Memories: Lod's Puzzle



  Memories Lod’s Puzzle

  DEBBIE SONI

  Grave la Vision

  Memories Lod’s Puzzle is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Debbie Soni

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the written consent of the author except for brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles.

 

  Cover Copyright © 2014 by Debbie Soni

  Second Edition

  www.gravelavision.com

  Copyright © 2014 First Edition by Debbie Soni

  To my family

  As we cherish our memories

  With special thanks to

  Emmanuel and Astrid Soni, my dad and mom, for believing that I can achieve great things, for giving of their time and energy to help me realize this work.

  Salem Soni and Creisson Soni, for their support and for the many laughs along the way.

  Rosette Luko, Dan Ndombe and the larger family for the encouragement.

  My friends for the many ‘that’s great’ ‘You go girl’ ‘Let me know when your book comes out, so I can get it’

  Merci beaucoup! Many Thanks!

  Debbie Soni

 

  I sit in my living room, with my foot anxiously bouncing on and off the wooden floor in a rhythmic pattern, waiting for the knock on the door. Maisha is certain that Dieudonné will come asking questions as soon as he opens the puzzle box. I can think of many reasons why she thought of me as the best storyteller but I wish she could tell the story herself. She has come to know it by heart.

  I step into the kitchen to get myself a cup of water and after two sips, I hear a gentle knock on the door. Dieudonné walks in the house when I invite him in with a wave of my hand. “How are you?” I ask him after swallowing the water in my mouth.

  “Good. Thank you.” he answers. I show him to the chair in the dining room.

  “Tu es le bienvennu, faite comme chez toi,” I say in French telling him to make himself at home.

  “Merci.” Dieudonné thanks me as he places on the table the familiar medium size purple gift box with a red ribbon wrapped around it. “Puis-je vous donner quelque chose a boire? J’ai de l’eau et du jus de mangue.” I offer to give him something to drink.

  “Water is good, thank you.” he answers. I pour a glass of water and place it on the table in front of him.

  “Sorry for my bad manners. My name is Lod Vanderson. We have shortly spoken on the phone before.”

  “I am Dieudonné Samba.”

  “You must be very happy to be back to your home.” I attempt to lighten the awkward mood. “I am. It’s been a long time.” Dieudonné answers in a rugged tone of voice. He scratches his forehead before arranging the bow of the red ribbon flat on the purple box.

  “It must be a little difficult to come back to such a changed place.” I say.

  “I only have a few lingering good memories but they are easily overpowered and clouded by the memory of that awful day. When the rebels attacked the village, it was a miracle that I was able to run away. After the rebels left the area, I came back to see if my family had run to safety like me but I came to a bloody village. My whole family was killed, mother, father, sisters, brothers, my wife to be, aunts and uncles.” Dieudonné explains.

  “I am sorry for your loss.” I express. Dieudonné nods.

  “A total of 56 people were killed that day. I wanted to bury my family members. Mais qui aller enterer les autres. Alors je fuis le village en pleur. J’avais dix-huit ans et j’etais le seul survivant.” Dieudonné’s words filled me with sorrow. To think that as a seventeen year old boy, he had to endure the horrifying sight of dead bodies and make the decision to bury or not to bury his family members. He asked himself at that moment who would bury the other villagers. Although he knew that he was the only survivor and able body; he could not and did not want to take such a heavy burden on himself; so he ran as fast and as far as he could.

  “For years, I never wanted to come back here. And I knew I was the only survivor until I heard about Maisha. At first I didn’t want to believe that someone else had survived, surtout une amie d’enfance. But days after hearing about Maisha’s work in our village, mon esprit a revisiter ce jour la et confirme que je n’avais pas vu le corps de Maisha parmi les morts.”

  “I am sure it was not easy revisiting the past. It can a strenuous experience for the heart but at least it helped you confirm that Maisha could have actually survived that day.” I tell him.

  “It was a relief to know that someone else had survived and understood the pain I was going through. So I did not waste time and called Maisha.” Late Monday afternoon, when Dieudonné called, I answered Maisha’s office phone. Dieudonné introduced himself; although the name sounded familiar to me, at the time I did not understand why. I passed the phone to Maisha. He introduced himself to her and began explaining that he was Dieudonné, her old childhood friend. To help her remember, he began to tell her of some of the childhood memories they shared. Maisha put the phone on speaker so that I could hear their conversation and barely said a word. She looked at me for answer, I nodded at her and she hastily invited Dieudonné to come visit the village during the weekend. With her crazy schedule, Maisha had forgotten when she invited Dieudonné that she would be away from the village attending an important meeting in Kinshasa during the weekend.

  “I’m glad you called. It made her very happy to hear that you survived. And I am sorry that she is not here to tell you her amazing story and hear yours.” I say.

  “She told me, tu peux m’aider a comprendre son cadeau. Pourquoi des pieces de puzzle?” Dieudonné asked.

  “The puzzle box might seem a little crazy when you first look at it but I can help you make sense of Maisha’s gift to you.” I answer. Without uttering a word, I request the permission to open the box. I reach for it and open it to find a smaller box. A puzzle box. I open the puzzle box to display the colorful puzzle pieces with black writings and drawings on them.

  “This puzzle is really just a long story.” I explain. “She asked me to write the story, and then asked me to imprint the story onto puzzle pieces. You’ll come to better understand her reasons as I tell the story.”

  “I wanted to solve it, I started but then I realized it was harder than I anticipated. So I remembered that the day I arrived and saw the gift, she called me to say that I could come see you if I needed help.” Dieudonné says.

  “Solving the puzzle is the key to understanding the thought behind her gift. Maisha was the brain behind the making of this puzzle. She and I solved it together, so I know how to solve it. But it was especially easy for me to solve it because it’s my story, at least a part of my life story told through every word and drawing on each piece.” I explain.

  I have known the story by heart for the past years; as I tell it to him, we can solve the puzzle together, one puzzle piece at a time. He will come to better understand why this is Maisha’s gift to him.

  “The story doesn’t start at the beginning of my life but it starts at a time when my life was changing my perspective on memories, the present and the future. And it starts where Maisha though it would be best to start.” I make space on the dining table and pick up the first puzzle piece and place it on the table.

  “Maisha wanted the puzzle’s story to begin at a time when my life was turning for the better…”

  May 2010

  Soccer prep practice for college was hard today. I don’t thin
k it ever gets easier as you pursue higher heights in this sport. More practices, more tournaments, more obligations till you crack. Today might be the day to reminisce on the difficult times. Plus understand the kind of pressure dad was in and how all that pressure messed him up. ‘Choosing to be the best is choosing to do anything and everything to be the best.’ That used to be Dad’s motto. He found out the hard way how wrong that motto can really be.

  By the age of two, Dad’s future had been planned. He was born in a community of soccer fanatics who believed he could make it in the sport. ‘He played since he wore diapers,’ grandma always says. She had become a soccer mom while pregnant with her third child. Her son, my father, Ilan Vanderson was the pride of the family because of his soccer skills. His unmistakable talents along the years proved it. No wonder dad started training me from a young age. He wanted the phrase ‘Like father, like son’ to be a reality in our lives. I have been playing soccer since I was three. My friends always joke that I will probably retire from soccer three years before I turn a hundred years old since I started three years after being born. As if they expect me to only live for 100 years. Why not more, way to go friends. I don’t know how they expect me to play for that many years when prep practices for college are already making me feel like an old man with old bones and worn out muscles.

  “Going down these stairs is torture in the real sense of the word” I tell mom as I slowly make my way down each step. She stares at me from the bottom of the stairs, faking a compassionate smile. She is probably having a laughing party in her head.

  “I’m right here with a big hug” she says opening her arms as if ready to hug away my pain.

  When I reach the bottom of the stairs, her hug just melts me like butter. Because of her touch I can barely feel my legs and pains.

  “Oh my, you’re so heavy” she laughs lifting my aching body. I put my left arm around her neck; she places one hand around my waist and the other hand on my chest and walks me to the sofa. After leaving me on the sofa, she walks to the fridge to put together some packs of ice for my aching legs, arms and a warmer for my back.

  “You’re working yourself too hard” she says displeased by my moaning caused by the pain I feel as the cold from the ice reaches the inner parts of my body. “Just like your father did…” mom adds.

  “Ma’!” I cut her off knowing that the next thing she wants to say will completely destroy the mood.

  She doesn’t finish her sentence and puts the warmer on my back. She knows best, to drop the subject and let things go. Most of our arguments about my resemblance to dad, especially in sport, usually leave the family with hours of awkward chats and unharmonious family dinners. Despite that knowledge she might give it another shot, so I might as well change the subject before any conversation about dad’s past gets out of hand.

  “It smells amazing.” I attempt to change the subject.

  “Your sisters’ favorite. Their day, their food.” she says smiling. She strokes my dark hair and plants a kiss on my forehead before heading to the kitchen. Her soft touch is very soothing. I make myself comfortable on the sofa and slowly reach for a book on the table.

  Without paying much attention to what I’m reaching for, I pick up dad’s autobiography.

  “Oh no. Not this one,” I whisper to myself.

  Dad wrote a biography four years ago. The book came out a month after the twins were born. I’ve only read a few pages of that book. I have always dreaded reading the full book because of what it has to say about the past. Dad’s past. Usually, I read the last chapters about his present life with mom, Lila, Leola and me. The other parts of the book are all I relive in my nightmares and reading about them does not make me any happier. When I am reminded of those days, my nightmares escalate. I’m too haunted by them and I choose not to read them all over again.

  The only time I ever challenge myself is on the field. Even in school, I don’t take many risks. But after such a crazy day on the field, I feel like I can be challenged by anything and take on any challenge. I can go through anything and come out strong. Even this simple book. It won’t own me or my nights even if I read it from cover to cover.

  I open the book. Inside it, in the acknowledgement page, I find mom’s name, Leola and Lila’s names and my name. When I take a closer look at the whole page, it is written ‘For my treasures forever: my son Lod, my daughters Leola and Lila, and my wife Veera. With Love’.

  Being acknowledged first makes me smile for some odd reason. It feels good to have my name acknowledged first in a book. Dad’s book for that matter. He started with my name. It is such a privilege to be that important to someone. To him, especially after all we’ve been through together. Processing that discovery through my head. I am trying my best not to tear up. I am a man and men don’t show tears; especially not when reading a book about another man. And most of all even though I am on the sofa with my back to the kitchen, I can feel mom’s eyes staring at me. I don’t want her to see me tearing up. Then I would have to answer her questions on the matter. It is preferable not to go there.

  “Pull yourself together and flip the page”, I whisper to myself.

  Dad starts his story from the beginning. Grandpa introducing him to soccer and grandma’s dream of being a soccer mom and seeing her baby succeed. There are pictures throughout the book that prove just that. The first one is one of dad’s, in diapers, wearing a small English jersey. Outside playing with a soccer ball. He wasn’t kidding when he talked about playing since he was in diapers. The photo proves it. Grandpa and Grandma were determined to train him into becoming a champion in the sport.

  The next chapters focus on dad’s young success. His elementary school games in his cool jerseys. The many goals he scored in middle school. His high school years are very interesting. The 1970’s were something else. The clothes, the hair, what they called fun would be considered weird and ancient in our days. I’m glad to live in the 21st century.

  Dad writes of the many games he played for the varsity team. He talks about meeting mom and falling for her during their junior year in High School. He writes of his senior year, his many practices for the college tryouts and his desire to make it into a great college and team and pursue his dream of playing professionally.

  He talks about marrying mom a month after graduating from college and having me a year later. He writes of the joy of starting a family and the pressure of making sure to provide for that family.

  In the Blackpool F.C. chapter, dad talks about his desire to really pursue professional soccer. He shares about the connections he made with people who were willing to help him make it into the Blackpool F.C. team. He had great hopes of making the team. He showed off his talent and was propelled farther. He started getting offers from other sport agencies that wanted to represent him to even bigger teams like Arsenal. He mentions his shift from wanting to be part of Blackpool to having great hopes of playing for Arsenal.

  A sharp pain enters every part of my body as I connect this period of his life to the many troubles that still haunt me today. I feel uncomfortable reading the rest but I am determined to face what he said about his past and how it affected us all. He mentions the many parties that connected him with people who could sponsor him and put a good word in for him to make it into the professional soccer world. Then even more expensive parties. Excessive parties brought excessive spending. Casual drinking turned to careless drinking which led to drug use. Dad clearly states every mistake, every faux-pas, and the pressures of the sport which led to more drinking and drugs. He tells of the time when he got worse and spent less and less time with the family. He writes of the many times he tried to look sane, sober and be the exemplary father and husband to impress the cameras, even though the family was falling apart.

  Around this time, I remember mom decided to move back to the United States. Dad in the contrary decided to stay in England. Their dissimilar decisions open the door for him to get worse. Adding to him getting worse were the
pressures of wanting to be the best. His fear of being surpassed by the younger generation coming into the sport and the uncertainties of being part of the soccer professional world destroyed his confidence.

  Drinking heavily became his only way to cope with not measuring up to the expectations. The discontentment with his own performance and life turned him to a life controlled by drug and alcohol use. He writes of bringing me to England one summer and losing me in Cheltenham, in the middle of the night after excessive drinking. After that incident he came home with me and tried to work it out with mom. As things seemed to turn for the better, one night he went out with friends and came home completely drunk. That night he blamed my mother for his failures and physically took out his anger on her. Despite the bruises and pains, mom stayed very patient. She took her time and believed that things would change. But she was mistaken. Dad was not planning on turning a new leaf. He writes of the day he got drunk during one of my soccer matches and we got into a car accident on our way to the house. Till this day I still don’t understand how all the other parents who witnessed my drunken father get in the car, let me get in the same car when they knew how drunk he was. He writes of surviving the accident, not being charged for DUI by ‘buying the system’, even though the accident caused the loss of hearing in my right ear.

  He tells of the many overdoses and medical trips I witnessed when mom would allow me to visit him for weekends and holidays during their separation. He shares of how disheveled and broken he was, both physically and mentally, that playing soccer professionally became a blurred out dream. He talks about the depression period, the alcoholism and the drug addiction.

  In the next chapter he talks a little bit about losing our father-son connection and losing mom’s affection and the many uncertainties of their divorce. The pain he saw in the eyes of his parents who felt responsible for pushing him too hard.

  I give a sigh of relief when I realize that I am now in the happier section of the book. I’m mostly happy to get to this point of the book without any bad mentions of me. Dad hasn’t mentioned any of the things that happened with me when I tried to deal with not having a good father figure around. He probably did not mention anything for my own good. And I’m certain he didn’t want to focus on it because my past actions with him can destroy my future if exposed before I even embark on my own soccer journey. That is so thoughtful of him but I don’t mind proving to the world that I’m not the boy I was and that I am determined not to be like my father, but to be a better man.

  Dad’s crazy life made him miserable. He wanted to find his way to a better version of Ilan Vanderson. Turning to the parents who knew him best was the first decision he made in making sure that he could become a better man. He talks about how he wished he could have made things right before they got worse. He goes deeper into his rehab period at his parents’ house. That chapter really focuses on his relationship with his parents and siblings as they helped him be all new. He speaks of the role his parents’ church played in helping him see the importance of stronger faith in God than in the things the world can offer.

  In my favorite part of the book, he talks of the seven years of hell that changed him into the man he is today. He shares about how those years taught him the importance of memories, both good and bad. He talks about the usefulness of joyful and painful experiences in the shaping of better men and women.

  Dad and mom never signed the divorce papers according to dad’s book. This is something new to my knowledge of their relationship at that time. It has always seemed to me as if they had signed the papers, but they never did. So they never technically divorced.

  He finishes the book talking about how bringing into the world two beautiful twin girls taught him that life is more than just obtaining a dream, it’s also attaining the many happiness of life that make that dream worth experiencing.

  I sigh. Close the book, and place it back on the table. I can’t help but smile. Mostly because I now feel stupid for dreading the day I would decide or be required to read the entirety of such a great book.

  “That was a good book.” I say hoping mom hears me say it. I look back and am disappointed she is not in the kitchen. She headed upstairs hours ago. It’s been three hours since I started reading the book. We haven’t eaten yet and dad and the girls are late for dinner.

  Mom runs down the stairs to the door as I get the cold water and warmer off my body.

  “Your dad and your sisters are back” she says as she walks out to greet them.

  I stand, feeling much better than when I got back from practice and greet them at the door. The girls are wearing their soccer outfits, holding their little trophies. “We won, we won. We’re champions. We’re champions” they both chant in unison. Their team won the championship.

  Despite my pain, I lift them both and run around the house screaming ‘we’re champions’. And mom decides to be our cheerleader and chants “Yeah my champions, yeah my champions. I love my champions.” Fun times indeed. My dad sits on the couch watching us celebrate for the next five minutes. The smile on his face is unmistakably huge and inerasable. After our celebration, we sit at the table and have dinner. We chat about my killer practice, my sisters’ awesome winning game and our parents’ business advancement.

  Dinner ends with my dad and mom kissing in the kitchen while washing the dishes. I sit with the girls in the living room, helping them with homework.

  From time to time, I look up and see the happiness in my parents’ eyes. When I look up as they are drying the plates, my eyes meet dad’s eyes. He smiles; I smile back and give my attention back to the girls.

  As I play with Leola’s hair, she turns and smiles at me.

  “I’m glad to have my dad back,” I whisper to myself. But Lila hears me despite my attempt to be very hushed. “I’m happy to have you Lod” she says jumping in my arms. “I’m happy to have you Lod” Leola repeats as she also jumps on me. My heart more than melts; it skips a beat at hearing my sisters. I playfully tickle them to lots of laughs.

  “So how are you feeling so far?” I ask Dieudonné.

  “I am surprised that ” he answers. “You mean my relationship with my dad is interesting.” I laugh.

  “My football loving dad, he passed that football love down to me, that’s for sure. Our love for soccer has always created the kind of impact he had and still has in my life. His involvement in our lives and the many things our family went through made us stronger.” I tell Dieudonné.

  “That is why I said interesting.”Dieudonné confirms.

  I look at the puzzle and realize that we have only gotten a tiny part of the top left corner of the puzzle and we still have what seem to be millions of pieces left in the box.

  “Let’s continue then.”