"Nel nome del Padre, del Figlio, e dello Spirito Santo"
(In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit)
The young witch uses her teeth to pull the black leather glove from her fingers and makes the sign of the cross with her unsheathed hand. She inhales in the stale old wood of the confessional, while she gathers her thoughts. Leaning toward the purple velvet curtain that separates her from the Priest, she says, "Possiamo parlare in inglese?"
"Yes, signora."
Sighing heavily, she regrets telling her driver to circle the block so she could visit the cathedral. When she had escaped the hotel, stopping by a church to confess her sins was not on her list of things to do, but when she looked up at the picturesque cathedral bathed in snow, it seemed so imperative, as if all the moments of her life had led to this moment of sitting in a confessional, searching for how to tell the truth.
She collects her sins in a neat list for her to tick off to the man behind the curtain, thinking what could he do with her truth? She is not a Catholic. She isn't even a Christian. She ponders telling the priest this is a mistake, but she has made so much progress in the span of three years and there was a reason she was inside a church. There had been a reason for everything. She sticks her nervous hands under her thighs and the following words come from her painted lips.
"Forgive me father for I have sinned. I am a murderer, a liar and an adulterer. I have lived a life so far removed from anything good, and, I don't want to be this woman anymore, because I know what it's like to love again father, and because of love, I understand, it always requires sacrifice."
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The first class flight from Milan to Dakar has been uneventful and Bonnie is grateful. As soon as the flight attendant had started to explain the breathing masks and exits, Bonnie had shut out the sun, made her flight mate chuckle, because she said she had a bad habit of turning talkers into toads and she had reclined her seat back, wearing a satin sleep mask and napped for most of the many hours they sailed the air.
Running from your husband is tiring.
"Thank you for flying Italia Air."
Bonnie follows the single file line off the aircraft, carrying a nondescript black carry-all and walks purposefully to the nearest women's restroom. She has to change. Her current outfit is useless in Senegal.
The bathroom is packed. Toilets flushing in sync, faucets gushing and stopping, and hand blowers making the bathroom balmier than it already is. In the dirty stall, she drops her bag on the floor, and quickly changes out of her designer clothes, trading up for a thin cotton blue dress, flat leather sandals and swiftly twisting her hair up into a knot off of her neck.
In a hurry, she has missed the purplish marks on her arms and décolletage, and is surprised when she catches a glimpse of them when she sees her reflection in a mirrored wall along the path to the passenger pick up.
There will be questions.
Why did she have bruises?
She will have to explain they were marks of passion and then there will be more questions. Even though she is disappointed in herself for not doing the necessary body check and cover-up, the smile she has doesn't leave her face.
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A dark-skinned man, dressed in faded blue jeans and a bright yellow t-shirt is standing outside the double sliding doors; he is glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, and is waving his long arm in the air above the crowd for her to notice him. She spots him and he quickly points to a handmade cardboard sign in his other hand.
BENNETT
She shakes her head and the man briskly sidesteps the other people waiting for their passengers to wrap his arms around Bonnie into a bear hug and lift her off the ground. "You know, showing up with a sign with my last name defeats the purpose of hiding out here," She says between laughing and hugging her friend.
"Then let us hurry," He says, taking the bag from her shoulder and intertwining her fingers with his and pulling her through the horde to the packed open-air parking lot.
The air of Dakar is warm. Dense. Thick with the bustle of the future and the ancient markets of the streets, and she feels at home as she places a hand over the cloth at her mouth, protecting herself form the arid wind that blows red dust over all of Dakar.
Ibrahim turns the key into the passenger door of is 89' gray Toyota Corolla and the rusted door creaks as it opens, "Madame," He says nodding for her to slide in.
"When all of this is done, I'm buying you a car, Ibrahim," She says playfully, rolling down her window.
"Why do I need a new car when this one works just fine, "He says, patting the dashboard.
"You got a thing for cars older than you, I think this one might be newer though" She says, inspecting the worn cloth of the backseat, "What was that thing you were driving in Paris?"
He makes a face like he has to think long and hard, "Yugo."
"See that's what I mean, I don't even know what a Yugo is," She says rolling her eyes, but it is all in jest; she could care less about what kind of car he drove. Making such comments has become common between them because Ibrahim has helped to save her, and she wants to repay him with what she has readily available to give in abundance. Money. Even though it meant little to her and absolutely nothing to Ibrahim, it makes her feel good to provide until she is in a good place to be the friend he has been to her.
It is because of her he is in Senegal, if she had not made that fated phone call to him early one summer morning then he would surely be in the bowels of the Sorbonne, blowing his mind over some esoteric text about cosmology and divine inspired thought, but instead, he is picking her up from the airport and taking her back to the house they share near his village in Tukur, a remote place, nestled deep in the forest, and two hours away from a working telephone.
When people wanted to know who he was to her, and certain people really wanted to know, she would simply find herself saying, "My brother'. She has never had a brother and does not have a point of reference for brotherly behavior, but when she is in the company of the kind soul next to her in the old Toyota, she can only think this is my family.
The loud city streets morph into quiet countryside and Bonnie rests her arm over the open window, tapping her fingers on the metal along with the music he is playing.
"You are happy," He remarks.
Is that what you call it, she thinks. Happy?
The sun is everywhere there, there is no escaping him, and Bonnie squints as she looks out the windshield at the zooming trucks and colorfully adorned bodies trekking from their village to the neighboring town. She pulls down the red cloth from her mouth, "I went to church today and confessed my sins," She says, drawing out the last word because she think Ibrahim will definitely get a kick out of her using it.
He flips down his sun visor, out of habit and makes a hand gesture at an overstuffed bus that has stopped longer than what he thinks is necessary for the five people to get off, "Why?"
It was the million-dollar question.
She scrunches her brow and bites the corner of her mouth, "I wanted to tell a stranger, get it off my chest and see how much of a monster I am when it's all out there."
Ibrahim flashes his straight gleaming teeth and pats Bonnie's slender hand, "You are on a journey, Bonnie, and it is one that never ends. Do not forget that."
The car is stopped so a herder can steer his goats across the dirt road and Ibrahim looks over at her and she knows the questions are coming.
"That's not why you are so happy, tell me why you are happy."
"Damon. I saw him. "She whispers, putting up the cloth again, like it can protect her not only from dust but from friendly judgment. Saying his name reminds her of how swollen her lips still are from kissing him, till she couldn't breathe and had to pry herself from his embrace.
"You are determined to get yourself killed," her friend says, reminding her that that was a very real possibility.
She throws up her hands, "It wasn't intentional, I ran into him, also, I forget you have the memory of an elephant, I told you, what, like once over four years ago and you remember him."
"I knew he would be significant in your recovery," Ibrahim gloats and she hides her embarrassed smile in the scarf.
"And Klaus?"
The trees lining the roads became greener, abundant and seem to drape over the road to greet the trees on the other side. Soon there will be monkeys, with their golden green fur, swinging from the low branches and Bonnie is excited to see them after being gone for three weeks.
Barcelona. New Orleans. Nice. Milan.
There have been many such trips over the course of the eight months she has lived in Senegal. She had to take frequent trips away to throw him off her scent, to keep him from figuring out where her true home was, but the last trip was to lure him to her base.
Finally. No more running.
"Probably en route to Positano, I booked a hotel there under my name to give me a few hours to get out the country," She says, caught in a specific memory of the hybrid, one where she wore a white dress and he whispered in her ear that forever was a promise while a compelled officiant told them they were to be man and wife.
Ibrahim laughs, "Do you think he will come?"
Bonnie looks down at her hand and the missing gaudy sapphire she had stole at the party and left at the front desk at the Milan hotel.
"When my husband comes to take care of the bill, please give him this." The balding clerk wrapped the ring in a soft cloth and had her sign a roster for valuable items checked at the hotel.
The ring would spark something in her husband, it would bring up their past, an adventurous stay in Sri-Lanka, where time stood still; days running into each other where all they did was make love, and him presenting her with a clear, remarkably cut sapphire. He had slipped the heavy ring on her finger while telling her a story of how Solomon had owned one exactly like it, and it had been a magical ring, granting the Hebrew king divine powers, and the King had worn it faithfully until he met the beautiful Sheba and had given it to her as an eternal symbol of his affection.
When she had disappeared from New Orleans that summer, she had left the promise ring he had given her on his dresser.
She folds her hands in her lap, "He'll be here soon."
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"How's Fatou? Awa?" She asks, already grinning because he has turned down the long winding curve that will lead them up the hill to their home, a colonial relic left-over from the French. The home sprawled over an acre and is the color of a soft pink petal, and dark vines, as thick as ropes, have grown over the walls and have damaged the structure and roof of the home, but Bonnie loves it, she tells Ibrahim that nature has taken back what is hers.
"Awa went to the market before I picked you up, she should be here soon, and Fatou is in the village, she says she will meet you at the river at sunset," He gives the whereabouts of his mother and grandmother to Bonnie because his family has become hers.
She's out the car before he can properly park the vehicle, taking the steps up to the door, two at a time, and knocks on the screened door, and a long and lean woman, wearing a snug white-shirt and matching long skirt appears into the hall. Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she greets Bonnie. "You are here. Good."
Bonnie's smile slips for a moment as she looks down the dark hallway. The house is too quiet.
"What's wrong, Amina?"
"You will see in your room, "Amina says, her high cheekbones moving with each word.
She strides down the hallway, swiftly passing up the other bedroom doors until she is at the end of the hall, and she flings the door open and sees her bedroom is neat and in place and the mosquito-net is down and drawn over her canopy. She nears her bed and closes in on the sleeping figure, resting peacefully in the middle of her mattress.
Amina is leaning in the doorway, "I told him he could not sleep in here. He would not listen," She chastises, sternly.
Bonnie lingers over him, trying not to stir him, but after being apart from him for so long, she can't help caressing his cheek and his clear blue eyes open to her.
She quickly kisses his forehead and smiles, "Mama's home."
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When you are trying to overcome an addiction, consciously tapping into every ounce of effort each day to not throw away all your progress, you eventually come around to this peculiar state. You start to feel strong, and sober and even happy, like you are living under a sweet pink cloud of relief and then there is this passing thought where you actually believe you might be cured.
It's a lie.
You are still an addict.
But there is a program to cope with your lifelong illness, a plan you can follow and repeat over and over until they bury your bones, an action-step program developed by some psychologist, at some date, somewhere, all designed to help you help yourself.
First step in your getting your life back: You admit that you have a problem and cannot control your addiction.
An instant connection is what most mothers' gush, when they describe meeting their children for the first time, after the doctor hands them a blob of flesh, wrinkly and screaming and covered in their mucus and blood. When Gabriel was placed on Bonnie's sweaty chest, he was no different; he reminded her of those comic pictures of aliens, his bald head too big, his fingers and toes too small, but he didn't scream, which unnerved the doctor who checked his vitals twice before presenting him. She had never held a baby before, and she was positive she wasn't cradling him the correct way like the diagram had shown in her baby book. She stared at the amorphous sack of skin on her chest, prodding the supple flesh of his back, and he opened his eyes. They were bright blue, like the blue marbles her grams used to fill in vases with fake flowers instead of water; and his wonky blue pupils had darted about, overwhelmed by their first glance of the world, until she unglued him from her chest and held him up with two hands, and his wobbly eyes stopped rolling and focused on her. Bonnie swears to this day that he smiled at her, like he understood who she was. And she shuddered, ready for somebody to take the creature away from her. It was the first time she felt fear in over two years and it was just enough to pierce through the haze of her addiction, to shine a light the circumference of a needle into her heart. She had felt as if she had woke up from a coma. Like sleeping beauty, she had asked the doctor and nurse who moved around her bedroom packing away machines and instruments, what day was it and who was the president. She remembered how they laughed, and a champagne bottle was popped, that delicious sound of celebration, and Klaus's hand grabbing hers and him kissing her behind the earlobe and smiling in the crook of her neck and mouthing on her skin, "He's magnificent, love. We've created a masterpiece."
"A masterpiece, " She had repeated numbly after Klaus, soaking up the angelic energy from where the wrinkled body lain in her lap, wondering how could she and Klaus produce something good.
Second: You recognize a power outside of yourself can give you strength, restore your sanity.
"Mama!" Gabriel shrieks, his creamy face, the color of sand, mirroring her delighted expression. He rocks from side to side, trying to rise on the soft mattress, until he is able to steady himself on his small fists and scoot across the bed to Bonnie, and open his arms for a hug.
"Hey Baby," She says, swinging him up into her arms, rubbing her nose against his hot cheek. She plops down on the bed, him in her lap, admiring how beautiful he really is, from his thick, honey brown curls, and his mouth shape, like the bow of an angel named cupid, and his heart-shaped face, perfect for cupping in her palm, and those big round eyes of his - the exact shade of his Father's - filled with a sense of peace, her husband nor her, have ever possessed.
Months after her labor, the blob had developed into a human-like shape, torso, legs and arms, and he could babble, find his nose and pull the socks off his feet, then he learned to crawl, clap his hands and laugh, and then he grew some more, and little by little the creature captured her affection, till one day, miraculously not yearning for a fix, and feeling particularly close to him, she finally named him.
Gabriel.
Bonnie's drug of choice? Magic.
Expression to be precise, it consumed her, but like with most drugs, it wasn't the actual magic that had robbed her soul, it was the high she received from it; it was the absolute power that corrupted her.
She had defied the balance of nature, and after the nightmares, it got easier and easier, to the point where she didn't notice the strung up bodies draining in the basement, or hear the harrowing screams from burning witches on her lawn.
Oh but when she woke up from that, when she realized what she had done, then she had wished she too were on a meat hook with feet dangling over a grate so her blood could run out and drip into crystal punch bowls, or had tied herself to a tree right along with the other witches and screamed from her face melting off.
She was beyond redeem.
And she thought about ending it all, thought the world would be a better place without her in it, and she contemplated the best way to do it. An asp to the heart? Or, send a message by slitting her wrists the correct way. All of these were fine options, she thought, until her son needed her to hold his hand while he took his first steps, then she realized that she couldn't check out.
"Did you listen to Amina?" She asks him, furrowing her brow like she's serious and his sweet face becomes somber beyond his years and he bobs his head emphatically.
Amina can't be still, so she is wiping off Bonnie's chest of drawers with the dish towel she has in her hand, "He is a good baby, but he refuses to sleep in his own room, he wants to be in mama's room," She smiles, shaking her head at the loving pair.
"No go, Mama," he says in his child's voice.
Bonnie swiftly dips him onto the bed and blows raspberries against his tummy, making him giggle and yelp for her to stop.
And between their peals of laughter, she says, "Soon, mama won't have to leave anymore."