“What color are these people?”
“They have no color.”
“Why not?”
I shrugged.
“Where do they live?”
“Nowhere.”
He gazed at me with intense eyes, forcing me to lower mine. Finally, he looked at the clock and announced that our time was up. I quickly rose to my feet and rushed out of the office to meet Dad in the lobby.
* * *
“I don’t want to go back there again,” I told Dad, crossing my arms over my chest, fighting tears that were ready to burst from my eyes.
Dad turned on the ignition and shifted his head toward me. “What happened?”
“He said bad things about Haiti,” I declared, bending the truth to my advantage.
Dad looked at me and narrowed his eyes. “What did he say?”
I stared at the snow on the tree branches. “Something about vaudou and Haitians being devil worshippers.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Most people have a misconception about the vaudou religion. That’s why your mom is writing a book about it.” He turned a button on the dashboard. The windshield wiper swayed back and forth, making a soft, swishing sound. “It seems like there is no sense in your going back.”
I had won a battle. But there was one more thing I needed to do. Once I reached home, I threw the picture of my biological mother in a large black plastic bag that the garbage truck would pick up the next day. Rather than being the person I used to talk to for comfort, she had become responsible for my confusion and I no longer wanted her in my memory. The mother I once loved eventually vanished into oblivion and became a mythical figure beyond reach.
Chapter 3
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and
fought with outright,
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder
matter to fight.
—Lord Alfred Tennyson
Iris!”
Whenever I heard that tone in Mom’s voice, I knew she meant business. I rushed up the stairs and tried to think why I was being summoned. Maybe Madame Glissant told her I didn’t turn in my book report on time, or she may have found out I ate a slice of cake before dinner, or that I went to bed last night without brushing my teeth.
“I called Dr. Connelly today,” she said as soon as I entered the dining room. “What exactly did he say about Haiti that upset you?” She sat down at the head of the table, across from Dad and next to my godfather Latham, who had come over for dinner. I stood there with my arms hanging loosely, unable to move or to speak, feeling like I was in front of a jury. Dad pulled back a chair next to him and invited me to sit.
My heartbeat accelerated as I realized the seriousness of the situation. I was unsure of why I had accused Dr. Connelly of saying Haitians were devil worshipers, other than the fact that I didn’t want to go back to his office. I had thought a simple twist of the truth would go unnoticed and would allow me to have my way, just because I despised how his questions made me feel. I dreaded the soul-searching process that meant thinking about a past that I wanted to forget. My eyes traveled from Mom to Dad, then to Latham, trying to decide which of the three could be a possible ally. Their impassive faces revealed nothing.
I heard Mom say, “We’re concerned about what you told us that Dr. Connelly said.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I responded, as I tried to think of a way to get out of this situation.
“Let’s begin with your telling me again what Dr. Connelly said that offended you,” Dad suggested.
“I don’t remember his exact words. Something about Haitians being devil worshippers,” I blurted out for the sake of consistency, though I was aware it wasn’t all true.
“What exactly did he say?” Mom insisted. She leaned back and peered at me with a dubious gaze, and waited for an answer.
“I don’t remember,” I said in a faint voice, having noticed the tension showing on her face.
“When your Dad told me what you said happened in his office yesterday, I called Dr. Connelly for clarification. Apparently you have taken his words out of context.”
“I didn’t mean to.” My voice trembled and echoed guilt.
The room grew so quiet I could hear myself breathing. The questioning gaze persisted on their faces until Latham, who had not said a word thus far, spoke.
“Maybe Iris didn’t understand Dr. Connelly’s words.”
“Let’s hope that’s what it was,” Mom said without conviction. Anger suddenly covered her gentle face as she let out a moan of anguish and reached for the coffee pot on the table. Sadness had replaced the usual softness in her eyes. A pearl of tear found its way to the corner of her eye. She got up and left the room without drinking her coffee.
Latham’s eyes sent a message of sympathy. Though maybe it was pity. I’m not sure. Nonetheless, I was grateful that he had come to my aid, as he had so often done in many ways since the day after I arrived in the United States, when he showed up with his arms filled with clothes and toys, announcing that he was my godfather. I vaguely recalled seeing him with the Winstons when they came to Monn Nèg. What I did remember about him was that although he had the same skin color as the people of Monn Nèg, he couldn’t speak Creole. I had smiled broadly when I saw him again, happy to have someone who reminded me of the familiar faces I had left behind.
The conversation we had that night left a hollow feeling in my heart that grew deeper and larger as the days went by. Thinking I had betrayed Mom and Dad, I was embarrassed and tried to avoid them as much as possible. I spent more time in my room, grateful that only two weeks earlier they had given Cynthia and me separate bedrooms. This went on until they summoned me one Saturday afternoon after ballet class.
“We need to talk.” Mom crossed her legs and asked me to sit next to her on the sofa.
“What did I do now?” I asked grumpily.
“I don’t like the tone of your voice, young lady,” Dad cautioned.
I relaxed a bit, hoping the conversation that had not yet begun would soon be over. The fearful, gnawing feeling inside me quickly melted, and I told them I was sorry.
“We would like to know why you’ve been avoiding us,” Mom said.
I wiped my moist hands on my skirt, and felt a throbbing sensation in my heart. I blurted out that I did not want to go back to Dr. Connelly. “I don’t like the way he makes me feel,” I explained.
“That’s still no reason to stain someone’s reputation,” Mom scolded.
Dad leaned toward the coffee table. “That wasn’t very nice of you,” he said, resting reproachful eyes on me.
Tears of redemption rolled down my cheeks; waves of regret grew. A gush of sun penetrated the living room through the sliding windows, and Dad reclined in his seat. “The reason we took you to Dr. Connelly,” he said, “was so that you could understand your frustrations.”
Two weeks later, Dad accompanied Mom to an out-of-town conference, and Latham stayed with Cynthia and me. He picked me up from ballet class and dropped Cynthia at her music school before taking me for a snack.
“I heard Dr. Connelly is disappointed that you wouldn’t go back to see him,” he said, backing up onto the road.
“Mom