“When is it?”
“This Saturday. Sorry.” He grimaced. “I would’ve asked you sooner, but I’ve been avoiding reality and telling myself I didn’t have to go. I couldn’t come up with a good enough reason to give my family, so I’m stuck getting a tux.”
Images of me in a pretty dress and fluffy, puffy hair vaporized into thin air. My heart sank.
“I’d love to protect you from your family, but I’m being dragged to my own wedding this Saturday. Some friend of my aunt,” I said.
“Wait... Is this at Sans-Souci?”
“Yes!”
“Should’ve known.”
“Why?”
“It is a fact universally acknowledged that all bougie black people know each other,” he stated matter-of-factly.
Saturday, March 5
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
Unlike Jason, I wasn’t really being forced to attend this wedding. When my aunt mentioned she’d be going to the Sans-Souci Palace with my mom, I jumped at the chance to come with them. It was next on my bucket [of dirt] list.
“It’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site,” I said. “I’d really like my time here to be fun but also educational. I have so much to learn about my culture.”
“Someone’s laying it on thick,” my aunt observed. “It’s so last minute...”
I gave her a skeptical look. “I wouldn’t be the first party crasher in the history of weddings. You know there’s an uninvited guest provisional budget wrapped into all that planning.”
Later on, I texted Tati Estelle the real impetus for the visit: some good ol’-fashioned curse-breaking. I still didn’t know what the endgame was with these collections, but she was on board once I told her.
So that is how I, my aunt, mother, and father (Tati Estelle: What the hell, you might as well come too!) climbed into the SUV in our finest formal wear and embarked on our way to Milot. I told Jason I would meet him there, but the mood in the car had me strongly questioning my choice. The ride was as awkward as you could imagine it would be (squared). Fernand, the driver, must have found it unbearable too and turned on the radio. A popular konpa song punctuated the air.
Ma chérie, mi amor, my love.
“So, how’s the practice, Jules?” Tati Estelle asked.
“Good, good. I’ve been working in the emergency room in my free time with Alaine being away,” he said. “The hospital can always use more consulting physicians for psych evals. Plus, it’s more action than the suburban ennui I usually get in my office...but don’t tell my patients that!” My dad had gone into group private practice to have more time for me after he and my mom divorced, and he’d cut down his hours moonlighting in the ER for extra cash. The head partner wanted to leave him in charge when she retired and I’d encouraged him to accept the position after he warned he’d be available even less. I could take care of myself by then.
Why can’t we just let it gooo?
“Like there aren’t emergency rooms in the DMV area,” Mom scoffed.
“It wasn’t that simple, Celeste,” he said.
Somehow be together again.
“You’re just jealous!” she spat. “You can be a doctor anywhere. DC is the pinnacle for my career.”
I will never, ever forget you.
“No, no, no,” Dad muttered to himself. “I’m not doing this.”
But it breaks my heart to be near you...
“Doing...what?” I asked.
“Reenacting an argument I had twenty years ago.”
We listened to the radio in silence for the rest of the car ride.
Running list of people that my parents have dated
since divorcing (the ones I’ve known about anyway)
Mom Dad
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
I didn’t know where to look first. People in all black held up signs with arrows, pointing to where we were meant to pull up. There were already rows and rows of parked cars in varying levels of shininess and Europeanness.
“Follow here,” a man in a stiff vest said, guiding us toward a path we could walk to enter the structure. It was the most beautiful crumbling building. There was an earthquake in 1842, long before 12 janvier, that brought down Sans-Souci’s walls and the surrounding areas of Cap-Haïtien. The people never rebuilt it. Fitting, considering Henri Christophe forced the by-then freed Haitians into slavery to construct it against their will in the first place.
The fairy lights hanging from the columns and lining the cobblestones cast the palace in an eerie yellow glow. In my research I’d read that the palace had once been considered the Versailles of the Caribbean, and its residents had hosted countless parties and socials. Though it stood in ruins now, I could imagine this place alive with energy, buzzing with the uppity spirit of Haitians who came before us.
My aunt placed us in the third row of the bride’s section of the audience, then slipped away to hobnob with the other guests milling around. I scanned the seats for Jason but couldn’t find him. I turned to my parents, who had not spoken much since their exchange in the car.
“I’m sorry for upsetting you,” my dad said.
“No need to apologize,” my mom said. “Or rehash decades-old conversations. It’s always a jolt when I realize where I’ve gone.”
“Have these...fugues been coming on more often lately?”
“Are you treating me like a patient or something else?”
“A friend. I swear.” My dad lifted two fingers in salute.
“A few nights ago, I was my old self. I felt it in my bones. I’ve been walking through a fog for what seems like years now...but I was soaking some sweet potatoes to make pain patate and my mind felt ten pounds lighter. Right there in that kitchen, I remembered things I hadn’t realized I’d forgotten.”
“Does that happen? Going in and out?” I asked my dad. My heart thumped as I realized the meaning of my mother’s words. Me visiting Bois Caïman had to be behind her improvement, even if it was just for a moment. I know correlation doesn’t always mean causation, but...what else could it be? I was doing the right thing. I had to keep going.
“There are better days than others with Alzheimer’s,” he said, frowning. “I’ve never heard it described that way, but I suppose anything is possible.”
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
The wedding was on time by Haitian standards—that is to say, the ceremony began at 7:03 p.m., just an hour behind schedule. My parents went on to speak cordially about a range of topics, including me (fine), me and school (on a quick drop-off of garlic and rosemary focaccia at school before his trip, Dad ran into Sister Pollack, who reported being thrilled with how well I was doing volunteering in Haiti, away from her sensitive students), me and college (admission decisions would be coming any day), and me and Jason (just friends, that’s all, gosh). My mom was just getting into how she was trying (and failing) to teach me her black mushroom rice recipe when the classical music playing gently in the background increased in volume, leading everyone to take their seats. Tati Estelle landed in her chair, looking flushed. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.
“What’d I miss?” she asked, plunking down a clam-shaped purse identical to the one I carried on the seat beside her.
Before any of us had a chance to answer, the wedding party began their walk down the aisle. The eight pairs of groomsmen and bridesmaids took a step forward, then backward, then two steps forward, all in rhythm with a young woman singing in the front with the band. She crooned Celine Dion, rejoicing that a new day had, in fact, come. I wondered lazily how long it had taken to get the choreography down. When the final groomsman paused at our row, I gasped. Senator Andres Venegas glanced in my direction before his gaze rested on my mother. He smiled. I grabbed her left hand, just in case she intended to get up, and notice
d my father did the same with her right. She shrugged us off, balling her fists before neatly folding them on her lap.
“I’m fine,” she whispered.
Tati Estelle stared straight ahead, ignoring us and the nearby guests who noticed our movements. And then he was off with his partner, moving forward, then back, then two steps forward again all the way to where the priest and the rest of the party waited. We stood when the trumpets announced the bride’s entrance. She was gorgeous in a strapless dark ivory lace gown with a black veil and black side panels, and just like that, everyone fixed their scandalized ogling on her instead of my mother.
SELECTED ENTRIES FROM THE #CALIXTEDITSOHUMBERTPRISCILLARENECHARLESONIT WEDDING (NOT MY FIRST CHOICE IN HASHTAGS EITHER, BUT NOBODY ASKED ME)
Brandon Larue | 1h
This is already the best wedding I’ve ever been to and it hasn’t started yet #SansSouci #CalixtedItSoHumbertPriscillAReneCharlesOnIt
Leonette Roquefort | 1h
Do they really expect me to properly spell #CalixtedItSoHumbertPriscillAReneCharlesOnIt each time???
Marc Sanon | 1h
Open bar + ridiculous hashtag = ultimate fail #CalixtedItSoHumbertPriscillAReneCharlesOnIt
Nina Jesula | 2h
Are we about to see some #drama ...... #CalixtedItSoHumbertPriscillAReneCharlesOnIt
Félicité Roquefort | 2h
The bride. is. wearing. black. #SJPregrets #RIPmarriage #CalixtedItSoHumbertPriscillAReneCharlesOnIt
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
“Estelle! Look at you!” A woman in a midlength rose-print dress shouted from where she stood with three other women. They were drinking champagne from long clear flutes and standing around one of the small cocktail tables placed in front of the palace, looking very Real Housewives of Haitian Hills. There were already a few empty glasses on the table. “Why didn’t we see you up there?”
“I’m too old to be a bridesmaid, Ophelia,” Tati Estelle answered.
“Of course you’re not,” Ophelia replied. “You have to tell us about that wedding dress.”
Tati Estelle turned to my mother.
“I can’t deal with them right now. Go ahead,” Mom said as she linked arms with Dad. “I’ve got company.”
Dad coughed nervously.
“Come over anytime you’d like!” Tati Estelle said, walking toward her friends. I warily observed my father, who was in turn peeking at my mother. I made a cheesy joke to break the tension.
“Is anyone going to explain why this place is called ‘Without Eyebrows’?” I said.
Mom sucked her teeth.
“That is sans sourcils. Sans-Souci means ‘carefree,’” Dad said. He didn’t smile. He did not pass go. He did not collect two hundred dollars.
In need of your buffering services, stat.
I silently cheered at the text message that popped onto my screen. Jason FTW.
“If you don’t need me and aren’t going to humor me and my winsome personality, I’m going to look around,” I said.
“Don’t cause a scene,” Dad said.
“Don’t touch anything,” Mom said.
“My ten-year-old self thanks you for the life skills and manners, monsieur and madame,” I said and headed toward the large appetizer table, which was covered in glorious meat patties, conch fritters, and deviled eggs. I tapped on Jason’s back to get his attention and he nearly choked on his toothpick of prosciutto-wrapped melon.
“Alaine,” he said and let out a low whistle.
“My sentiments exactly,” I joked, half twirling in my structured gold evening gown. Mom’s closet didn’t quit. I looked like an Oscars statue.
“I wanted you to deflect any personal questions, not make everyone jealous,” he said.
“One and the same, my friend. And I don’t see anyone here that I need to protect you from.”
“I just snuck away...but I still wanted to see you,” he said sheepishly. I had never been more grateful to have melanin to conceal my blushing.
“So was the bride’s side of the family as outraged by the black fabric as the groom’s?” he asked.
“I think they were happier she was finally getting remarried and would stop ‘living in sin,’” I said. “Plus, my aunt said she had to talk Priscilla out of dressing completely in black for ‘giving in to the patriarchy again.’ The side panels were a compromise.”
“Estelle Dubois—ministry official, app developer, crisis manager,” he said. “How do they know each other?”
“College roomies,” I said. “This is Priscilla’s second marriage and she didn’t want to deal with all the pomp and circumstance, but my aunt talked her into that too. Can’t say no to a party.”
“Humbert’s my mom’s older cousin’s son,” he said. “They were freaking out in the back because they couldn’t find Andres Venegas, who I’m sure you noticed is one of the groomsmen. I was almost forced to walk in his place.”
“Yeah, that was unexpected... I hadn’t realized he was going to be here,” I said. “I’m pretty sure my mom wouldn’t have shown up if she’d known.”
“They were all old friends back in the day, weren’t they? Maybe they wanted a reunion,” Jason said.
“Or Venegas wanted lots of pictures of him at a high-society Haitian wedding to get around so his poll numbers go up in North Miami and Little Haiti.”
“That too.”
By then, we had claimed one of the tables for ourselves and were grinning goofily at each other while grazing through our pile of food and waiting for the cocktail hour to be over to head for the reception tent. I angled my head to where my parents stood at their own table, sharing a plate of guava pastries and cheese. Jason turned to see what had caught my attention.
“Don’t mind me,” I said. “I’m just doing the child-of-divorced-parents thing where I observe their every interaction to jot down and analyze in my journal later.”
“I used to do that,” he said. “Then I realized my folks were better apart and I stopped sweating them.”
“I’m not trying to Parent Trap them or anything. Their relationship has always erred on the side of cordially irritated, which is fine by me,” I said. “But ever since my mom got sick and my dad arrived in Haiti a few days ago, they’ve been either really into each other or super annoyed.”
“My parents never went through that,” he said. “My mom’s been consistently aggravated with my dad since I was eight.”
“What happened when you were eight?”
“She caught him cheating with his assistant,” he said.
My jaw dropped.
“It’s fine.” He shrugged. “He’s now married to said assistant and my mom’s married to my stepfather, who’s a great guy.”
Before I could ask more about his family (a group of people with more drama than mine perchance?), a man in a purple velvet jacket clinked a glass.
“The reception area is now ready. Please follow me.”
I dabbed my mouth with a napkin and quickly opened my clamshell purse to apply my lip balm. Then the stupid tube wouldn’t fit back in the purse. And because I live in a romantic comedy, all of the contents bounced out and onto the ground. I crouched down, hoping to keep my dress clean. Jason scrounged around with me, picking up a hair tie here, a package of blotting paper there.
“Here you go,” Jason said, handing me a tampon. I took it from him quickly. He kept staring as he helped me up.
“What?” I asked him nervously. I snapped my bag shut.
“Did I mention how beautiful you look tonight?”
My neck grew hot. Melanin to the rescue!
“You look pretty great yourself,” I said. He just smiled.
Jason placed his hand on my lower back and steered us toward the “youth table.” I concentrated on not tripping in my strappy gold heeled s
andals. We slid into our seats and introduced ourselves to the people nearest us. There was my dearest cousin Félicité, her younger sister and doppelgänger, Leonette, and Jason’s cousin Marc, a handsome guy around my age with closely cropped hair and blindingly white teeth, who gave Jason a nod and wink when we sat down. Before we could dig into any more conversation, the music started.
“Introducing our favorite newlyweds of the night, Mr. Humbert Calixte and Mrs. Priscilla Rene-Charles!” We were all on our feet again, shouting and clapping to welcome the brand-new couple. They sashayed around the tables, to the tune of Starship’s “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now,” pausing and pointing occasionally at each other from across the tables. They reunited at the front on the elevated stage and kissed. “Single Ladies” blasted. The crowd roared. Someone complained loudly about the hashtag. Priscilla squeezed Humbert’s hand and lifted it up like a prizefighter in victory and I laughed along with everyone else. I’d never met her, or Humbert for that matter, but it wasn’t hard to feel the love in their glances at one another and wish them well.
They weren’t exactly a typical zuzu couple. Tati Estelle had given me the highlights when I said I was coming to her friend’s (and lawyer on retainer’s) wedding. After graduating from L’Université d’État d’Haïti with my aunt, Priscilla went on to Harvard Law before coming home to represent poor rural women in pro bono cases. Her latest project was representing dozens of mothers in a class-action lawsuit against UN peacekeepers who impregnated them when visiting their villages and provided no support. Humbert, according to Jason, was the son of Cap-Haïtien’s mayor and ran a medical clinic in Cité Soleil, the poorest slum in Port-au-Prince. They chose to get married in Sans-Souci because of their family ties but already owned a home together in Pétion-Ville.
“Can you believe Priscilla got married here the first time?” Leonette said as she sucked up the final dregs from her wine. She tipped back the glass and chomped on an ice cube.
Dear Haiti, Love Alaine Page 22