“That’s a fair concern.” Jason nodded. “But something tells me that even the shadow of the great Celeste Beauparlant will become too small for you one day.”
I couldn’t have stopped the grin that sprouted on my face even if I’d tried.
“For the record, I’m #TeamCeleste all day. Especially after watching what happened on Sunday Politicos. I’ve hated Venegas since he tried introducing that bill that would’ve made it easier for corporations to not disclose all of their overseas accounts.”
“Wow. How do you even pretend that there’s nothing sketchy behind coming up with that idea?”
“You’d be surprised. Some of these politicians are really skilled at making their terrible proposals seem as if they’re for the greater good. Especially since Venegas was suggesting that not passing this particular bill was a national security risk... Something about not wanting rogue hackers to gain access to financial accounts and use the money to fund acts of terror.”
“Well, when he positions it that way, it almost sounds reasonable,” I said.
“It does,” Jason said, shaking his head. “I wish your mom had gotten the chance to grill him about it when he was on her show...before things went left. How’s she been since then? Is she okay?”
Dammit. “There’ve been better days,” I said cautiously.
“I can imagine. Well, Sunday Politicos hasn’t been the same without her these last few weeks. No one cuts through the bullshit the way your mom does. And have you heard how they’re trying to make it appear like she’s taking medical leave—”
I cut him off before he could continue.
“No offense, but I’m officially Sunday Politico’ed out for the foreseeable future.”
“Oh,” Jason said in surprise. “Of course. You must’ve rehashed this a million times by now. My bad.”
“No worries!” I chirped. Like a bird. “I’ll start on this stack. We’ll go faster. Cool?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
I enjoyed hanging out with Jason, but I wasn’t ready to talk about my mother with anyone, even though I was the one who’d brought her up for discussion. What was I supposed to say? I walked away with my cards and pictures and settled on a little boy with a fade haircut and a scar on his chin. I’d find him and ask him what he wanted to be when he grew up and keep it moving. Hopefully it wouldn’t take much longer to plow through the rest of the cards and I could get out of there.
Just as I was opening my mouth to get his name, a scream erupted. I jerked my head in Tati Estelle’s direction.
“Celeste! KOTE OU YE?”
I ran to my aunt, who had her arms wrapped around herself as she fought back tears. I didn’t need her to say what I’d already deduced.
Mom was gone.
PART III
TELL ME A STORY
Wednesday, February 3
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
I’m way too young and reckless to even envision life as a mother, but in the twenty-three minutes it took me and Tati Estelle to find my mom, I decided that this was what it must feel like when parents lose their kids. One second you’re scolding them for sneaking a package of chocolate chip cookies into the shopping cart at the grocery store and the next you’re freaking out when you realize they’ve somehow disappeared. As you’re running through aisles and toward the customer service station to make an announcement, you’re praying that they’re already there, waiting impatiently, just like you instructed them to do if you were ever separated. Then you can breathe.
There is no customer service for wandering mothers in the middle of a Limbé forest. My aunt, the person I expected to have it all together, was paralyzed.
“Where is she? How could this have happened?” She muttered curses under her breath as she pulled her phone from her pocket and went to her call log. My mother’s name was the most recent and she pressed it to redial. The ring went on and on with no answer and my stomach clenched.
I grabbed her shoulders. “When did you realize she was missing?”
“Just now. I stepped away for a moment to grab a plate of akra for her because she said she was hungry. She was sitting on that bench! I told her to stay,” Tati Estelle said.
“What’s around here?”
“I—I—” My aunt pressed on her closed eyes in a poor attempt to block the tears that were now streaming down her face.
“Everyone!” I shouted. “We need to look for Celeste. She looks just like Estelle.”
Of course they knew that, but I didn’t know what else to say. Some of the children stopped midplay and stared. Tati Estelle snapped out of her reverie and gave direct orders to her PATRON PAL employees, telling them to split up and search the surrounding area. There were trees big enough to hide her from view and the land was wide and lush with other vegetation. She shouldn’t have gotten far if Tati Estelle had walked away for just a second, but we couldn’t be sure. Even in my stressful hunt, I recognized the twinge of annoyance that invaded my thoughts. We both knew that wandering was a potential risk for Alzheimer’s patients. My aunt shouldn’t have left her alone in this unsecured area. She had never wandered off before, but we should’ve been prepared. It’s a major concern for loved ones with Alzheimer’s, and this was yet another example of how new this was for us and how much this diagnosis was changing our worlds. I was bothered by myself as well. My mom had slipped away and could have been who knows where by now, and at the same time I had been abruptly cutting off conversation with an attractive college boy to avoid discussing her because it would inevitably mean talking about her condition. Her sickness could no longer be ignored.
With Thierry left with the children to scare them into behaving, and the rest of her team in pursuit mode, Tati Estelle grabbed me and slid into the car where Fernand was already waiting.
“Where are we going?” I protested.
“I may have an idea where Celeste is,” she said.
We rushed up the gravel path, driving away from the direction we came from until we approached a broad, rushing river. I barely blinked as my gaze roamed the land, convinced I would see her tumble down one of those steep cliffs and get carried away by the water any minute.
“Stop here!”
Fernand turned off the engine and my aunt leaped out of her seat.
“I’ll be here,” he said simply. “Good luck.”
She pulled my hand and dragged me down to the bank of the river and stopped. There was my mom, digging a hole into a patch of wildflowers. A growing pile of dirt was beside her, with more soil smeared over her white top and linen pants. She lifted her head when she heard us approach and waved us over. I exhaled. My head throbbed and I pushed aside questions of how she could have made it this far on foot so quickly. But was it really a stretch? Mom’s fitness regimen was legendary and had been featured in Shape magazine just a year ago. Her body wasn’t deteriorating as fast as her mind was.
My mom looked up at us from where she sat on the ground, serene. “This is what she wants.”
A Note And An Old Diary Tati Estelle Left On My Bed After We Got Home
Alaine,
I know you might be feeling down or confused right now but hopefully these will help. It's time you knew what stock you come from.
Bisous,
Estelle
Ripped Pages From My Mom’s High School Diary Courtesy Of Tati Estelle, Who Said She Found It When She Was Moving Back Into Their Family Home
Thursday, January 31
From the Desk of Celeste Dubois
Roseline is cursed, or so she says. Of course I don’t believe it. But if you hear you’re a monster every day of your life, you might start to wonder if there’s something to the lies. She’s asleep now beside me, but her voice has not yet left my head: I’m cursed, I’m cursed, I’m cursed.
I don’t correct her with what my mother
actually claims: we’re cursed. This entire family. That woman has the gall to believe that the detestable actions of my father her husband are because of a stupid family madichon. Roseline’s pretty face and his refusal to accept “no” are simply Maman’s heavy crosses to bear. She’s promised me and Estelle more than once: Yours is coming. Your name may be Dubois, but that Christophe blood runs in you too. Ours could be anything. Infertility like Tati Gladys. Going broke like Tonton Carle. Ti Vin Vin’s kid’s ti pwoblem. Maybe we’ll be like her and lose track of reality. Blame spirits that don’t exist for every bad thing we’ve done or allowed into our lives.
I don’t think I’ve hated my parents more.
My hands shake as I write this because Roseline said she didn’t want me to barge into their room and raise hell. It wouldn’t be my first time, but she refused to have me getting in trouble “on account” of her. This would be righteous trouble, I argued. It’s not right, what he did. I wanted to know why my mother could hiss such venom at Roseline and remain the doting spouse of a monster. I don’t care if he’s my father. He deserves to rot in hell. I have to do something. Say something. Something. Roseline just shook her head, her bloodshot eyes pleading with me to go against everything in my nature and stay silent. Pretend that my mother was right to call her a malediksyon, believe that she is the problem behind that man’s wandering eye and violence. It’s unacceptable.
Writing is supposed to contain my anger, but I feel it growing with each scratch on this page. I need to breathe...bottle this up and distill my rage into a plan that leads to real consequences. I still haven’t figured that part out. How do you take down the most powerful man you know? How do you escape?
Thursday, February 7
From the Desk of Celeste Dubois
You rebound a curse with an oath. I don’t usually encourage this kind of talk, but those are the first words Roseline has spoken to me since the incident. I didn’t want to scare her away, so I sat quietly as she explained. The only way to coax the spirits into untying you is to have them tie you to something else.
Nothing is free, but we can make new rules under our own terms. Better terms.
I pushed back: Why do you want to do this, Roseline? This isn’t your mess to clean up. It isn’t real.
The eyes that bored into mine were long dried and resolute when she replied: Yes, it is. So long as I’m here, it is.
I didn’t remind her that I don’t buy this nonsense. That I want nothing to do with my family and their moans of curses and evil. Terrible things happen to terrible and good people, I wanted to say. We need a better justice system that acknowledges the horrors women experience in their homes...or the closest they have to it. Not more calls for maji. Instead, I squeezed her hands and said I would talk to Estelle when she sneaks back home from cavorting with Andres tonight. I still haven’t created a viable solution, so we will do this ceremony tomorrow to release my family from its “curse” and appease her. Roseline deserves that at least.
Friday, February 8
From the Desk of Celeste Dubois
I’ll start from the beginning so I can order my thoughts. We had a field trip today visiting Citadelle Laferrière. We all stood around the guide as he made his presentation. Estelle and I had already been taken on a private tour with our parents a few weeks earlier by Tonton Gideon, the Minister of Culture. I was hardly paying attention as the guide droned on about cannon size and concrete. I’d learned it all before. The things our parents cared about in order: their lineage, their assets, their children. When all three swirled together into one bouillon like they did at the Citadelle, Maman and Papi made sure we paid attention. Papi was already back in Port-au-Prince, his role as Minister of Communication keeping him busy. When I was young enough to still love him, I’d watch as he would lean back in his chair and spin food shortages and riots into “slight agricultural setbacks” and “passionate gatherings.” No one in the country believed a word that came out of his office, but he kept the press releases coming, convinced that his time to lead would come soon. After all, he was a potential successor of the current president the way all Haitian cabinet members were. Now I could not think of him without thinking of Roseline.
“Does anyone know what year the Citadelle was completed?” the guide asked. There was a slight pause and then—
“Ei-ei-eight—”
I turned around to see a student about my age wearing the standard uniform colors of the all-boys private school a few miles down from our all-girls academy. He had smooth brown skin and a square jaw that vibrated with each attempt to spit out his words. The sun gleamed off the close crop of his dark hair. His gaze darted left and right as he struggled through his response.
“C-c-c-come on!” one of his classmates heckled. I knew which one.
“Nobody c-c-c-cares!”
“We don’t have all day, J-J-J-Jules!”
“Shut up! None of you even know the answer and it’s not like you have anything better to do at the moment. Let. Him. Finish,” I said, raising my voice above the taunting. They finally quieted down and I gave this Jules a reassuring nod as he finished. The answer was 1820.
At the end of the tour, we were dismissed for lunch. Even in the shuffle of students breaking into their respective cliques, I felt his gaze on me. I sat on the thick roots of a tree surrounded by grass, in the shade cast by the side of the towering fortress. It was the same tree Estelle had carved an obnoxious heart into when we had visited earlier.
He was halfway through his peanut butter sandwich by the looks of it when he worked up the nerve to tap me on the shoulder.
“Can I sit here?” he asked.
I shrugged and he lowered himself beside me.
I felt silly as I opened up my lunch bag next to his meager meal. He had another peanut butter sandwich and a water canister, while I had a conch salad, a potato salad sandwich, and sliced apples slathered in American peanut butter courtesy of our chef, Jacques. That morning, I’d had the same fruitless argument that I always did with my mother: Let Roseline come to school with us. Jacques doesn’t need her help.
It would’ve made it easier for the plan she developed the night before. But no matter. Roseline gave a nod to signal we would still see her at the designated time that afternoon.
“Can I have some of that?” I said, pointing at his second sandwich. “I haven’t had any real peanut butter in ages. My parents keep buying this American stuff, but it’s way too thick and doesn’t taste as good.” I pushed my small package of extra peanut butter and apples toward him. “I’ll trade you.”
He nodded again.
“You can talk, you know.”
“N-n-no. I c-c-can’t.”
“Don’t let them get to you like that.”
He shrugged.
“Have you ever tried a goat horn? They say if you fill one with water from the ocean and drink from it, it will cure your stutter.”
“Wh-who’s th-they?”
“It’s more of a she,” I amended. “My friend Roseline. She has a remedy for most things.” Except my father. “Anyway,” I said, pushing my thoughts far from me. I nudged him playfully with my shoulder, “those guys should be teasing you for knowing boring facts about this place, not your stutter.”
“I l-l-love the Citadelle... And history. It’s the m-map to where we’re h-headed.”
“I don’t know what to think of it.”
“Wh-why’s that?”
I looked at him sideways and, for no reason I can explain, leaned in. “I’m related to Henri Christophe. Plus, I'd rather be anywhere in the world besides Haiti. Redraw my map, if you will.”
“What—really? The C-Christophe?”
“The very one. I’m Celeste Dubois by the way.”
“Jules B-B-Beauparlant.”
I groaned, “Your last name literally means ‘good talker’ and you stutter? You d
efinitely have to try the goat horn.”
“M-maybe I w-will. I’ve tried e-e-everything e-else. What’s w-wrong with H-Haiti? You’re n-n-not exactly s-s-suffering.” He held up the plastic package pointedly.
“No, not exactly... But there are other ways to be unfulfilled.”
At that moment, I heard Estelle laughing as she made her way to where we sat. She had Andres Venegas in tow and my face let her know that, no, I still wasn’t going to “give him a chance.” He was the one who had set off the teasing from the other students. I had no idea what Estelle saw in him.
“Hey, sis!” she said to me as she wrapped her arms around Andres’s waist. “Andres and I are off to our adventure.”
“My guy! I didn’t realize you knew Celeste,” Andres said. “My bad.”
“Apologizing for mocking someone just because he knows your girlfriend’s sister isn’t a proper apology, Andres,” I said.
“It was just a joke about the scholarship kid, chérie,” Andres responded. “Estelle told me about the ceremony you’re doing. I’m down.”
I turned my glare onto my twin instead. Why would you invite Andres to this?
“B-b-better scholarship than sp-spoiled,” Jules said. “And th-that sounds like v-v-vodou to me.”
“It’s harmless, just our restavek, Roseline,” Estelle said. “Are you ready, Cel? We gotta go before they start the head count to get back on the bus.”
I carefully avoided eye contact with Jules, this stranger I suddenly felt the need to impress.
“She is my friend,” I interjected. Andres snorted and Estelle had the decency to elbow him in the stomach.
“I’m n-not sure th-th-that’s how it works,” Jules said evenly.
“You should meet her! She’ll probably really give you a goat horn,” I said.
Dear Haiti, Love Alaine Page 12