it, but she did describe the difficulties of her pregnancy and childbirth. She saw I was unhappy and I could sense she was too, but we never got much opportunity to talk about things together. We had not managed to break through the intangible barrier that had grown between us from the time she left me in Thailand. Our lives had split off in very different directions.
Three months later, much to Dad's disappointment, Celeste decided to leave Uganda. Although I was sorry to see her go, I could understand why. Living with Dad was no longer "living the dream." It was living the nightmare of a broken dream.