Tiny Imperfections

by Alli Frank

  I pick up the remote to turn on the TV because clearly I’m not ready to talk. Aunt Viv places her hand over the remote and lowers it back down, keeping her hand on it for a lingering moment. “I think we’ve had enough drama for one day, no need to add someone else’s.” Tears well in my eyes and slide down my temples. I’m frozen in place. Aunt Viv pulls a Kleenex out of her sleeve and dabs my face dry. I can see where the scars from fifty years of working in a kitchen and the natural wrinkles of time have intersected. These hands have held together both the Fairchild community and our family for decades. I don’t know where to start without risking hurting Aunt Viv by bringing up questions with answers she keeps buried deep and out of sight.

  “Have you always known?” I guess that’s as good a place to start as any.

  “I’ve known since September.”

  “How? And why now?”

  “Well, when Etta started talkin’ about Juilliard she showed me stuff about the school on their website. There was a picture that caught my eye.” Aunt Viv takes a long pause to inhale and to choose her words carefully. I’m not sure if she’s going to continue or if that’s the end of the story. “You know I hate those laptops. Print’s too small for an old lady like me. But after that night with Etta, I asked Ms. Gooding if she could get me a computer with a bigger screen. Said my eyes couldn’t read recipes on a laptop. Took me a while to convince her though, she thought after fifty years of cookin’ for Fairchild I don’t need recipes no more.” Aunt Viv gives me a tickled grin. “Which, between you and me and these hotel walls, is the truth, but she don’t need to know that.”

  “Not sure if that was about the recipes or about Nan not wanting to part with money and her fucked-up power trips,” I shoot back.

  “Watch your language, Josephine Bordelon. You may be hurtin’, but you’re still a lady. And either way, she ended up givin’ me her big screen thing that sits on her desk.”

  “Her monitor?”

  “Yeah, that. And she got a nice new one. And then I went to work trying to find out about the woman in the picture on the Juilliard website.”

  “So how long did it take you to figure it out?” My real mother has been such a distant mirage in my life. Once I got my own life going in college and modeling and then back in San Francisco, it only occasionally crossed my mind to search for her online. It certainly was never something I mentioned to Aunt Viv since she spent my childhood dismissing such talk as a waste of time.

  “Once I got that monitor I started going through every page of the Juilliard website. I’ve read every single word and I’ve studied every single picture. Then I got to admissions. There was a letter written by her to all the kids applying to the school. The letter was signed Ophelia Santos. Between the picture, the name Ophelia, and my sneaking suspicion that after your mama dropped you off with me she just might figure her way to New York to try to make it as a dancer I knew it had to be her. And, shore enough, I knew right.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me if I wanted to meet her? It should have been my decision to make.”

  “Well I did consider that, and maybe it should have been your choice, but once Etta got that audition, there was no decision to make. You were gonna have to meet your mother whether you wanted to or not. And for Etta’s sake, I couldn’t give you one more reason not to let her follow through on her dream of applying to Juilliard.” Fair point.

  “She looks like you.” I roll on my side to look at Aunt Viv for the first time since the conversation started.

  “Maybe. But she’s built like you and Etta. Ain’t no mistakin’ you all got the same blood.”

  “So, I couldn’t make it as a model. And ended up working in school admissions. Ophelia couldn’t make it as a dancer and she ended up working in school admissions. Both of us leaving family thinkin’ New York City would make our dreams come true and then the city gave us anything but our dreams in return. The similarities are too much. See why I don’t want this life for Etta? There’s a strong Bordelon pull to New York to get your soul crushed and I don’t want that for my daughter. I want anything but that for her. I could handle the disappointment when it was mine, but I don’t think my heart has room for Etta’s broken dreams and disappointments, too. It would snap me and I feel, like . . . like . . .” I’m stuttering now, trying to express years of anxiety, love, and deep concern all at once. “In the past few years, after being a young baby mama, barely making ends meet on an assistant’s salary and then Michael leaving us, I have finally healed the broken pieces and I’m whole again. I want to stay whole.”

  Aunt Viv chews on my words for a moment and then continues, almost as if what I said washed past her ears. “I called Ophelia around late November, when I knew for sure Etta was going to apply to Juilliard. When Ophelia left you with me all those years ago I made her promise she would never try to get in contact with you or with me, again. That she would go on and live her life and leave us be. But I never said that I wouldn’t contact her.”

  I sit up on the bed and look out over the city from the twenty-second floor. A weariness from the past forty-eight hours’ events overcomes me and I feel closer to fifty than forty.

  “You know I’m a good bit older than your mama and growin’ up I liked to look after her like she was my own. Well, truth tell it, our own mama was so busy raisin’ all of us that we had to help raise each other. But your mama was my favorite. As a young girl she was so pretty. My grandfather, Joseph, who you’re named after, would heft Ophelia up in his arms and say ‘Oooooweee, yous pretty as a speckled pig.’ And Ophelia would squeal back like a baby hog. It was their own little show, those two.”

  I was fairly certain I couldn’t handle hearing any more. This seemed enough for the last two days if not my last almost forty years.

  “By the time I was plannin’ my own path outta the wards of Nawlins I was worried sick ’bout your mama’s future. I could see dem hook-headed boys from aroun’ de way lookin’ at her sideways. I knew down deep tellin’ her to keep her dress down wasn’t going to be enough.”

  I turn to look at Aunt Viv, surprised by how thoroughly she’s slipped into home speak. Her mind is no longer focused on me. Aunt Viv’s lost in memories long, long past.

  “You know the whole family, including me, wanted the best for your mama. But I don’t think any of us stopped to check on what your mama wanted. Her being so pretty and all, we thought our only job was to keep them boys at arms distance. No one bothered to find out much else about her. In the end, Josie, I think, just like me, your mama wanted out, she wanted the chance to become who she was meant to become. We didn’t know any better back then that life could be bigger and fuller, Josie, and we lost your mama because of it. But you and I, we know better, don’t we? We really do. So, we gotta let Etta go to Juilliard because we can’t risk losin’ Etta like the family lost your mama. And like I lost you for a bit of time, too. Those were the hardest six years of my life and it can’t happen to our family again, Josie. It just can’t.”

  I reluctantly nod my head yes. Not because I agree that Etta should go to Juilliard, but because I agree we can’t lose her. Witnessing decades of pain surface in Aunt Viv, I know we would not survive Etta abandoning our family in search of her future.

  “And there is a happy ending to this story, too. I have to give it to Ophelia; she did make her dreams come true in New York. She didn’t come here just to dance, she told me on the phone. Ever since she was a young girl she dreamed of being a dancer and a teacher. She came to New York to do both and that’s exactly what she made happen. For twenty-two years she taught dance at Juilliard, first as an assistant teacher and then moving up to master teacher. Time caught up to her, like it does for everyone, and her body needed a break from dance. By that time she was married, a true New Yorker, and a respected member of the Juilliard community. So, she was offered a job in admissions. One she says she loves since she gets to make dreams come true for young,
talented artists like Etta.”

  “You know my next question, don’t you?” Water pooled again in my eyes, threatening to rain down.

  “I imagine so, but I’m not one to go thinkin’ for you, Josie. There are so many questions you must have, baby.”

  “Does Ophelia have other children?” I can barely give the question voice. I have to reach deep in my diaphragm to push it out.

  “That was the second part of our agreement when you came to live with me. If I were to raise you, Ophelia had to promise me she wanted no children. It wasn’t that she just didn’t want you. And maybe I was being selfish, but I couldn’t see peepin’ out the window my whole life wonderin’ if she was going to bring me more kids to raise.” Aunt Viv places her hand over my heart. “For what it’s worth, she kept that promise to me and to you.”

  I nod.

  “She has a nice-sounding husband, but you still her only child.”

  “But Aunt Viv, you let your sister drop me on your doorstep and turn your life upside down. You’ve never had financial security, you’ve never had a great love. You gave all that up for Ophelia and for me. Why?”

  “I didn’t give up nothin’, Josie, I got somethin’. I got you. But to answer your question, black women in our family have been raisin’ babies on their own for quite some time for all sorts of reasons we don’t need to go into tonight. And we’ve tried hard to do it as best as we could with what we were workin’ with. For me, I just couldn’t see bringin’ a man into our world and risk you feelin’ abandoned for a second time. That was my choice, Josie, and I think I made the right one. But right now I want you to hear me loud as church bells. Etta ain’t known nothin’ but love and security from the day she was born. She has a solid foundation and she’s ready to fly right. That means there’s plenty of room for new love in your life. For even more love than the full cup you already got.”

  There it is, the whole story. Or as much of it as I’m able to stomach for one day. I thank Aunt Viv for her honesty but tell her that’s enough for now.

  “That city out there”—Aunt Viv points to the New York skyline, millions of lights turning on as day turns to dusk—“it may not have done right by you, Josie, but it’s done right by your mama. And she wants to help make sure it does right by your baby, her grandbaby.”

  “Etta’s your grandbaby, Aunt Viv.” And the sobs come. And come. And come. I don’t have the strength to fight them off any longer.

  “Yes, she is, Josie, but I’m willing to share her now. And I’m willing to share my daughter, too.”

  NEXT SEASON

  THIRTY

  LOLA

  Can you talk in 10? September is already killin’ me. Holla.

  7:40 A.M.

  JOSIE

  Yep.

  7:40 A.M.

  “What’s happened already, Lo? It’s only the first day of school,” I answer the phone, worried Hannibal-the-Cannibal Valencia has already scouted out his next victim.

  “Nothin’s wrong, I just wanted to make sure I got to check on my girl before the day got away. Was it weird going to Fairchild this morning without Etta? Have you cried? Are you standing upright? I’m worried about you. Do you need a drink?”

  “It’s not even 8:00 a.m.”

  “But it’s 5:00 p.m. somewhere and it’s Monday, which I think means it’s Tuesday in Australia. Plus, everyone needs a drink after the first day of school. It’s a mandated law of parenting.”

  “Maybe you need the drink?”

  “I do. And a trophy for getting three boys in pants this morning. I could not look at their flammable Warriors basketball shorts for one more day. All three are pissed at me. Even the cannibal, who usually doesn’t care what he wears. But I actually won a battle fought on the home front before 7:30 a.m. so I’m officially declaring my first day of school a victory. Come on, you can tell me if you miss Etta.”

  “You know, I think I’m alright for today. No guarantees for tomorrow though.”

  Lola’s been worried about me missing Etta since I came home from dropping her off at Juilliard two weeks ago. What Lola doesn’t know is that I littered the United terminal at JFK with tear-soaked tissues. I thought I was keeping my emotions in check until I spied a mom walking to her gate holding hands with her toddler daughter dressed head to toe in full-on ballerina. The memories of leotards, toe shoes, and tights, and even Jean Georges became too much, and the universe got to see my ugly cry. I was unfit for public consumption, but still I had to make it home. Meanwhile, Aunt Viv was in San Francisco manically cooking her sadness away. We now have enough jambalaya and cornbread to open a parish soup kitchen.

  “I’ll take an alright. That’s good for now. Okay, enough about you, on to the important stuff. Expecting any new hot dads this year? Straight ones?”

  “Actually, there is one.”

  “There is? You noticed? Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s Ruby Vassar’s dad. Did you know he sold his first software chip platform blah de blah something or other tech company for 128 million when he was thirty-one? I never knew of a brotha who survived the South Bay long enough to make millions and not become a casualty of the great Silicon Valley hope of fast money and faster fame. And to do it by thirty-one. Where was he when I was single?”

  “Clearly you were falling down on the job. I thought as director of admissions you had professional online stalker status. I think we both can agree you lost your edge last year when you let Etta’s future get in the way of your own. Plus, I’ve heard softening around the edges is what happens when forty is just around the corner. Like next week.” Lola never misses an opportunity to lean on her youth, being a whole ten months younger than me.

  “What about you? Did you scope out any hot new dads at the parent orientation on Saturday? And do they know you come with baggage, like a husband and three kids?”

  “Everyone comes with baggage at our age. And men love Nic; he’s one of my best features. But no. Pretty weak new dad showing at San Francisco Children’s Academy this year. But you know who is really bringing their A game?” If Lola says the granddads I’m going to vomit in Nan’s ex-office. “The uncles. That Gracie Golden has one fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine-looking uncle. Mmmm . . . I could stare at that man all day. Good-looking and a doctor. Wait ’til all the single yummy mummies find out, it’s going to be a catfight of epic proportions to get their claws in that one at Back to School Night.”

  “Uh, no it won’t, ’cause I’ll be there right beside him. I’m not stupid. No way is my man walking into that den of single momsters all alone.” With just the mention of Ty my whole body heats up on this sun-soaked San Francisco morning.

  Propping my feet up on what used to be Nan’s desk, I admire my new back-to-school Choos. Now that I’m interim head of school, again, I gotta dress the part. Looking around this oak-paneled cigar room of an office, I can’t help but reflect on how everything went down last spring.

  The official story is that the week after my video went out as a surprise Viva la Viv party favor, Nan’s mother in Arizona was diagnosed with an unspecified terminal illness with an unspecified amount of time to live. Nan took a six-month leave of absence. Five months in and any attempt by the board of trustees to reach Nan had been met with voicemail and out-of-office e-mail replies.

  Turns out, the Bordelon women were the talk of Fairchild after the Viva la Viv party. And the talk of San Francisco Children’s Academy and the talk of the forty-six other private schools across the Bay Area, though by some miracle the video of Nan never went viral or made the news.

  On the flight home from New York I ordered myself a mini Chardonnay, plugged some early Drake into my ears, opened my laptop, and said a prayer. Out loud, I think, because Aunt Viv elbowed me hard after my amen.

  As I opened my first e-mail, I closed my eyes and took several big, deep medita
tive breaths to calm myself for what may be waiting for me on my screen. Turns out, you live in the Bay Area long enough and no one is immune to all that Eastern philosophy mantra mumbo jumbo.

  FROM: Beatrice Pembrook

  DATE: March 6, 2019

  SUBJECT: Scholarship

  TO: Josephine Bordelon

  Dear Josie,

  I’m feeling badly about what happened with Viv’s scholarship. I was so excited when you asked me to participate that it inspired me to reengage with the Fairchild Community. I called Nan to tell her that I would like to serve on the Advancement Committee or maybe even as a board member again. Who knows, soon I may have a grandchild to attend the school. Nan acted like she was familiar with the Vivian Bordelon Scholarship, but now that I reflect on our conversation her questions were quite probing and her exit from our call quite curt.

  I’m not sure what the future holds for Nan Gooding and her tenure at Fairchild, but I want to assure you my offer to support the scholarship well into the future still stands.

  All my best,

  Beatrice

  P.S. I have been meaning to tell you that I am an acquaintance of Meredith Lawton. While she can be, shall we say, a bit of an unhinged prima donna (sorry, but more appropriate words are escaping me at the moment), her son and her husband, Christopher, are absolutely delightful. The Lawton men are worth the trouble of taking Meredith on as a package deal.

  So, it was both Meredith and Beatrice who blew my cover on the Vivian Bordelon Scholarship. Oh, how happy Meredith would be to know she and Beatrice shared the same social faux pas.

  FROM: Elsanansassistant

  DATE: March 6, 2019

  SUBJECT: Nan would like to talk to you

  TO: Josephine Bordelon

  Please call Nan at your very earliest convenience. She will be in her office all day.