Dear Haiti, Love Alaine

by Maika Moulite

  I showered and quickly slipped into a high-neck floral dress I’d been dying to wear since I’d seen it in my mother’s closet. The hem reached a couple inches above my knee, the lightweight fabric floating out as I twirled in front of the mirror. My hair was styled in my signature twist-out, the fluffy strands coiled into themselves in a curly ’fro. I had already sent Tatiana a picture of my outfit, to which she responded, Fieeerce! I inspected my reflection one last time before heading downstairs, the buzz of conversation already rising up to where I stood at the top of the landing. There were at least a dozen people in the foyer greeting one another. Kisses planted on cheeks. Hands slapped on backs. I suddenly felt like an outsider intruding on an intimate family moment. I decided to quietly sneak back into my room, never to be seen again.

  This uncharacteristic shyness wasn’t me, but a houseful of relatives was foreign territory. I navigated easily enough when I was hanging out at Tatiana’s. They weren’t my people. I maintained a polite yet aloof distance in my mind even as I charmed them with my glowing personality. It was almost anthropological. Watch as the younger brother playfully grabs the remote from his sister. After a period of short observation, the sage maternal grandmother intercedes on her granddaughter’s behalf and calmly demands the item be returned.

  But this was different. I was as much a part of them as they were a part of me, whether we liked it or not. They were strangers—I would walk by them in a room without a trace of recognition—but our DNA tied us together. I came across an article during my research about a family in Colombia who all shared a mutated gene that caused Alzheimer’s. I doubted that was the case for us; I would’ve heard about it already. But reading about them reminded me that we didn’t have to know each other to share the same fate. Blood is blood.

  As I turned to leave, I spotted a photograph of an older woman placed above a hallway vase. I’d never noticed it before. She was tall, her bony shoulders held back with pride. Her gray-streaked hair cascaded to her shoulders and her lips were tilted in a knowing smile. Even with the gorgeous sapphire gown that she wore, I was drawn to her eyes; one was brown and the other green.

  I jumped when someone placed a hand on my back.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you. But I did mean to stop you from escaping,” my mom said with a laugh. She looked like a modern replica of the woman in the photograph. Wavy bob tucked behind an ear, navy wrap dress. Her long neck was accented with a simple diamond necklace.

  “Mom, you look amazing!” I gushed.

  “Cute dress,” she said, playfully tugging my neckline.

  “It’s yours.”

  “I have good style, then.”

  She linked her arm through mine as she guided me down the stairs. “That was my grandmother Natacha,” she said, referring to the photo. “She was...like me.”

  I nodded in understanding, recalling Mom’s own mother calling her “crazy.” I had yet to hear Mom verbalize her condition. But I guess she still had some coping to do. We made our rounds, my mother introducing me to the relatives who had come together for dinner, before stopping at a tall girl with bone-straight shoulder-length hair who looked my age.

  “This is your second cousin Félicité. Her mother, Bianca, and I are first cousins and grew up together. I’m sure you’ll be great friends while you’re both here.” My mother bent her cheek to receive Félicité’s kiss and went on her way to the kitchen.

  “Alaine, is it?” Félicité gave me the universal once-over, its meaning clear: unimpressed.

  “It’s my mom’s,” I said defensively, refusing to ignore the nonverbal slight.

  “I can tell. Very late eighties.” Her own dress was a white body-conscious midi. It was the kind of outfit I avoided if I were tucking in for a big, messy meal. I said as much.

  “I trust myself,” she said.

  Eye. Roll.

  The guest of honor had yet to arrive and everyone else had made their dramatic entrances earlier that evening. So when the doorbell rang one more time, the crowd hushed instinctively and turned to welcome the famed Jacinthe and her second husband, Yves. But the woman to walk in was not my grandmother. It was a very pregnant Roseline. I could sense it in the frosty reception she received, and from the look on my mother’s face where she stood in the family room. She had seen a ghost. I gasped.

  “I know,” Félicité said. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  I followed Félicité as she strolled over to the man who stood with Roseline, his hand clasped in hers. Roseline shook her wet umbrella near the front door before wiping her shoes carefully on the mat, as though to avoid making a mess for someone else to clean up.

  Though she wore an expensive floral maxi dress that confidently accentuated every curve, baby bump or otherwise, up close the sheen of sweat on her forehead and bottom lip she bit told another part of the story.

  “Ton Pierrot,” Félicité said to the man beside Roseline as she gave the air beside his face a quick peck and bumped his cheek with hers. “Roseline. Have you met Tati Celeste’s daughter? Annabelle, was it?”

  He barely noticed when I greeted him; nothing could tear his gaze away from Roseline for more than a moment at a time. I held my breath when I kissed Roseline’s cheeks and smiled tightly as her staring went on longer than was polite. Félicité, who had not kissed her, excused herself and made a beeline for the door, which had just opened again. I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

  “You must visit my home, Alaine. Oh yes, I know your name,” Roseline said softly before briefly rummaging through her purse and pressing a neatly folded piece of paper into my palm. “Please come. Soon.”

  I looked down and saw the beginnings of an address and slipped it into my bra to peruse later, since I had nowhere else to put it. Then I looked straight into the eyes of Medusa and turned to stone. Jacinthe, with a thick halo of silvery curls that circled her head like snakes, stretched her lips into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The physical similarities my mom and Tati Estelle shared with her were powerful: her bright skin, sharp nose, and wide lips. I wondered if they held any resemblance to Gregoire. I hadn’t found any pictures of him around the house; it was as if he’d never been there at all.

  “Is that my granddaughter over there with the help?”

  My jaw dropped while the adoring crowd of relatives around her roared as though she were the world’s best stand-up comedian.

  “Is that a real question?” I asked.

  “You’re too pretty to look so serious,” she said disapprovingly. “That’s how we joke here. And she’s family now. What a blessing.” My grandmother looked meaningfully at Roseline’s stomach.

  Roseline’s hand went to her middle. She opened her mouth as if to say something but apparently thought better of it and drifted away to the kitchen, where Tati Estelle stood, instead.

  “Do you remember me, Alaine?” Yves, my step-grandfather who had watched our verbal tennis match wordlessly, saw his opening to defuse the situation and took it. I had met him and Jacinthe two short times before, on their visits to the States. Each meeting had been perfunctory and awkward.

  “Ah, yes, she was always more comfortable in the kitchen,” Jacinthe said lightly. Cruella de Vil the Wicked Witch of the West, East, North, and South Regina George She refused to back down. Goose bumps sprang up all along my arms. Was this lady for real?

  “Time for dinner!” The twin voices of my mother and aunt rang throughout the tense room. They glanced at each other as if not quite surprised but grateful they’d had the same thought.

  I made my way to the dining room, where there were already thick place cards on the long mahogany table for each guest. I suddenly yearned for the simple meals my dad and I shared in front of the television, yelling out answers to Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. (We pretty much yelled at the television whenever we watched it together.) I was unsurprised to find myself assigned to one end o
f the table, with Félicité to my right and a middle-aged man with very dark leathery skin to my left. I mused about how rude it would be to ignore my cousin when—

  “I’m bored. I’m going to get you up to speed on CFG,” she said.

  “CFG?”

  “Christophe Family Gossip.” She grinned. “None of us have that last name anymore, but that’s who we’ve all got in common.”

  By the time we got to dessert, I was well versed in the juiciest happenings of House Christophe. A cousin Jean-Paul was dating a Dominican girl (“Out of all the women in Haiti...”). A great-aunt Cléophanie remained unmarried in her sixty-third year but lived with a longtime female “companion.” A Tonton Ronel (who wasn’t really an uncle, anyway) was on to bride four and baby ten (“Total...how do you say...creep?”). Félicité was diving into her world of zuzu girls (glamorous young women who lived in Pétion-Ville and relied on family wealth to fund their expensive habits) when the man to my left gently tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me, mademoiselle,” he said. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but can you please pass me the butter?”

  Félicité must have decided that he was too beneath her to interact with, because she was already chatting with the young man who sat on the other side of her.

  “Don’t worry,” I said as I handed him the dish. “You’ve actually saved my ears from falling off.”

  He smiled politely and looked over to my cousin as she talked and talked. And talked. The poor guy was already looking around for an escape.

  “What did you do wrong to get placed at the ‘kids’ end of the table?” I asked.

  “Wrong?” He laughed. “I’m happy to have been invited at all! I’ve been selling peanut butter to this family for as long as I can remember. It’s an honor to be here.”

  “Wait... Selling peanut butter? Are you the Tony Juste?”

  His chest puffed up with pride.

  “I almost killed a boy at school because of you!”

  “Um...excuse me?” he said, his delight quickly turning into confusion.

  “I mean, I was eating a delicious sandwich that my dad made with your peanut butter. It just so happened that a boy in my class is allergic. He’s fine now,” I added.

  Tony let out a sigh of relief. “I’m happy to hear that he’s okay. And that you enjoyed the peanut butter.”

  “Definitely! I’m probably your biggest customer. I’m Alaine by the way.”

  “Alaine! Estelle’s niece. I should’ve known. I can see your family resemblance.”

  Just as I started to respond, Yves cleared his throat to get the room’s attention. He stood at the head of the table, while my grandmother Jacinthe sat to the right of him with a small tiara Tati Estelle had presented to her upon reaching the dining room.

  “I’d like to wish my beautiful wife a happy birthday,” Yves said to applause. “Thanks to our hard work and dedication, we’ve had everything we’ve ever dreamed of. Now we can enjoy watching our darling Estelle follow in our footsteps building this country up...and Celeste as well.”

  I gripped my silverware and glanced at my mother, seated a few seats away, who had either ignored or hadn’t heard the clumsy declaration. She appeared to be almost in a trance. Cousines Emilie and Rebecca sat across from me and cheered. They were a few years older and, according to Félicité, the epitome of zuzu girls. They spoke Creole in the singsong lilt of women who liked to pretend they were speaking French even when they weren’t: meeerci beaucoooup instead of mèsi anpil. My mom’s uncle Emmanuel, notable for wearing more jewelry than even Thierry, rapped his knuckles on the table. He’d kissed my hand when he met me, eyes twinkling as brightly as his bedazzled wrists and neck.

  The only other person to not react was Roseline.

  I was still staring at her intently when Félicité caught my gaze. She told me that Roseline had started working at Pierrot’s family’s house for money soon after she’d left the Dubois home. Jacinthe had gone to her cousin Farah, Pierrot’s mom, and begged her to fire her, but because Roseline’s work ethic was “legendary,” Farah kept her on anyway. The joke was on Farah though because her son and Roseline fell in love. And when the family refused to approve their relationship, they got hitched anyway. They were the happiest people at the table.

  “Now she’s pregnant at a million years old,” Félicité sneered. I glanced over at my mom and Tati Estelle, who were in deep conversation. Mom shook her head again.

  “What a blessing,” Tony said with a smile even when it was clear that he didn’t approve of Félicité’s endless gossiping. There was no ignoring her when she spoke, since she insisted on talking so loudly. “My family isn’t as large, so I love to see how this one continues to grow. We should appreciate such things, no matter how they come.”

  Félicité opened her mouth to make what I was sure would be a snide remark. The last thing I wanted was to get her started again, so I cut her off. “I’m actually new to the big family thing myself,” I said. “And I’d kill to look half as good when I’m a million.”

  Finally, the cake was brought out, one candle placed on top. It was my aunt’s turn to tap the side of her glass and draw everyone’s attention to her. She stood, pulling my mom up with her for a toast.

  “To our mother,” she began. “Maman, you are the epitome of class and an amazing woman. We wish you many more years of happiness and good health.”

  Everyone cheered in agreement, but my mom wavered. She placed both hands on the table for support, her head hanging low.

  She must’ve had one too many. I smirked at the thought of my mother letting loose after a few drinks. I wouldn’t have blamed her either, with these relatives. But when she looked up from where she’d been staring at the place mat, the smile slid from my face faster than the champagne flute she smashed on the floor. Glass tinkled and clattered at her feet.

  “I hate it here!” my mom shouted, silencing everyone. “All you people and your fake smiles and empty well-wishes. Watch, I’m going to leave this stupid place and you’ll never see me again!” She trained her gaze on each person in the room and stopped at Roseline a beat longer than anyone else. When she turned to me, I stood up. But her gaze moved on.

  “And you,” she spat at my grandmother. “How could you let him stay here after learning what he did to her?”

  Jacinthe let out a sob. “Stop!”

  “Mom!” I shouted as I rushed to her side and placed my hand firmly on her arm. Mom’s shoulders sagged, and she started coming to as she looked around at our shocked expressions.

  “Enjoy the tarte,” she said and ran from the table.

  * * *

  * * *

  In the age of microwaves and Wi-Fi, electric cars and face transplants, my rational side told me that we didn’t have space for family curses to exist. Still, my grandmother’s words from the diary had stayed with me and I could not forget what I’d read: Yours is coming. Your name may be Dubois, but that Christophe blood runs in you too. Maybe my mom’s had arrived in the form of “amyloid plaques” depositing in the gaps between nerve cells and “neurofibrillary tangles” folding into themselves in those very same neurons. What researchers called a “genetic predisposition for Alzheimer’s” could really just be a promise that had lain dormant in her until something, anything, called it out to be fulfilled. While those brains cells would eventually stop communicating with each other and die, the madichon spoke clearly through Mom’s outburst at dinner: I’ve got her.

  If I waited, “mine” would creep up one way or another as well. It just needed time. I hated myself for starting to believe it. Throughout the night, the snippets of conversation I heard stayed on this shared family curse. Nancy can’t have dairy because the curse is sooo far-reaching. Jean dropped the fork on the floor and it stubbed his toe? The curse was to blame. Bianca’s car accident? C-u-r-s-e.

  That ceremony. It didn’t se
em like they had done it right... In the forest, Tati Estelle had hesitated. She hadn’t really drunk from the bottle of rum either. Maybe the family needed a do-over... In my mother’s diary entry, Roseline had said that a curse could be countered with something else, like taking over another person’s mortgage and putting it under a different name. I had nothing to lose meeting with Roseline. I needed to learn more about what had caused this supposed curse in the first place and what it really meant for us centuries later.

  I decided then. I was going to look into taking over my mom’s debt.

  PART IV

  ISTWA SE YON KONPA SI OU JIS KONNEN KI JAN POU LI LI

  (HISTORY IS A COMPASS IF YOU JUST KNOW HOW TO READ IT)

  Monday, February 8

  The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant

  Dear Sister Wagner,

  Shhh. Don’t speak. I know just what you’re thinking.

  (It’s a gift.

  And a curse.)

  Which leads me to what’s on your mind, and I’ll be honest, what was on my mind at first too: Alaine, are you seriously pursuing this whole curse angle? Do you, like, really, really, really have nothing better to do with your time? Do not enough people think you’re certifiably insane1? What’s next, investigating the moon landing?

  If I may. You’re not asking the right questions. What have I got to lose? The sad truth is that I’m already losing my mother. Whether I sit down and accept her diagnosis or not, each day that goes by is one less with her. That terrifies me. She’s not perfect but she’s mine, and she’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. I dream of being as passionate about something as she is about her work. These days, I cry into my pillow, imagining a future where I won’t have her around to disappoint. I always figured we would get closer when I got older and more mature. Now I’m not sure she’ll be around to see me hit thirty (the age when presumably all juvenile problems melt away and peak human-hood is reached).