House of healing

Padmini Raghunath

Audio: Padmini Raghunath reads.

If anyone asked her, she would’ve sworn up and down it wasn’t the case. But Joy had to admit to herself that she loved to drive the old gas monstrosities. She loved taking switchbacks up into the hills, fog floating off the Bay and falling heavy in the old-growth redwoods. 

The roads were mostly used by people heading up to the hill terraces and food forests, tended for lovingly by people like her friend Bear who made near-daily pilgrimages up to help prune and manage the hilly lands.

She’d lucked out—no other vehicle was available in the rotation today to take her up to the old home nestled into the hill—Chestnut House.

She pulled into the old drive cluttered with electro-bikes, helmets neatly stacked in the big bins at the front door.

Joy pushed into the foyer, balancing a large crate on her arm. Her footsteps echoed. The house smelled of cedar, lemon, and dust; it pulsed with warmth and energy. Joy dropped her bag down in the guest bin and slipped her shoes off.

She was there to deliver fresh bunches of kale, poha berries, sunshine cherry tomatoes, artichokes, chestnut meal, and mini-tamarillo tarts—a dozen for the group. Joy was a node in a large, dispersed tapestry—food was grown, harvested, processed, and distributed weekly. She oversaw special runs—the deliveries uphill—and always volunteered for Chestnut House when it came up. The view was incredible, and the people who stayed there tended to be good cooks.

She padded down three flights of spiral stairs, passing mostly closed doors. The house was eerily still, except for what sounded like a few pots being quietly set down on counters down below. The home had once been the private property of a one Karen J. Simian. She had vacated with her daughter during the Shift to one of three other homes they owned. 

Own was still a strange concept for Joy, 20, who was born well after the Shift. She knew enough to know that most people, including her parents, grandparents, and so on had never owned anything even before the Shift. Sometimes, she noticed a fearful creasing around her father’s eyes during a transport rotation handoff. He would sulk a little as he handed the keys over to the guy who needed the vehicle, even though he had helped develop the exchange system. 

Her mother explained it to her once this way:

When you owned, she said, Your whole life was dedicated to making sure your property wasn’t taken away. She paused, sighing. 

But when you didn’t own, we were forced to spend our whole lives trying to own. It messes with your head sometimes—to survive something, sometimes you have to try and pretend that it’s right. The drive becomes a part of you. 

The feeling always passed. He took walks to the old port, where he watched birds fish food out of the water. Sometimes, he’d swing by the transport shop and lend his prodigious hands. 

It’s your world, and mine, and ours, he said once to Joy, smiling and knocking his boots off at the end of a particularly long walk.

At Chestnut House, Joy arrived on the basement floor—where the kitchen and common space were—to drop off the goods.

The living space was littered with craft—an old guitar, tables in the corner for crafts, a small handloom. The wood-working station was out in the enclosed courtyard. 

Joy rounded the corner into the kitchen. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a sweeping view: the water, the old Bay Bridge glinting and red in the light, the patch-quilt food plots of the flats, and many snaking roads like little capillaries. The sun was getting low in the sky, flaring to a bright orange. 

Joan the Siren stood tall and muscular, skin russet and glistening in the evening sun. Joy immediately recognized her. She was a bit of a war hero. During the Escalation, she earned the reputation of catching enemy lines off-guard by broadcasting simple songs about warm bread, soft pillows, and a mother’s love in her angelic soprano, a voice stark in contrast to her imposing demeanor. She was single-handedly responsible for at least 50 defections, probably more.

Hi, baby, said Joan. Joy knew she sometimes came by to visit her daughter Patience, a resident of Chestnut House. 

Would you like to stay for dinner? I’m cookin’! Joy could see that—a big pot of stew was simmering over the fire in the courtyard, smoke curling upward toward the small, square patch of sky. 

Joy flashed a cheeky smile, as if to say, is it even a question. Joan’s chestnut bread was legendary. She had perfected the wood-fire recipe on the front; fighters would carry half-loaves in their satchels to nibble on for quick energy. Joy wasn’t about to miss out. 

My mom made tamarillo tarts, too. She pointed at the little sheet tray. 

They smell heavenly! Patience! Joan shouted up the stairs. Come down and grab a couple bottles of the goumi wine from the cellar for the table. Let everyone know it’s time to eat!

⋰

How do we know what’s right? 

Bet stood in front of their little brood of sevens—all here for morning lessons. The children sat cross-legged on the grass, knees stained green and muddy, dappled light casting geometric patterns over their colorful bamboo fiber clothes. A few had daisy chains around their wrists from morning free play. 

One child with a shaggy, espresso bowl cut, raised her hand eagerly, dancing around eagerly to be picked. Yes, Joy? Joy pointed to her belly. You feel icky in here when you do something wrong. 

Very true, sweetie, very true. Bet posed another question to the class—and what do we mean when we say right or wrong?

Again, Joy wriggled almost to a squat from crisscross apple sauce to answer. Bet scanned to see if anyone else had thoughts. 

My mom, my mom always says—Joy couldn’t help but interject—that wrong is when we take away choice away from anyone. 

That’s right, Joy, but also please try to pay attention to all the others who also have wonderful thoughts to share with the group! Bet gave Joy a warm smile to soften the admonishment. 

Joy nodded and mimed zipping her lips with her index and thumb. 

Thank you, sweetie. Bet continued—this is a great example, class! We all have special talents and ideas to share with the collective, but the group also affects our behavior. For example, if we want to live in a world where everyone’s voice is heard, we prioritize listening as a right behavior. One affects the whole, and so the whole affects the one. 

Now, you children weren’t around before the Shift—back before the Shift, the whole gave lots of mixed ideas about what it valued. For example, some people had more food than they could eat, while others didn’t have enough to fill their bellies, and were forced to do things for other people to get currency to fill their bellies. Bet paused, scanning the children’s faces to see what was taking. 

They continued, choosing their words gingerly. The whole accepted this as right. Now of course, you could understand why people fought for that to change, because that world took away from people the chance to live their lives exactly like they chose. 

Before, Bet said, when people did wrong, according to the past whole—for example, taking food to fill their bellies—the system locked them in a cage like one for an animal. 

They paused and took note of a shadow passing over some of the young faces.

If the whole picks something to focus on, Bet continued, it changes the way the one behaves and thinks. For example, since some people owned—which means they hoarded things and were allowed to punish people for taking from them—it was also taught to be wrong to take what people owned no matter what.

The class should have gotten a lesson in basic property-concepts the year before, but Bet paused to register understanding. The concept could be complicated for children to grasp. The group would move on to study capitalist accumulation as tens. 

What questions do you have? The children shook their heads. Satisfied, Bet continued. Many people believed it was more wrong to take what was needed than it was to put people in cages, they said. 

One little raised their hand, eyes as big as saucers. Yes, Laurel? What does the whole do if people do wrong things now? Laurel asked.

Bet registered a trace of anxiety in the child’s voice. That’s a very good question! What do you all think we should do when someone does something wrong?

Definitely not a cage! Joy quickly covered her mouth. 

Bet gave her a stern look but continued. Yes, definitely not a cage! What do other people think?

Yes, Herman? 

We should be kind and help them learn! 

That’s a great point, Herman! What would people say about those who aren’t ready to learn?

Little Joy raised her hand. 

Bet paused, making note of the child’s exercise of self-control. Yes, Joy! Lovely job waiting for your turn. 

If the whole helps teach people right from wrong, Joy said, chopping the air at right and wrong, won’t it change people’s minds and make wrong go away?

That’s the hope, sweetie. 

⋰

Patience came into the kitchen quietly in her thick knit socks, curly coils of hair in a loose bun at the nape of her neck and floating around her face. She had a floaty serenity about her.

Bottles on the table, mom, she said, giving her a little side hug. Hey Joy, how you doin’?

Joy, now perched on a wooden stool in the kitchen, was excited to see Patience; Patience was a few years older than her and always seemed calm in a way that Joy envied. She had always felt like a clown next to Patience, hungry for attention in a way that Patience didn’t need to earn. But still, it always made Joy feel good to get a laugh out of this swan-like girl. 

I’m great! I drove one of those old sharks up the hill today…she paused, glancing over at Joan. Would you judge me if I said it was a little fun?

Joan laughed a little, shredding up some of the fresh kale Joy had brought. I don’t judge fun, baby. She produced a red onion from the pantry, finely sliced it, and dropped it into a bowl of vinegar, sugar, and salt. She washed the sun cherry tomatoes and scattered them whole over the kale. 

I’m going to call the rest down for dinner! Patience ran back up the stairs and knocked on the bedroom doors softly. Dinner, kid! Joy could hear her whispering through each cracked door. 

Doors opened and people filed down to the lowest level, the hearth of the home. Joy, you remember Giang, Neelam, and Khadijah. This is Dusty, our newest friend, Patience said, point at each of them in succession. Everyone waved. Dusty looked withdrawn, clutching at the long sleeves of their sweater.  

What…Joy paused, catching herself and then pivoting. What’s everyone been up to? Don’t ask them why they’re living here now, you idiot. 

Oh, this and that, Patience said, motioning to the crafting corner. Everyone, take a seat! 

Patience pulled out the chair at the head of the rough-hewn table for Joy, their special guest. Joan and Patience sat on either side of her. 

Goumi wine? Chateau Chestnut? Patience uncorked the first bottle and passed it around the table. 

I think I’ll go for some Chateau Sink tonight, thanks, said Giang who got up to pour themself a glass of water. I’m still feeling a little rough from yesterday. 

From when we “taste-tested” some of the new bottles you mean? Neelam said. She giggled. They turned out good, no?

In the moment, yeah, but not so much right now!

Dusk fell. The group watched as lights flicked on in the flats; the ancient, slumbering bridges looked like a monarch’s jewels. 

It must have been much brighter down in the flats before the Shift, no? A lot of people have moved out over the hills to tend land, right ma? Patience asked. 

Joan nodded. Yeah, we used to be packed in there like sardines. And of course, the wealthy people who didn’t want to do things our way left town. We wouldn’t have been able to feed everyone if we didn’t make friends with all the farms and communities surrounding us. During the revolution—I guess we call it the Shift now, right?—we bulldozed so many buildings and pulled up so much pavement for agriculture. It was so much fun! I was there when they demoed city hall and banks downtown. 

My mom was on the front, Patience said. Once—Patience took a big swig of wine. Once, to divert a bunch of young state soldiers, she crept out into no man’s land to throw smoke so the rest could get away. She’s the toughest around. Right ma? 

I don’t remember if it was smoke, love… I almost got kidnapped into their custody. I had to run like hell! Joan said, laughing a bit. She shrugged. Joy registered something guarded in her. Humility? You know, I doubt any of you young ones would do anything different if you had something to fight for. 

My mom, Joan the Siren, Patience said, beaming with pride. Will you sing for us later? 

Maybe, sweets. Pipes are a little rusty. 

The dinner was a lazy and slow one, full of banter and drinking and old stories. Dusty was the first to bed, mumbling their goodnights and looking tired. And then, the party started to dwindle. One by one, the rest of the inhabitants of Chestnut House excused themselves for the night until it was just Patience, Joan, and Joy left. 

Joy felt heavy and loose from the wine. Empty platters and serving bowls littered the table—the others would take care of them in the morning. 

It was never a guarantee, Joan said, fork loaded with tart and waving around in the air. She explained how the state was squeezed in other ways that had forced them to retreat from the autonomous territory. Eventually, they were Swiss-cheesed, communes having popped up everywhere, promising a better life for too many people to stem the tide turning, mass defections from their military and police apparatuses. 

We’re safe now, I think, Joan said. Her eyes darted to the dark hills below and back. It took me a long time to be able to let that sink in. We didn’t all make it through. Joan closed her eyes tight, head low, the heels of her hands pressing at her eyes. Phew, too much wine. 

They all quieted for a moment.

They had gotten many of these stories in school, but behind Joan’s explanation was an emotion Joy couldn’t quite place—certainly not joy or relief. That was understandable—how could someone experience so much violence and not emerge with some anger? But there was something else there—resignation? It was like watching someone try with all their might file down their hard edges with a rasp.

Safety is hard to take in sometimes, said Patience. I love my house family here, though. They’re good. We help each other find safety again. 

Joy turned toward Patience, a tableau of calm in her simple linen dress and sleepy expression, lazily holding a glass of the translucent orange wine. It was almost as if she was looking through her mother, warmth radiating from her toward the woman.

Please tell me off if you don’t want to talk about it, Patience, but would you be open to talking about what happened? Joy blushed a bit. A shard of self-consciousness pierced her wine veil. Too forward, Joy. She started looking around the room. I’ve heard a little bit about Chestnut House…it’s so warm and peaceful here. 

It’s ok, I’m ok talking about it. Patience smiled at Joy. Winds know I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it. She looked down at her hands. Basically, I was abused, and I needed time to recover, she said simply. 

The same old crap, Joan said, her voice trembling with anger. She was keening towards her daughter, full of an animating rage. Joan the Siren. Ever since this came up…I really wonder if anything even changed. This could be a story straight out of the world I grew up in before the Shift. It makes me sick to my stomach. Same shit, different age—

I never really understood it, Patience said. He got it into his head that I could never love a person like him, like I thought he was beneath me or something. And he acted strange because of it, trying to control me. I wasn’t accustomed to someone acting like that, but I cared for him, so…She took a bracing breath. 

Tcheh. Joan looked away, her gaze had an abandon like anywhere away, at the floor, cushion, window, anywhere to suppress her disgust. Don’t defend his ass, she muttered. 

One night he hurt me, Patience finished. That was when it was over for me, ok? I ended it and made the guidelines of acceptable behavior clear, ok mom?  

Joy sat silently, observing the mother and daughter. Joan took a deep breath to modulate her anger, while Patience was welling up. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought this up tonight. 

I think you’re really brave, she said, attempting to paper over the silence. It is sometimes hard to believe that this could happen in this age. You’re brave for talking about it. Joy believed what she had just said, but she also felt a bit sick.  

Thank you, Joy. It’s just…a lot of pressure to bear up to, you know. I felt like people did look at me like I was betraying an ideal after, but there are also good people around who understand that talking about it and remembering that we’re all human beings is the only way to change things.

People always used to say that, you know. That talking about what happened to you was the first step. But I never got anything out of that. There was a hard edge in Joan’s voice as she spoke. It was doublespeak—everyone’s saying speak up, speak up. And then this thing happened where you became a victim. She spat the word. And being a victim gave you this menial power—it was like the only way for people to take you seriously was for you to keep playacting the victim. But I wanted to live. I wanted to...to move and be alive. 

We tried to call ourselves survivors, but that never felt right to me either. We didn’t want them in cages, but god we were so mad. They were bad people! They were bad! Sometimes we took matters into our own hands and just beat the bastard up. Still better than a cage. God knows we were focused on surviving the world every day. I wanted to burn it all down, all of it. I thought—Joan took a breath. 

You thought it could all change if people just had what they needed, right mama? Patience cut in, quiet but clarion clear. Food, water, shelter. 

A wispy memory came to Joy’s mind. A lesson on a warm day; fix the society to fix the person. 

You always said, the world in your time made it clear that you weren’t worth a damn. Patience paused and looked at her mother cautiously. How can you feel worthy if the world you live in says you have to prove yourself worthy of those things? 

Joan brushed past her daughter’s comments. Joy sensed that they were a little too true and had made Joan uncomfortable. 

Patience, Joan said, speaking in a measured tone, as if self-conscious of having said too much. It’s beautiful here, of course, but do you ever feel like you’re being shut away here? Did you feel pressured to come here? You were so…decided, so calm, when you told me you were coming here to stay. Like you had fixed it all and settled on a plan before coming to me with anything.  

Patience paused, seemingly searching for the correct words. No, there’s a distinction for me. The world did feel really noisy when I decided to go—Damien actually...he was the one who was asked to stay away from places where I’d be for a while; and different people who knew him had different ways of dealing with it of course…Some people wanted nothing to do with him, others stuck by him. He didn’t take it well. The story of him out in the world. It took him a while to…really understand, to see himself and I think to forgive himself. I think he left for a while, wandering around to other communes, visiting other friends who’d take him in. But I think he’s in a better place now actually, taking time to understand it. He tried to apologize recently. I don’t know.  

Patience took a sip of wine. Joy wondered if someone could ever really apologize for something that grotesque. For trying to own another person’s body. 

But no, mom, this time isn’t enforced isolation. Everything in the world had just started feeling too…loud for a while. I would spiral into doubt and shame. I started imagining that people were giving me looks, even when they weren’t…some people were mad at me, I guess, for ruining this…idea…that post Shift, everything would be fixed. No one would hurt anyone anymore. I needed some time to think about that. I needed to not be the example of this terrible social taboo. I need to be more than that, and to figure that out, I needed to leave. 

I’m so sorry, I’m just so sad for you. It just had me questioning everything; I spent my whole life—

This is exactly what I’m talking about! Patience snapped. It was so hard to tell you about things after they happened, mama! It’s so hard to even bring it up now. I’ve broken your faith! I tried so hard…to just let this pass. 

Patience’s shoulders slumped inward. She spoke softly. To put it somewhere else, she said. I felt like my limbs were shrinking and floating away from me. For a while I pretended it hadn’t happened, but I was having trouble sleeping. Started getting mean. Started getting controlling of my friends, stealing their joy away because I felt so bad. It was like…it was like my body had betrayed the revolution. I just kept thinking about how I was going to be the reason the soap bubble popped for people—and especially for you. I spent a lot of time wishing I could just cut the part of myself that this had happened to out of myself, like it was a growth or something. 

So many years at war, away from it all, all to protect the little world that wanted to sprout up from under all that concrete, Joan said. She fingered the hairline crack in her glass. Just weeds, I guess. 

No but it was worth it though, don’t you see? Patience’s voice cracked. It’s not perfect, it won’t ever be perfect. But you’re still holding onto perfection, and what happened to me isn’t perfect—those two worlds can’t fit together for you right now. It’s too hard for me to be the reason why you question if it was worth it, mama. It cascaded out of Patience, watery and rapid, like she’d been meaning to say this to Joan for a while now.

Joan studied her daughter carefully, for the first time maybe, not like a child needing her protection, but maybe like a comrade. 

I really need you to hear this, Patience continued. I can’t be the reason you live thinking that what you fought for wasn’t worth it. This is everything you fought for. Look around us—I’m safe. I’m well-fed. I don’t have to do…that thing where a stranger made you do things for money to buy shelter? I have friends around me here, and I will be more than what happened to me. I will. 

Joan nodded gravely. Candlelight carved her face, the tight stillness of her jaw like tourmaline. I didn’t know that, she said. I’m sorry. You’re right. She stood up, walked around the table to her daughter, and wrapped her arms around her, Joan’s posture like the rough edges of a boulder, Patience like a softening river.

Joy took a quiet sip of wine, glancing at them quickly and then averting her eyes, a tableau of love so powerful that it called for a moment’s privacy. 

So…second round on those tarts anyone? Joy said sheepishly. The two women startled, as if they’d forgotten she was there.  

Patience laughed. Mmhm! She grabbed one off the sheet tray and walked over to the hand-carved guitar in the corner. 

Mom, will you sing for us? Patience strummed a G, tart balanced like a cigar between her teeth.

Ok sweets. They sat angled toward each other on the old chintz couch. Verse after verse tumbled out of Joan—Oh then the jailer he went wild over me—the Wobbly song from a century and a half back that had gotten a second life during the Escalation. Joan’s rendition was less jaunty, slower and more mournful. 

Will the roses grow wild over me? 
When I’ve gone into the land that is to be?

Joy’s chest felt tight. Joan’s voice stuck somewhere under her rib. Joy understood why soldiers defected after hearing this angelic, clear voice. The song filled Joy with a heartache she had never known before. 

Joy left shortly after dawn, driving through the morning fog rolling in hard. She was at sea within an impenetrable mist. She pulled off the road and hiked down the thicket a short way to a lookout. For a brief moment, the fog cleared, and the whole Bay opened up to her, blues and greens vivid and glimmering as if she were in a sweet dream. Then the fog rolled back in, concealing her home from view.

Padmini Raghunath is a little bit fiction writer and mostly a journalist covering identity, labor, and power, most recently in this piece about the New Orleans stripper struggle. She's currently working as a producer for a special project for the Distillations podcast about the intertwining histories of science and race. Her audio and print work has appeared on Jezebel, Next City, Outside Magazine, the Times of India, Huffington Post, and KALX radio, among other publications.

Originally published May 2022 in poiesis 3.1 by w the trees.