by Ibi Zoboi
“No,” I lie. “It’s just . . . I want to eat, that’s all.”
“That’s right, Fabiola,” Matant Jo says, smiling. “You see, she has manners. No talking on the phone while you’re out for brunch with your family, right, Faboubou!”
“Get outta here with that, Ma!” Pri jokes. “You stay talking on the phone, and chewing with your mouth open, and cursing at the table. Don’t let your aunt fool you, Fab.”
Everyone is all smiles. Donna is happy, too, even though she’s not with Dray anymore. And Chantal is having small talk with her mother about the weather, the food, and her classes.
I can’t finish my meal. The syrup is too sweet and there’s more oily skin on the chicken than actual chicken. But my cousins and aunt devour it as if it’s their last meal.
My phone rings again. It’s Detective Stevens.
“Answer it!” Pri says.
I start to get up from my seat, but Pri grabs the phone from my hand and answers it for me.
“Hello?” she says, and my insides turn to ice. “Hello?”
Then she gives me the phone. Detective Stevens hung up, and I exhale.
“We need to upgrade your phone” is all Pri says.
Aunt Jo pays for the meal with cash. I can’t help but stare at the three twenties and one ten, and remember the pile of cash that she gave me. When the waitress comes back with the change, Aunt Jo hands it to me. I shake my head and don’t take it.
“Your whole life I’ve been sending you and your mother money, and it’s now you want to reject it?” Matant Jo says.
Pri takes it for me instead. My aunt stares at me as if I’ve just offended her.
As we’re leaving, Kasim walks in with Dray. My heart skips. I don’t want to see him. I can’t see him. He’s not supposed to be here. There is no room for him in my heart right now.
He greets Aunt Jo first, reminding her that they’ve met a few times already. Dray does the same, but my aunt shoos him away as if he’s just a vagabon. She stares him in the eye. “You took my baby girl from me since she was twelve. You got into her head and made her think she was in love. She fought me for you. And now you think I’m going to let you win, again?” Matant Jo says.
Donna walks to the car, opens the back door, and gets in without saying a word to Dray.
I want to applaud Matant Jo. Here is where I see a lot of my own mother in her. If Manman was here, she would cut Dray down to a billion pieces if she knew how he treated her niece. And now Matant Jo has come alive.
“Donna, come on!” Dray calls out, ignoring what my aunt has just said. Each time he tries to take a step closer to the car, both Pri and Chantal get in his way.
As I’m watching all this, Kasim takes my hand and asks if he can call me tonight.
“I don’t know” is all I say.
He reaches over to kiss me on the cheek, but I stop him.
“I miss you,” he says.
“It’s too much,” I say.
“Too much? What’s going on, Fabulous? You know I can see when you’re looking at my texts.”
“I’m busy.”
“Busy? I done seen all your cousins, Imani, your other friends . . . But you just straight up disappeared. Every time I ask for you, they give me some bullshit answer. ‘Oh, she’s studying, she joined a club, she went home . . .’ What’s up, Fabulous?” He holds out his hand, but I don’t take it.
“Things are complicated now, Kasim,” I say. The words are stuck in my throat.
“Complicated? Don’t tell me you’re going back to Haiti.” He keeps trying to take my hand and I keep pulling away.
“No, just . . . I have to help my mom. I like you, Kasim. But I have to focus. . . . Too many things happening now.” I cross my arms and look every which way. I don’t want to see his face. I can’t look into his eyes.
“For real, Fab? What you sayin’?”
“I . . . I can’t . . .” I shake my head. I inhale deep because this is all a lie. But I have to do this.
“You can’t? We didn’t even get started yet. What about saving a little bit for tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day after that?” He keeps trying to look into my eyes. I keep turning my head.
“There’s no more left,” I say.
“For real, Fab? You serious?”
“Yes.” I walk away.
He reaches out and the tips of his fingers brush against my shoulder. I don’t look back as I open the car door and slide into the backseat.
Pretending that I don’t like him anymore breaks my heart. I don’t want to do this to him, but I feel as if I don’t have a choice. Before I allow my heart to sink and melt once again, I think of what I must do. My mother is the one who will make my life complete here, not him. I have to sacrifice something in order to get her here. Until then, there is no room for Kasim in my heart.
It’s so quiet on the car ride back home that I can hear everyone’s breath. Me and Donna have the same rhythm—we both have let go of something heavy and deep.
TWENTY-THREE
TODAY IS THANKSGIVING—a day for families to come together and give thanks, my cousins tell me. I remember how my aunt and cousins used to call us in Haiti to wish us a happy Thanksgiving. We never knew what it meant, so we just replied, “Oh, mesi. Same to you!”
Matant Jo has come back to life, and the last few days have been a crazy cyclone of making lists of foods we want to eat, rushing to the supermarket, waiting on long lines, and chopping, and slicing, and seasoning. My cousins are not involved; it’s just me and my aunt. Pri has asked for pies—pumpkin and sweet potato. Donna wants something called cranberry sauce. Chantal asks for Haitian rice and beans. At first, Matant Jo seems like she has it all under control. The pots are ready, and the ingredients are out on the table and counters ready to be prepared. She’s humming and telling jokes and I’m only here to help.
But now when I walk back into the kitchen, I see her holding her head as if she is about to pass out.
“Matant! Are you okay?” I help her over to a chair and give her a glass of water to drink.
“Fabiola, you have to finish. I have to go lie down,” she says, still holding her head.
I help her over to her room and into her bed. I check her forehead and make sure she’s tucked in. I bring another glass of water for her and she takes a few pills with it.
“What are those for, Matant?” I ask.
“I told you before, Faboubou. Pain. It hurts everywhere.” She disappears underneath her covers.
I stare at all the foodstuff. Some of it I don’t recognize, but there’s a list on the refrigerator door: stuffing, cranberry sauce, macaroni and cheese, collard greens, black-eyed peas, sweet potato pie, Haitian rice and beans. Then someone has scribbled at the end of the list: Don’t burn the turkey, Ma!
The huge, fat turkey is sitting in the sink. I watched Matant Jo just shake some salt and pepper onto it and wondered what else she was planning on doing to it since salt and pepper is hardly enough for a whole turkey. So I roll up my sleeves, wash my hands, and start my magic.
I pound garlic and scallions to add to the turkey. I use cloves, too, and lots more seasoned salt. I soak kidney beans, and wash the rice and set it aside. I’ve gotten my own ingredients from the supermarket, so I peel cassava, slice plantains, boil the salt out of dried fish. There’s fresh and canned pumpkin, and I smile to myself thinking that soup joumou is just what my family needs now. I chop carrots, celery, and potatoes. I grate cheese and melt it down with butter and milk for the macaroni au gratin.
I spend a long time cutting up the big turkey into small pieces—throwing out extra fat and rubbing it with lemon down to the bone. I boil it for a long time before it’s tender enough to fry. I check on Matant Jo now and then, and she only mumbles that everything smells good. Pri tries to come in, but I stop her. I’m at peace here in this kitchen—seasoning, chopping, and stirring pots. I pour every prayer and blessing into the dishes. I hum over the food as if my songs and words will be a pr
otective magic. Chantal tries to come in, too, but I only let her taste the rice and beans since that was her one request. She offers to set the table. I make sure to cover all the pots so that my Thanksgiving meal is a surprise.
I let the warmth of the house wrap around me. I let the scents of my food fill me up with nothing but joy, because this moment is like a hug from God.
Matant Jo has come out and is alive again—dressed, hair and face done, and smiling bright. She looks at me and mouths, “Thank you.”
We stand around the table and Pri grabs my hand. Chantal grabs my other hand. We’re all holding hands now and I smile even brighter because I see that my beloved aunt and cousins pray, too.
“God,” Pri starts. “I think our cousin, Fabiola, being here is the best thing that ever happened to us. For real.”
They all make a sound that lets me know that they agree, and something wells up inside me as if it’s been sitting there all along waiting to be set free, and I cry. It’s a hushed cry—not like a storm, but like a drizzle.
“It’s like she was supposed to be here all this time,” Pri continues. “Like she should’ve never left when she was a baby. And I wonder sometimes what it would’ve been like if she and her moms stayed . . . if we stuck together like family.”
The light drizzle has become hard rain and I cover my face as I cry. Chantal reaches over to hug me. Donna comes over, too. Soon, my cousins are all embracing me and my tears are now a thunderstorm.
“Fabiola,” Matant Jo says, and I hold my tears for just a second. “My dear sister, Valerie . . . she’s strong. And strongheaded. I know she is fighting to get to you . . . to get to us. And we are fighting for her, too. So today, we are thankful for you. We are thankful for her.”
I sniff back my tears; I hold back everything because my aunt is lying. She is not fighting for her sister. If she was, my mother would be here right now. But I don’t say anything because my cousins’ arms are around me. And Pri cuts through the thickness of my anger and sorrow with one of her jokes.
“Fab, if this food isn’t good, we will straight up eat you. Just lay you down on that table and nibble on your bones like Silence of the Lambs,” Pri says.
“That’s nasty, Pri,” says Donna.
I pull out the warm turkey from the oven and place it on the table. It’s still covered in tinfoil, so I uncover it, and each one of my cousins and my aunt shriek, yell, and cry at the same time as if they’ve just seen the most terrible thing in the world.
“Fabiola! What the fuck did you do to the turkey?” Pri shouts.
Donna is covering her mouth, Chantal starts laughing, Matant Jo is shaking her head.
“What, what, what?” I ask. “What happened?”
“You weren’t supposed to chop it up and put it in sauce!” Pri cries.
“I guess we’re having Thanksgiving Haitian style,” Chantal says.
I stare at my masterpiece of a turkey—the turkey I spent hours cutting up into small pieces and frying to perfection—the giant breasts, the wings, the legs are all well easoned and resting in a nice spicy tomato sauce full of sliced peppers and onions.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Pri whines.
“Hey, sit down,” Matant Jo says. “It will be delicious. Appreciate what you have, Pri.”
“Wait a minute,” I say. “You wanted me to cook the turkey just like that? With salt and pepper and put the whole thing in the oven?”
“Well, you were supposed to add stuffing, then put it in the oven,” Matant Jo says.
“But it would be so dry. You wanted that big, dry thing just like that?”
“That’s how we do it around here, Fab,” Pri says. “Dry-ass turkey and thick-ass gravy.”
Still, my cousins eat my stewed turkey, my rice and beans, cassava fritters, fried plantains, and the best one of all, my soup joumou. By the time they’re on their second plates, the jokes start again, and the laughter, and the lightness.
Then there’s a knock at the door and my heart jumps. My cousins and I all look at one another. But Donna winks at me and she’s the first to head to the door. Pri follows her.
“My man Kasim!” Pri shouts.
And I freeze in my seat. I have a piece of turkey in my mouth and I’m not dressed properly. I don’t have on a bra and the weave in my hair is starting to look like a fuzzy hat. Matant Jo giggles. Before I even think of running upstairs to change and fix my face, Kasim is standing in the kitchen with a smile and a bouquet of flowers.
I chew really fast and stand to take my flowers, but he gives them to Matant Jo instead.
“Oh, thank you so much, Kasim,” she says, and kisses him on the cheek. “Do you have brothers? I need one for each of my girls. And a sister. A sister for Pri.” She giggles.
“Thanks, but no thanks, Ma,” Pri says, and pulls out a seat for Kasim. “Ay yo, Ka? Your girl done chopped up the turkey and threw it in sauce. Ain’t that the most Haitian shit you have ever seen in your life?”
“No,” Kasim says. “I’ve had jerk turkey on Thanksgiving with a Jamaican family I know. Shit . . . Oh, excuse me, Jo. My family boycotted Thanksgiving ’cause my father didn’t want to celebrate the white man’s holiday. So we had salmon and bean pies when I was little.”
“White man’s holiday?” Matant Jo says. “Then what’s a black man’s holiday?”
“Payday!” Pri shouts, and everyone laughs except for me and Chantal.
“You ignorant ass,” Chantal says. “What about January first, Ma? When the Haitians got their independence. First independent black nation in the world. That’s a black man’s holiday. That’s what soup joumou is for, right?”
Matant Jo shrugs and doesn’t answer. So I answer Chantal’s question. I tell them about our famous pumpkin soup and Pri reminds me that the pumpkin was supposed to be for pumpkin pie. And the sweet potato that I boiled was supposed to be for sweet potato pie.
Then Kasim says, “Dray’s mom makes the meanest sweet potato pie, right, Donna?”
Donna doesn’t answer. So Kasim keeps talking about food, his family, and Dray’s family, who is like his family.
But him being here has not changed anything. No doors have opened since I’ve learned about my cousins’ drug dealing. Do I hand Dray over to the detective even though he wasn’t responsible for the girl’s death? And even though he’s like family to Kasim?
I must’ve been sitting there staring into nowhere, because Kasim’s hand is on my shoulder shaking me and asking me if I’m okay. I snap out of it.
After the meal, Chantal tells me and Kasim to go into the living room so they can clean up. I excuse myself to go change instead. Then Kasim asks to use the bathroom. We’re both headed up the stairs when Pri yells, “Don’t stay up there for too long, y’all!”
I make sure the bedroom door is closed while he uses the bathroom, and I change into something more dressy and put on a bra. When I come out, he’s right there and says, “Hi.”
We stand in the doorway for a moment, and we both know that it’s the first time we’re alone in a house. Not quite alone, but almost. I start to step around him to get downstairs but his eyes wander into Chantal’s room.
“Hey, what’s all that?” he asks.
I turn to see my altar—the statue of the Virgin Mary, the tea candle, the bottle of Florida water, the beaded gourd, tin cup, and white fabric. “My prayer stuff,” I say.
“Damn, you’re like a hard-core Catholic?” he says.
“Yes and no. It’s Vodou.”
“Voodoo? Oh, I get it now. You put a spell on me?”
“No, that’s not real Vodou. We have spirit guides—our lwas are like saints and I pray to them for help. And I offer them food in return—candy, rum, and other things. Don’t you pray?”
“Used to. With my moms. I grew up Muslim. Kasim means ‘divided amongst many’ in Arabic. Will you pray for me?”
“Yes, of course. Always.”
He eases both his hands toward my face, pulls me in, and kisses me deep
, deep.
Cher Manman,
It’s beginning to feel like you wanted it this way. Maybe you sent me ahead, and you made it so that you wouldn’t come with me—that you would return home to Haiti and leave me here in America. If you had told me to go alone, you knew that I would never agree to it. But this is how you raised me, Manman. You raised me to be like another part of you—another arm or leg. Even as you kept telling me that I’m becoming a woman, you never let me go out into the world to be free. Or maybe I took the place of the sister you left behind, or who left you behind. You raised me like this, so I cannot go on with my own life without you. You can’t go back to Haiti. You have to come to this side because this new family of mine is both familiar and strange—just like how I am American by birth and Haitian by blood, bones, and tears. Familiar and strange.
Manman, your nieces sold drugs. Your sister loaned money to drug dealers. And Uncle Phillip was killed because of drugs. If what you’ve told me is true, that this kind of madichon runs in the family, then what sort of prayers, songs, and lwas will remove this madichon—this curse? And if what you’ve told me is true, that the lwas will show up all around me—in both things and people—then I am surrounded, I am supported. And with the help of Bondye and his messenger, Papa Legba, the giant gate leading you home will soon open.
I will make it so.
Kenbe fem. Hold tight.
Fabiola
TWENTY-FOUR
BECAUSE OF MY new hair and clothes, no one knows that I’ve come from Haiti only a few months ago. I fit in like a well-placed brick. We’re in a giant gymnasium with hundreds of other teenagers. Our high school is playing against another school in a big basketball game. I don’t know the rules of the game, but there are so many cute boys that I don’t even care to pay attention to the ball or the score. These boys are not like the scrawny broomsticks back home in Haiti. They have muscles and they move like ocean waves up and down the court. I’m sitting between Imani and Daesia as they point out which boy is the cutest. For a moment, I forget about Kasim. Only for a moment.