Chapter Text
Thick fog surrounds my mom’s run down car as we drive downtown. Some leaves were browning, wet as the rain against the leaves and trunk. I remained still, my eyes slightly lidded.
“I missed those cute shops. Those cafes were so quiet. The jazz is really classy.”
I cringed. Mom and Dad would always go to those places for dates, smiling and waltzing along to the saxophone. After he stopped eating, Mom took him back to stay with his parents. They prayed and laid hands on him until my grandmother had a dream. My dad was paralyzed, face flat on the floor. He laid there for hours, days, years, unmoving. My mom walked into him and sighed. She got on the floor and called him. When it remained quiet, she tried to flip him over. She heaved and grunted, clinging on, desperate to just flip him over. But still he remained unmoved on the floor, the same way he was before. So, she sat down and waited. He moved. He eventually flipped over but his eyes were wet, welling up with tears.
“Go,” he begged.
“Please.”
She screamed and cried, throwing up in a toilet bowl for about half of the year. I fed her soup and prayed with her, helping her dry up her tears and sing songs about Ezili Freda.
“Your mother misses you,” I reminded her.
“She’s looking for you. She needs to see you.”
She began praying to her with me in the morning, and she began talking about her troubles. Ezili Freda softened and eased my mother through her divorce.
“You love him so this divorce hurts. It’s difficult but the only way for this divorce not to hurt is if you never loved him at all. You cannot avoid pain no matter what. I am proud that you loved him because it was gentle love, real love. Anyone could see how genuine it was.”
My mother is the most adaptable person I know. I have avoided going to any cafe to this day.
“Yeah. I’ll miss your food.”
She laughs with the volume and vibrancy of a Haitian woman, color filling up the car as she laughed and wheezed.
“You eat a lot, understand?” She wheezed, attempting to keep her head straight, glued to the road.
“You always swallow your dad's food yet you’ll miss my cooking!”
It’s true that my dad’s food would always disappear even when he made it for my mom but my mom’s food was festive. It lifted the heaviness of my depression, it made me laugh while it was thundering and all you could see were heavy black clouds.
“It’s just right for birthdays!” I assured, my lips slowly creeping up into a grin. I felt warmth surrounding me as we joked; The rain stopped. The greyish clouds loitered but the sun peaked out. It felt like my mom’s vomiting, tears, and prayers that tiptoed in between despair and depression were lifetimes ago until she pulled into his driveway.
My dad walked up to me and gave me and my mom a hug with a firm grip on our shoulders.
“Hi Cindy. Hello, Rose.”
Their eyes softened but worn out as they glanced at each other, their love now but a soft flame.
“Hi, Donnie. Let me go get her stuff,” she offered, quickly pulling back her arm to open the trunk.
My dad’s eyes remained, almost admiring her hair puff as it bounced around.
“Um I got you those um…” He scrunched up his eyebrows and squinted his eyes.
“An-a-may? Anime. Anime posters.”
“That’s how you pronounce it!” I affirmed, a small smile spreading on my face.
“Yeah…” Anime had jumbled up on his tongue like alphabet blocks, disarranged but not unfamiliar. I talked to him on the phone about the shows I would watch like Fairy Tale and Demon Slayer. More times than not, he would just listen while he made soup joumou or boiled eggs. He was like a stream, consistent and soothing.
“It’s a poster of Zenitsu and Ezra. There were also some Sailor Mars posters. Does your mom want to bring in the stuff by herself or?”
“She thinks she’s a weightlifter.”
“She does.” His eyes lingered at her, his breathing becoming shallow. For a moment, his eyes glistened, his lip trembling before pulling me inside. He rubbed my back but looked away, going to the kitchen. I looked out the door, giving my mom a curt smile. The divorce was far from being far behind us, feelings left over like moldy food in the fridge. My mom went up to give me a hug before going back in the car.
“Daddy?” He stood in the kitchen, immobilized. I pulled on the end of his shirt and we started taking everything upstairs.
As I went up and down, I started talking in his house. The door had those 2000s swirl patterns, reminding me of the paintings he would do for my room. The living room was filled with a pecan and ivory color palette. The couch had smooth textures with fluffy cushions. I imagined myself falling asleep on it with a big blanket, my father determined to just pick me up and put me in my proper bed. It’s a bad habit I have had since I was 2 that my dad fondly looked upon.
The lighting was a soft pink, almost lulling me to sleep. The cheetah rug adds to the subtle luxuriousness of the living room, emphasizing its 90s look. I looked around and thought about all the childlike 90s themes that filled mom’s house in Nebraska.
I often spent my time listening to Nirvana and reading books in the corner of the court yard, comfortably isolating myself in NE. This earned me the label of a loner in middle school. People tended to whisper about me, coming up with theories about my blunt preference for being alone. I never felt irritated, nevertheless, remaining constant with my seclusion every 5th period until I went to high school.
During 11th grade, a kid, named David, and a couple new teachers transferred from New York. Mr. Robert and Ms. Donna were his aunt and uncle while Mr. Mark was the family friend. I always admired them, especially Ms. Donna. She would always translate Mr. Robert sign language and wore the cutest clothes. She had this pixie cut with a dark purple lace top, lace see-through cardigan, and dark blue flare pants.
Their AAVE felt futuristic or techy, peaking my interest. I was either learning sign language from Mr. Robert, helping Mr. Mark clean up the paintbrushes, talking with Ms. Donna about books or sitting at lunch with David to learn New York AAVE like “brick” and “oh nah”. He, in exchange, would learn my subtle southern terms “nan” and “ya best”.
“I wanna show you a New York classic!” He giggled, holding out his hand. I smiled before closing my eyes and holding my hand out. I listened to him unzipping his lunch box and shoved the sandwich into my face.
“David, don’t be rude,” Mr. Robert groaned as he watched over us. There was a huge recess yard in high school, and sometimes, if the sun was out, we were allowed to go out.
“You could have just asked her to close her eyes and open her mouth,” Ms. Donna added, scrunching her face at his roughness.
“Okay, guys, it’s not like he’s choking her.”
“He might as well be.”
“Mh!”
The slight grease stained my lips but I chewed. I tasted the salt as the wind periodically blew gentle gusts of wind. I tasted neon colors of yellow and red as I continued to break the food into pieces. I could almost visualize it being the sun brightly beaming as I walked into the deli, bustling with kids from school. I looked up at the sunless, navy blue sky and switched back to the sunny sky I imagined.
He grinned, his smile reaching from ear to ear. In a flash, I shoved my diri jon jon into his mouth, the smirk glue to my face.
“That’s way better!”
Mr. Robert and Ms. Donna laughed.
He lifted his eyebrow as he chewed.
“Okay, okay, I won’t shove food next time but you’re right. It’s so favorful”
Thicker than a band of thieves, that’s what we were like. Adventures to all the places in our neighborhood, doing whatever we wanted to, experiencing what we could.
But all the memories blurred. I could only think of the feeling now. It was like when he had to move away. I missed him but there was an unfamiliar acceptance. I felt as though I did not need him. I just needed our child-like memories in the center of my feelings. I needed to just meet him.
It was akin to a baby being rocked. It had a softness, a feeling of surrender to it.
“Cindy?”
All of my memories faded away. It shook me. It felt like it was my present but not completely.
“I was thinking about David. He was so…”
“That kid had a charm on him. I wouldn’t be shocked if he practiced rootwork.”
“I miss him because he spelled me?”
He chuckled.
“I’m just…Not surprised if you have complicated feelings about him moving. He seems to have that instinctual typa of influence. I don’t think he needs to purposely spell anybody.”
He wasn’t wrong. There wasn’t a word for it but he seemed to be more intentional than that. I remember when we went to the “Dynasty” prom. He had a navy blue suit that glimmered under the neon lights. It was like I couldn’t help but giggle and stare at him but he didn’t push it. He didn’t boast about how I stuck with him more than usual, how I laid on his shoulder, swaying just barely with music, he just placed his hands on my hips and smiled, not one word about it.
I shrugged.
“People like that usually don’t know they’re doing magic but they usually are somewhat popular.”
My dad squinted his eyes but eventually nodded.
“Yeah, I just feel like he must have practiced something.”
“Umm, yeah, like I still feel like he must at least believe in something, anything!”
I guess some of the most magical people are those that don’t believe in magic, like how atheists are better Christians than self proclaimed Christians.
My room was a little more luxurious than the other rooms in the house. My dad had given me the master-bedroom because it was “too spacious for him” preferring a queen versus a California king.
It looked mature, colored the same way as the rest of the house, except the comforter had stripes of cheetah print. I shifted my feet back and forth on the carpet, getting lost in how soft it felt. There was a big vanity, covered with my makeup bags and clothes for the next morning. Tomorrow was my first day of college. Despite how many years had passed, college still felt useless. My mom had gone to therapy and my dad had gone through herbal healing to help with his lack of appetite yet I still felt they were the only things that mattered. I felt like it was sinful to admit but it was traumatizing to see it all unfold. It's like seeing your old grandpa die. You knew it was coming yet it kills you like you're bleeding out. Your heart still beats in denial. Your eyes dilate. You still fight it.
I laid on the bed. It swallowed me up, sinking me dramatically in the bed. It reminded me of when I would be crushed in between my mom and dad. I would still intrude into my parents bed, up to when I was 16, still their little princess. Now, my dad can’t even hear the world princess without the light in his eyes leaving. My mom chose that nickname for me because all the nurses in Haiti spoiled me with $50 dresses and Cinderella inspired shoes.
“She’s Haiti’s princess.”
I cried, covering myself in blankets and letting the pillows soak up my tears. I wanted my parents back.