by Simone Kelly
I sat alone on the floor under a table in the playroom, drawing. My masterpiece was a man floating in the ocean. When the small bell on the teacher’s desk rang, it was time to present to the class what we’d created. I raised my hand first, because I was very proud of my work. I had beautiful blues for the ocean waves, the sun was a bright yellow, and I even added a smiley face and sunglasses to it. In the water were boats and a man lying facedown. The man was my father.
“Is he swimming?” Tammy shouted. I moved my fluffy pageboy bangs out of my face and looked at the construction paper I held so proudly.
“Nope. I bet you can’t guess!” I teased.
“Is he scuba diving? My daddy scuba dives in Puerto Rico!” my friend Ricardo shouted out from the front row.
“Well, what is he doing, Jacques?” asked Mrs. Murtha.
“He’s dead. He’s in heaven. He was drownding, drownding in da water,” I said with a serious face. All the kids gasped in unison.
Ricardo covered his mouth and pointed. “Oooh, you in trouble. Your daddy is gonna beat you good for saying that!” The kids started heckling. Some even slapped their thighs like adults, imitating their parents’ outbursts.
“Okay, that’s enough, be quiet. Settle down!” Mrs. Murtha stood up.
“Jacques, see me after class.” She pointed her finger at me sternly. I was very scared, because I thought she was the best teacher in the whole wide world and I’d never seen her angry, at least not at me.
Well, I never made it to the end of the day for detention. My mom came and took me out of school before recess because of an emergency none of us were prepared for. My father, Olivier Berradi, at the tender age of forty-one, was found in our bathroom tub, under the water, drowned. My father had been feeling extremely sick that week. His dark olive skin tone had been turning gray and he had been breathing strangely, so he’d decided to stay home and rest.
Mom was down at her gallery when she got a call from a neighbor about a leak in their bathroom. When she came home, she found the entire apartment flooded and my father dead in the tub. The cops came and did an investigation, but they said they couldn’t understand how he could have drowned. They concluded that he’d passed out and sank under the water. There was no suspicion of foul play and no sign of a struggle. No substance was ever found in his system. That was more than twenty-six years ago. I wasn’t scared when I found out because somehow I knew my dad was okay. I felt his presence. I knew he wanted me to be strong for Mommy and for Hicham.
Mrs. Murtha waited about a month before asking my mom to come in. I listened closely by the door and peeked in the glass window every time I could without being caught. I thought I was in trouble, but I didn’t understand why.
My mother’s dark green eyes had an unfocused gaze as she looked around the classroom at the children’s projects hung up on the walls. I knew she really didn’t want to be there and talk about my dad all over again.
Even in her despair she was naturally gorgeous. Her high cheekbones, button nose, and sultry glances made her resemble a young Lauren Bacall. Her green eyes were her most striking feature, although so intense at times, they did not make her very approachable. She never thought she was that pretty and would scoff at the compliment or comparison, but she was truly stunning.
Although a natural beauty, she loved bright eye shadows and never ever left home without lipstick. Normally, she wore flowing dresses with bright colors, lots of gold bracelets, and floral prints, but that day she was in dark gray pants and not really put together with her usual flair.
Mrs. Murtha said, “I’m really sorry to hear about your loss. How are you and the boys coping?”
My mom’s dark brown hair was in a Cleopatra bob. She kept nervously pushing one side behind her ear. “I’m doing okay, I guess. It’s very hard though,” she said. “Jacques is a strong boy, he’s handling it better than me. He keeps telling me he knows his daddy is okay. I’m really proud of him.” She wiped an eye, trying to fight back a tear.
“Well, Mrs. Berradi, I brought you here to tell you about Jacques. The day your husband was found, he drew this during playtime.” She handed my mom the folded yellow construction paper with my father’s demise sketched playfully in bright colors.
“I was appalled and was going to punish him, but now I think your son might have a gift!”
My mother stared at the drawing, then began crying hysterically. My mom and I made eye contact as I stood by the crack in the door. “Qu’est ce qui t’a incite a dessiner ceci?” She reached through the crack and tugged on my shirt collar tightly. “Tell me! Speak to me now, what made you want to draw this?” I didn’t understand. Why was she so angry? Why was she crying? What did I do wrong? I burst into tears.
I looked at the ground and mumbled, “I don’t know, I just wanted to. I felt . . . I felt Daddy wanted me to.”
Mrs. Murtha put her hand on my mom’s shoulder “Please, Mrs. Berradi, get a hold of yourself, please, it’s not his fault. He has a special gift, he just doesn’t know how to control it yet.”
My mom never spoke about my drawing again, but I always remember what Mrs. Murtha said about me: I was gifted. I was special.
That evening, I tried to make my mother feel better. Her back was to me while she washed the spaghetti-stained dishes in the kitchen. I approached her slowly and spoke sweetly to her. “He’s okay, Mommy, Daddy’s with Grandpa and Chookie. He came to me today in school during break time.”
A sudsy dish fell from her hands and rattled in the sink. She turned around slowly, looking down at me. “How did you know about Chookie? He was the dog your father had before you were born.”
“Daddy showed me him in my dream. He let me hold him and everything, Mommy. He’s so nice and fluffy, Mommy.” I paused. “Oh, and Daddy said to tell you he misses you and he forgives you.”
A stinging slap caught my cheek. All I could hear was ringing in my ears. I looked up at her red face in shock. Then silent tears. Hicham saw her slap me. He dropped his toy.
“Stop it, stop it! I better never, ever, hear you talk about seeing your father. He’s in heaven. You hear me, he’s in heaven! He’s not here!”
Watching the little girl on the train coloring made my heart smile. I love to see children who haven’t been burdened with the cares of the world yet; their innocence is therapeutic. Her mother went into her purse and offered them both a Starburst candy. The Crayola artist–sister squealed as her writer-sister grabbed a pink candy square. “You always get strawberry, let me get it!” she huffed.
Her sister quickly unwrapped the candy and popped it into her mouth with a sinister grin.
“Ma!” yelled the Crayola artist.
“Hush up, there’s another strawberry.” The mom narrowed her eyes at her daughters and reached farther in the pack. “Stop acting like a big baby.”
Writer-sister agreed and continued practicing her cursive handwriting. I smiled at her mother, who shrugged her shoulders at me. “I give up.” She laughed and a few other passengers chuckled along with her.
Those children are fortunate. Their mother keeps them so protected that they have no idea what pressure she is under. She looked at her watch and smoothed out her fuzzy ponytail. I quickly turned away from her, because I could see a snapshot in my mind of what was to come. I didn’t want to see it, because he’s going to beat her for being late. He’s going to beat her very hard this time, worse than usual. I flinched, because I could almost feel the powerful blow to my own mouth. He was an evil man with a hard-on for control.
I suddenly noticed her nervous reaction from me watching her. I didn’t know how long I had zoned out, staring in her direction. I closed my eyes and just prayed for God’s white light to protect her tonight. I prayed that maybe this time, this time, someone would call the cops on him.
Her stop came up and she frantically yelled at the girls. “Pack your bags, Jesse is downstairs waiting for us, hurry up. Hurry! He’s gonna lose it if I’m late again.”
“Don’t let him hit Mommy again, hurry up.” Crayola artist had let the cat out of the bag. Suddenly, she realized she was the one about to get hit the second they got off the train for having a big mouth in public.
The doors of the train beeped and the mother yelled, “Hurry up, dammit!”
Damn, I’m good. Most of the time I go with my gut, and it never lies. But when I get a confirmation that is dead-on, man, I still freak myself out, like, how did I know that? How in the hell did I know that?
The short train ride to TriBeCa got less painful after the train emptied out some. That helped my anxiety and I continued visualizing I was in a force field of protection, so that any negative energy I felt wouldn’t get to me. It’s a little trick I taught myself over the years that works like a charm.
I got off the train, walked up the stairs into the gray mist, and took a whiff of the New York City air. I smelled the sweet bread and bagels from Lenny’s bakery on Canal Street. Then a few blocks up, the aroma of a street vendor’s candied walnuts took over my senses. I was glad the rain had stopped, because I had a good ten-minute hike to my mom’s loft.
Being away for a little while heightened my awareness of how stylish New Yorkers are, especially compared to Miami, where people don’t usually have much on at all. The people I saw swiftly charging toward me really had a knack for looking sharp and trendy. Did I walk that fast when I lived here? They were important and had somewhere to go, or at least that’s what they wanted the world to believe. Chic dresses, purple streaks in their hair, black suits, nose rings, sexy boots, you name it. Canal Street was the strip for a stylish mix.
Then there were the slow-moving tourists, pointing up at the sky, turning around in circles, and walking with subway maps. They gasped at the cheap prices on Canal Street, mouths dropping at the impressive knock-off Gucci bags that just “had to be real.” They would even fall for the nervous-acting Asian lady who rushed them into the cellar to look at her so-called secret collection of designer bags.
The tourists were a blast to watch, their eyes open wide with seeming fascination. I looked at both “species”—the New Yorker and the Tourist—and realized that I now fell in between the two worlds. I was feeling like a tourist who still had a little bit of city sense, street smarts, and style.
I got to my mother’s building and to my surprise saw a man leaving who looked slightly familiar. Tall, thin, and almost hunching over when he walked. Gray jacket and black hat. I held the door for him as he walked toward the tall glass entryway. He looked at me as if he knew me, smiled a gentle fake smile, then tilted his hat to me and put his head back down as he passed me. I heard in my head, “Watch him.” I looked back at him as he walked quickly down the stairs. Not good. But I didn’t know why I knew him. He was probably just a neighbor.
Today was going to be interesting, I could tell. My mom and I don’t get along like we used to, but when I visit we try to make it work. As I got older, I began to understand why she was upset about my “talent.” I noticed my mother treated me differently after I predicted my dad’s death. It was as if she resented me for knowing before her and not telling her. I wasn’t sure why. I felt guilty for not being able to articulate how I knew that Dad was okay and that she shouldn’t be afraid of what I knew.
I opened the door and it smelled like home: bread, flowers, and paint. I wished I could go back in time. Back to our old place. Back to when my father was alive. Bright colorful paintings, eclectic antique furniture, and noise—noise was always there. The sounds of music and yelling are what I remember when I think of home. Édith Piaf seemed to play endlessly as my mother and father would pace around the living room shouting at each other in French and English interchangeably. Well, it was more my mother doing the shouting. The sweet smell of French bread baking mixed with my father’s Marlboros would fill our SoHo loft. Hicham and I would laugh and watch them from the staircase or hide under the dining room tablecloth while they would go at it about almost anything. And that was, for us, a good day.
I remember they would argue about her being away from home so much. “You and the church, those church people! You’re obsessed!” He would wave his hands frantically. “You are away from the children too much!” he’d yell. “Jacques and Hicham need you more. You’re a mother and my wife. A wife should be in the home. Both of the kids need you.” He would rest his head in his hands and push his thick black waves back. “It’s either the church, volunteering, or your work—you can’t put them first all the time, Marguerite.”
“Helping others always comes first, Olivier! God’s work always comes first.” She would slam something down and go into her studio and start painting with wild forceful brushstrokes to create a flower, a towering tree, or, when she was really fired up, a volcano in the jungle.
God did come first, it was true, but did she have to be out volunteering at homeless shelters and nursing homes three to five nights a week? My father was not an avid churchgoer, since he was Muslim, and my mother never seemed to push him to go to church events. Sometimes, though, she would show resentment, because he wasn’t setting an example for us to love God the way she expected.
To this day, my mother is on various committees, working with soup kitchens, even teaching art classes to children in after-school programs. Pretty much all her activities are related to the church or volunteering with her “church crew,” as Hicham calls them. She’s even had the nerve to tell me that she continues to pray for me. To her friends and family, I’m a “counselor,” as though I were a social worker or guidance counselor—which, in some ways, I suppose I am. But she would never tell anyone that I’m a psychic. My gift is a curse to her.
Unlike my mother, my father was always around playing with Hicham and I. His job working for the phone company gave him flexible hours, so he was home early enough to help us with our homework. He was definitely an introvert, who enjoyed being home with us, watching football, or playing solitaire.
Hicham was too young to remember Daddy, since he was only three when he died. I didn’t realize it until my late teens, but I took over the role of father, trying to mold him into a respectable and honorable young man. That didn’t really work out like I planned.
Over the years, I heard from my cousins and aunts in Morocco that my dad was much more open-minded and spiritual. He didn’t mind that my mother’s religion was different from his. He would always tell Mom that she could have church at home with us sometimes. That is why her obsession with religion urged me to explore all religions and embrace their commonalities more than their differences.
I couldn’t explain to Mom how happy I was when Dad came to “visit.” I didn’t know how to articulate it at the time. Sometimes I would be with him on a football field playing with Chookie. One minute I would be sleeping in my bed and within the blink of an eye, I would see my body lying in the bed from above. I would hover over my bed, wave to my brother as he slept, and then in a flash, I’d be somewhere extremely cool with my dad. I was having out-of-body experiences and didn’t know it. My mother told me I was dreaming, but I know it was much more. It was too real to be in my mind.
At times I’d be flying or floating over crowds, or rooms, and things I loved like parades, carnivals, and birthday parties. I would wake up and you couldn’t tell me what I experienced was not real. I would see him, talk to him, touch him.
I would astrally project myself and travel on a spiritual plane. I would be in my room on the floor and as I drew or colored, he would swoop me away to fun places like Giants Stadium, the Grand Canyon, a lake upstate, all sorts of cool things. Drawing would sometimes tune me out. Even though my body was there, my soul wasn’t. Outrageous stuff for a kid to digest, which is why, eventually, I didn’t.
One night, about a year or so after my father died, I was about to drift off to sleep. My mom tucked me into bed really tight, as if I would fall out.
The darkness of the room swallowed me up. I wanted to fall asleep, but I felt something. A presence. I looked over to H
icham, who was curled up like a ball and almost falling off the bed. It wasn’t him. The light flickered. I saw our toy chest illuminated. Flicker. Flicker. The G.I. Joe dolls on the floor to the right were suddenly in the spotlight. Flicker. Flicker. I saw the tent that we’d started to make out of sheets begin half-collapsing. Flicker.
I looked over by the dresser and the Mickey Mouse lamp turned off and on by itself. I blinked.
I thought I was seeing things and turned over on my side against the wall to fall asleep. The insides of my eyelids illuminated with a bright pink glow. I opened my eyes and now the main light for the room was on. My chest sank in when I noticed the back of a young blond girl about seven years old flicking the light switch up and down.
Hicham started to open his eyes and I was trying to call him to look, but no sound came out. I couldn’t move. I felt pinned to the bed. My body was totally paralyzed by fear.
The girl said, “Shhhh, don’t tell him, he has a big mouth and can’t keep a secret!” I couldn’t understand it. Her mouth didn’t move. I didn’t know that spirits could send telepathic messages at the time. I agreed that I wouldn’t and suddenly I could move again.
I couldn’t believe my eyes and rubbed them. She didn’t look directly at me. I saw a long curly ponytail in a red velvet ribbon and a big white poodle skirt that reminded me of the TV show Happy Days.
“Get up! Come on! Let’s play, Jacques!” I heard her vibrant voice in my head. She still didn’t turn around, but somehow we understood each other. I could see her profile and her mouth never opened.
I said in my head, “No, I want to go to sleep. You gotta go. My mommy is going to be mad you’re here and I’m gonna get in trouble.”
“Oh, come on! No one can hear me but you. Please! Let’s do something fun. Let’s jump on the bed.”
I got annoyed, not scared anymore, and I was just plain tired. I hid under the covers hoping I would just fall asleep and she would go away. I was wishing that it was a dream and she wasn’t really standing there with her back to me. I started praying, “Dear God, please make her go away. Go away, please go away!”