Still no sign of her.
CeCe set the bouquet on the scuffed dining table surrounded by mismatched chairs.
That’s when she noticed the album.
Her pulse fluttered. Hesitantly, she took a seat and flipped through the faded photos stuffed into shiny plastic sleeves.
Snapshots of happy memories.
Her parents, young and smiling against the backdrop of a pristine white sand beach. Mama wore a Blue Mahoe tucked behind her ear. Her father held her around the waist proudly, as if he knew he’d landed the most amazing woman in the world.
Mama, barefoot and beaming in front of their home, a brightly colored muumuu stretched across her round belly. She must’ve been eight or nine months pregnant.
CeCe, as an infant, her chubby hand curled around her father’s finger.
CeCe’s eyes stung as she studied the image. Her father’s features radiated love and adoration, his gaze fixed intently on her pudgy little face, as if nothing else in the universe existed.
A tightness crept from her chest to her throat, making it hard to breathe.
More photos stared back at her.
Their first fishing trip. The time they’d baked beignets and he’d put her in charge of the powdered sugar—to disastrous yet comical results. Their pretend archeological dig in the garden, much to Mama’s dismay.
These images, the hazy recollections, conflicted with others she’d held even more closely.
The countless Christmases he hadn’t come home. All the birthdays he’d missed. Her high school graduation, when he’dwatched her receive her diploma but caught a flight to Egypt before the celebratory dinner.
The photos in front of her depicted a loving, doting,presentfather. But her own memories told a different story. They revealed a man who had more pressing priorities than being present.
In her pain and resentment, she’d chosen that version of her father—the one who didn’t spend enough time with his family—over the man in the photos. Perhaps because it hurt less than to try to understand how he could love them and still choose to leave.
CeCe jumped at the creaking of the screen door. She quickly dried her eyes as Mama came in from the back porch, a basket of fresh herbs slung over her arm.
Her mother’s gaze fell to the photo album, then back to CeCe’s tear-streaked face. She opened her mouth to speak, but CeCe beat her to it.
“I’m so sorry.” She scrambled to her feet, her entire being exhausted from the weight of her bitter, long-buried burden. “I’m so sorry for what I said last night. There were a million better ways to handle that conversation. I let my feelings take control of my words. I wasn’t kind. Or understanding. I lashed out at you, and that was wrong.”
Her voice cracked, choked by emotion, by all the disjointed thoughts crashing together in her mind. “I’ve spent my whole life viewing my relationship with Dad in terms of black and white, right and wrong. I wanted the situation to be straightforward and uncomplicated, so I could hold on to my anger. Because anger was easier.” Easier than what? Easier than talking to him, than facing a more complicated truth? She let the tears fall freely now, too off-balance and confused to bother wiping them away. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say other than I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you. You’re the most important person in my—”
“Ma chouquette.” Her mother dropped the basket at her feet, rushing to embrace her. Holding her close, she cooed soft affirmations, stroking her hair as if she were five years old again while they cried together. “I’msorry, my sweet girl. For not seeing how deeply this affected you. For not talking to you. For notlisteningto you. I thought I was being strong by—” Her voice broke with the strain of a rising sob, and CeCe couldn’t bear it.
“It’s all right, Mama. We can talk about it later. I just want to know that everything is okay between us.”
“Always.” Her mother pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
Sniffling, CeCe pulled back and attempted a smile. “I have something that might cheer you up.” She stepped to the side, granting a full view of the flowers on the table. There would be time to dissect the deeper issues later. At least now, a dialogue had been opened. But for the moment, she simply wanted a chance to breathe and rest in their reconciliation.
Her mother’s teary eyes brightened at the sight of the exotic blooms. “Blue Mahoe? How did you—?”
“I didn’t. Jayce did. He knew I wanted to apologize, but didn’t know how to take the first step. You know, since we so rarely fight.” She grinned, offering some levity.
“That boy always did know the way to my heart.” Smiling, Mama buried her face in the fragrant petals. When she’d finally had her fill of the sweet scent, she straightened, her features suddenly somber. “I still can’t condone what you two are doing. And I won’t lie for you. But I won’t get in the way, either. If questioned, I’ll stick with ‘no comment.’ Or answer in a way that’s truthful, without revealing your secret.”
“Wh-why?” As much as she’d hoped for the impossible, CeCe hadn’t expected her mother to change her mind so quickly.
Her mother caressed the crimson petals, answering her question with one of her own. “Did you know the Blue Mahoe is the national tree of Jamaica?”
“Of course.” CeCe frowned, confused by her mother’s change in topic. She’d made sure her daughter learned all about her heritage at a young age.
