Chapter 3

Janine
11:45pm.
November 5, 1993. Kingston, Jamaica.

Potholes in this country were a problem we didn’t talk about enough. All I can think about are potholes. Potholes were safe. Safer than thinking about how much I was bleeding.
Mama always use to seh I change the topic and think about some fooli-nish instead of concentrating on the very serious. She called it “avoiding”. The church therapist called it focusing on the inane to avoid thinking about the serious. I called it surviving, safety.

“Sweetheart, remember what we spoke about. Think about this very carefully.”
Scary how nice and proper threats could sound.
“Janine, it would be best if you didn’t tell anybody about this. You’re a very sweet girl, but if this goes to court, you’d never win and I’m sure you don’t want to put your parents under the pressure of having to pay for lawyers. Just let us handle this, okay?”

All thinly veiled threats. He was going to win. I was going to lose. My only option was to lose gracefully. Again. Funny how upon finding your child’s girlfriend bleeding to death, the first recourse would be to call the family lawyer and not, let’s say a police man friend or a docta friend.
Nope. The Upper St. Andrew way was a different perspective on life altogether.

Potholes Janine. Potholes.
Potholes were a problem. Each one reminded me of another one of his thrusts. Unwelcomed. Unexpected. Jolting
Potholes were breaking me apart and stitching me together. Reminding me that it happened and that it hurt, but also reminding me that I was still alive. That I was still surviving.

Surviving. Suffering in silence. Being the meek little lamb.
“Wah Jesus woulda do?” my mother’s mantra, daily prayer and life philosophy. Jasmine hated hearing what about Jesus would do. “Wah Jasmine woulda do” has been her response since she slipped out the womb 3 minutes before I did.

Jasmine. Wah Jasmine woulda do? Jasmine woulda fight and Jasmine woulda win. But Jasmine would also assure me that surviving was my strength.

Another pothole. This time the bottom of the car met the malt with a thud and I relished it, the jolt, the pain, the loss of even more blood, because it meant that I was still surviving.