Alaine,
I am very disappointed in you.
I’m sure you aren’t happy to read this note from me. Well, let me tell you, it is not a great feeling to come home and find a letter from your principal rehashing the terrible phone call we had. Your mother and I do not work this hard to have you act out in school. Is there an underlying cause for your actions that you would like to discuss with me? If so, you must use your words. You are equipped with the tools to make yourself heard.
I will work on getting you back into school. You will ace your remaining assignments and submit something respectable.
Love (but still disappointed),
Dad
P.S. Please find my bread maker. I know you moved it last.
P.P.S. What were you thinking?
Wednesday, January 13
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
My dad is making good on his threat to ship me off to Haiti. While this is definitely the go-to reprimand given by all immigrant parents when they’re upset with their kids, Dad has never, ever used that with me. He’s always going on about how “going to the homeland is a privilege, not a punishment.” But here I am packing my bags.
I texted Tatiana and (even though she keeps saying that I “might’ve gone too far this time”) she still couldn’t believe that I was actually leaving the country. Considering the fact that her parents say this to her brothers (“Oh, and to me too, if I ever got pregnant before I was married and had a degree”) at least once a week but never go through with it, she didn’t have any advice to offer.
I sucked my teeth with each balled-up shirt I threw into my suitcase. Obviously, I wanted to go to Haiti. I’d never been before. I just didn’t want to go under these circumstances. Why did it have to be wielded over me like some sort of prison sentence? Be good or the Tontons Macoutes will get you. They’re waiting for you on the left side of Hispaniola. I emptied my shelf of hair care products into my suitcase. I didn’t know what kind of humidity I would encounter in Haiti, but I wasn’t about to let my twist-out suffer.
Maybe Dad’s playing a weird mind game where he’ll buy me a plane ticket, drive all the way to the airport, check in my luggage, and right when I’m about to head through security he’ll say, “Just kidding! Get back over here, kiddo. You have a few months left of high school. Just don’t screw it up and we’ll all be okay.”
But you want to know what’s freaking me out the most? I spent the day looking up what a suspension will mean for my college applications and am officially starting to hyperventilate... What have I done?
Tuesday, January 19
From: Alaine Beauparlant
To: Estelle Dubois
Subject: Regarding The Incident
Tati,
Don’t listen to a word my dad says. He’s already called and filled you and Mom in but here’s the thing: he’s wrong. Dad always believes Sister Pollack and all the other ladies at that godforsaken school over me. His only child and pride and joy.
Because I know you’re much more reasonable, let me tell you the truth about The Incident. I’ve had about a week out of school to think it through. The day it happened, I burned my polka-dot dress while I was ironing it. Even though I could hear you screeching, “Bad luck! Bad luck!” in my ear, and despite being fully aware of how much of an “ill omen” you say it is, I still put it on because you really couldn’t tell it was burned.
So really, all they can blame me for is making the terrible choice of wearing an unlucky dress despite knowing better.
In the interest of disclosure, I present to you a biased recollection of The Incident in question. Tatiana sent me screenshots of the conversation for posterity. Do they seem like innocent bystanders to you? Methinks not!
Alaine
SCREENSHOTS FROM STUDY GROUP CHAT ABOUT “THE INCIDENT”
LAT.AM/C.W. STUNNAZ
Tuesday 4:37 PM
Nina Voltaire:
So...she’s insane...
Kaylee Johnson:
It’s not even funny anymore
Nina Voltaire:
Seriously
Tatiana Hippolyte:
Cut it out guys
Renata Balvin:
What happened??? I stayed home today
Nina Voltaire:
Lil Miss Waltina Cronkite finally cracked just like her mom
Renata Balvin:
NO
Kaylee Johnson:
YES. She *literally* strolls into class late in a full length dress with an enormous hoop skirt. Doesn’t say a word to anyone until she gets up to do her oral presentation.
Nina Voltaire:
As soon as she’s up there, she turns on a recording of drumbeats and starts going on and on about this creepy voodoo ceremony in Haiti. Then, all of a sudden, she runs out of the classroom and pushes in this cart carrying a cake shaped like a pig. It’s covered in black fondant and everything!
Renata Balvin:
Did it taste good?
Nina Voltaire:
...That’s like not even the point of the story -____-
Renata Balvin:
I’m just saying! I don’t really like fondant. It’s pretty but too sweet and tastes super fake
Nina Voltaire:
ANYWAY she takes out a knife from the big pocket of her dress and slices open the neck of the pig cake and blood LITERALLY SPRAYS EVERYWHERE
Renata Balvin:
NO
Nina Voltaire:
YES. The first two rows were dripping with it and the red food coloring stained all the desks and the whiteboard and Sister Wagner’s computer and the ceiling and MY TOP which I’m definitely gonna make her pay for
Kaylee Johnson:
And who would be sitting smack dab in the line of fire but Peter Logan
Renata Balvin:
Omg he’s allergic to everything
Kaylee Johnson:
Including gelatin apparently which she had put in her gross little mixture
Nina Voltaire:
Yup. Wagner’s screaming, Peter starts wheezing and going into anaphylactic shock. Alaine is *still* holding the knife and freaking out until she finally dumps out his bag and stabs him with his EpiPen so he doesn’t DIE
Renata Balvin:
Wow! Yeah she’s def a psycho... And isn’t Peter’s dad like a judge?? How much trouble will she be in?
Nina Voltaire:
Mmhmm. I heard that he’s trying to get her dumb ass expelled
Tatiana Hippolyte:
NOT COOL EVERYONE
Alaine Beauparlant:
Y'all. I. Can. See. Everything. You’re. Saying.
Nina Voltaire:
Kaylee you were supposed to remove her
Alaine Beauparlant removed herself from
LAT.AM/C.W. STUNNAZ.
Annotated transcript of what I heard when I listened in on the second house phone (yup we still have those) during Dad’s (pointless) conversation with Mom
DAD: How are you, Celeste?
Translation: I may not have grown up with a summer home in Pétion-Ville, but I have manners too.
MOM: Fine. You?
Translation: I’m not going to spill my guts to you.
DAD: Alaine and I are fine.
Translation: EVERYTHING IS FINE. I have everything under control. By the way, you have a daughter.
MOM: I was getting to that.
Translation: You idiot.
DAD: I can’t believe she got herself suspended over a stupid class presentation.
Translation: Alaine is dismantling everything we’ve worked to put together for her future.
MOM: Well-behaved women rarely make history.
Translation: I feel the need to be antagonistic with you by habi
t, but I agree.
DAD: Well, Constantine Logan rarely doesn’t get what he wants. And right now, what he wants is Alaine out of school for almost killing his son! What if they press charges?
Translation: I’m spiraling, woman!
MOM: Okay, take a deep breath. We’ll figure this out.
Translation: Chiiiiilllllll.
DAD: [takes a shaky breath and clears throat] Thanks. So... How’s Haiti treating you? How’s Estelle?
Translation: Ugh. Maybe she won’t notice my change in subject.
MOM: It’s Haiti. Estelle’s...Estelle.
Translation: I’m not going to make this easy for you.
DAD: ...
Translation: Well, then.
MOM: ...
Translation: Ugh.
DAD: ...
Translation: I’m a psychiatrist and very comfortable with extended periods of silence when I speak with reticent patients.
MOM: ...
Translation: I’m a journalist and very comfortable with extended periods of silence during interviews with reticent politicians.
ALAINE: Hey, everyone! Can this conversation get any more uncomfortable?
No translation needed.
DAD: Oh! Hey, honey.
Translation: Oh, thank God.
MOM: How are you doing?
Translation: This is a thing that mothers ask their children, yes?
ALAINE: Fine, fine. I’ve started a new skin regimen and my pores have really embraced this rosewater face wash. How are you?
Translation: Will I finally be visiting you soon? Do you miss me? Have I adequately distracted you from the larger issue at hand?
DAD: I’ll let you two have some mother-daughter time.
Translation: Because you’re never available for any real mother-daughter time.
MOM: I actually have to get going. Jules, tell her.
Translation: I’m very busy and perhaps terrified to speak to my daughter alone.
ALAINE: That’s okay! Talk later?
Translation: What a surprise. Psych.
MOM: [hangs up]
Translation: Probably not.
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
After that horrifically unpleasant phone call, I sat patiently in my room, waiting for Dad to explain himself. Just as I’d anticipated, I heard a soft knock on my door.
“Come in.”
My dad drifted into the room and paused just past the threshold. He walked over to my desk chair and sat down before getting up to gingerly perch himself at the foot of my bed instead. He was using his “concerned shrink” face. I knew something was wrong before he said a word.
I remember when he sat down at the same corner of a much smaller bed and sighed before announcing to seven-year-old me that our family hamster, Flavia, had died. The tears fell almost instantly and he was ready with a box of tissues and a spoon for the pint of chocolate chunk ice cream he held behind his back. He enveloped me in a hug and kissed the top of my puffy hair.
“It’s okay, Aly. These things happen. It’s life.”
“But...it’s...not...fair!” I’d said between sniffles and gulps.
“I know. The best we can do is appreciate our memories and move forward.”
With my short attention span, coping had been easy. We got a replacement parakeet, Flavio, after deeming three weeks a respectful period of mourning.
I was driving myself insane with thoughts of dead pets and cut through his silence.
“Dad.”
“Alaine...”
My dad is a human ellipsis. He’s always pausing...and pondering...and dragging...and trying not to stutter like he used to as a child. He always thinks before he says anything and I’m sure that’s part of why he couldn’t make it work with my mom. She probably figured she got enough hemming and hawing from the politicians she interviewed for work and didn’t need it from her husband too. But this faltering wasn’t because of his usual lulls. Something was different.
I couldn’t stand the quiet.
“Just tell me whatever it is! Are you sick? Did somebody die? Did Mom smack another senator?”
He flinched.
“Your mother has Alzheimer’s.”
The room stood still. “I don’t understand what you’re saying... She’s barely forty.”
“You’re right. It’s early onset.” My dad mouthed the words to himself silently, as if to make himself believe them. I didn’t. My brain was on fire and couldn’t, wouldn’t make sense of what he was saying. No. That can’t be right. No.
“How can that even happen?”
“Scientists aren’t sure. There appears to be a genetic link, but she doesn’t seem to have many relatives who had it. Maybe her grandmother when she was old.”
Does that mean that I’m at risk? Am I terrible for having my first instinct be to wonder whether I could get sick too?
I tamped down my guilt and fought back the involuntary sensation of tears forming behind my eyes.
“When did she find out?”
“She confirmed the diagnosis with the doctor today.”
“Confirmed?”
“I...recommended she see a neurologist.”
I closed my eyes and the dam broke. A warm trail of salty tears slid down my cheeks as I held my face in my hands, shaking my head left and right, trying my hardest to not let what my father said sink in. And then something dawned on me.
“So you knew about this...this whole time...” I wiped roughly at the tears that wouldn’t stop streaming down. “I didn’t even know you spoke to each other enough to be handing out doctor recommendations! Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“She called me when she became concerned... I think this is something she needs to discuss with you herself.”
“When? If she remembers to call in another week?”
I regretted my words as soon as they tumbled out of my mouth. My dad stood up.
“This conversation is no longer conducive to sharing information. I’m going to let you process this. We can talk later.” He patted my leg and, because I know he had no idea what else to do, placed a pint of ice cream and a spoon on the small nightstand beside my bed. I likened my father’s telling me the worst news of my life to the announcement of a rodent’s death. But unlike seven-year-old me, I’d attacked him for no reason other than because I was angry.
Alzheimer’s.
I looked at the ice cream on my nightstand and my vision blurred as tears threatened to flow again. No amount of chocolate chunk could soften the blow that my dad had just dealt. I crawled under my covers and stared up at the ceiling. How could this be? My mom was still young. She had her whole life ahead of her, a career that would stay on the rise once everyone got over stupid Slap-Gate. But the diagnosis explained her moment of confusion from a few months ago. A brain fart, I had called it. Her more recent outburst must have been because of this too... I didn’t even want to think about it.
If I was being honest, I felt sorry for myself. I’d always imagined that I would get to know my mom when I got older. She might not have the super nurturing mother gene, whatever that was, but I’d hoped that we could have a different kind of relationship later on. One where she was more friend than parent, since the latter hadn’t worked out so well. I would’ve been more than happy with that. But now it seemed that would never happen.
My gut clenched as I sank deeper into my sheets. That night, in my restless dreams, I watched my mother’s face sag into wrinkles and folds belonging to a woman with blank eyes I didn’t recognize.
PART II
AYITI CHERI, AYITI WTF
Wednesday, January 20
From: Estelle Dubois
To: Alaine Beauparlant
Subject: READ ME
Alaine, you have no idea how busy
I am with PATRON PAL. This news of your behavior comes at a very inopportune time. I want you to listen to everything that I am saying (without interruption) so I’m sending you this email. And to be clear, this is about more than “The Incident” as you are calling it, Alaine. In the past two years alone, there has been:
A Situation: The time you said you couldn’t attend your physics class because you thought the feng shui was “off” and messed up your “chakra alignment”—which was, frankly, offensive
That Occurrence: When you staged a sit-in at the beauty supply store since you “no longer cared to subscribe to European standards of beauty”
An Overblown Fracas: The instance during your sophomore year when you decided that after fifteen years of private school education, it was no longer becoming of you to wear a uniform because it stifled individuality
And you’ve had an excuse for each. It’s never your fault and always a misunderstanding propelled by a force beyond your control.
Darling, you know I love you and think you’re quite special but you make it very hard for others to see what I see. (And if I had reviewed the paper you promised to send me, I would’ve told you what a terrible idea this whole thing was and stopped this chain of events before it even got started.) Principal Pollack doesn’t get to chat with you about your favorite sketches from Saturday Night Live or hear your thoughts on the merits of standardized testing. Your teachers, despite their good intentions, will never understand what it’s like to live your life.
BUT that doesn’t mean that you throw away your good sense and refuse to take responsibility for your actions. People are watching you, Alaine. You can’t go around joking about Haitian history when you’re the daughter of a very powerful journalist and the niece of the Minister of Tourism in Haiti. Your father sent us your assignment and I was disappointed. Again, why didn’t you come to me? Why do you insist on doing things the hard way? There is no dishonor in asking for help, Alaine. I promise it does not diminish your genius to do so.
All things aside, you must know the important role Marie-Louise Coidavid and Marie-Madeleine Lachenais played in our very existence. I understand that finding information on them might have been difficult because they are relatively unknown in the larger scope of Haitian history, but as descendants of Marie-Louise Coidavid, we have access to letters that if included in your assignment would have elevated the quality of your paper. Instead, you wrote about these women as if they were simply the wives of powerful men. How inaccurate! They changed the course of my country and ensured this family’s survival. Were it not for an agreement between these two women, you wouldn’t even be around to string together those four weak sentences about them.
Dear Haiti, Love Alaine Page 7