“He’s fourteen, Fran. I don’t want to helicopter him in that way. He’s a fourteen-year-old boy. He should be out having fun with his friends and goofing around and doing whatever it is fourteen-year-old boys do. He just shouldn’t have to worry about it being lethal. He should be allowed to be a boy for the few years of boyhood he has left.”
A sadness spreads across his face then, settles into his shoulders. Defeat. The realization that he could only protect us so much. Not from the big assaults nor the countless small indignities.
“We’re not safe here,” I say, my voice soft. “The way their politicians talk about immigrants, Fran… And these frightened, armed police… We’re not safe. Your kids are not safe.”
There’s a rustling by the living room, and I look back to see Leelou squeezing her little gray body out between the narrow opening in the sliding doors.
“Leelou! Back inside! Back insidenow!”
“Merde.” François rises to his feet, making his way toward the cat.
“You have to be careful with that door. We have coyotes.”
“I know.” He turns to look at me then, Leelou cradled in his arms. “I’m sorry about today, Cile. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help.”
XXXIII.STILL LIFE, WITH FLOWERS.
FLORIDA.
MARCH. 2016.
The kids and I spend spring break in Florida with my parents, while François stays behind for work. Our time there is slow and gentle. Late starts, lazy afternoons by the pool, puzzles and Boggle at night. After recent events, I find the pace appealing.
As promised, I shoot my mother’s portrait for the installation. We do it in the garage with a bedsheet as a backdrop and the doors rolled open for optimum light. I keep her hair and makeup to a minimum. Enough to hide any blemishes, but not so much that she does not look like herself. And for all her complaining about how old she’s become, she is surprisingly impressed with how lovely the tests look for such a simple setup.
“You really are very good at what you do, Cecilia,” she says, thirty minutes in. A smile on her regal face. “Maybe I don’t tell you enough.”
“Thank you, Mummy.”
Coming from her, this is everything.
Late one morning, midweek, when the kids are still in bed, I find her in the front garden, tending to her orchids. She’s wearing one of Andrew’sold Georgetown T-shirts, a pair of culottes. Who knew they still made those?
“I think the kids wanted to go to the beach today, but I might just let them sleep. What are you doing out here?”
She is fastening the roots of a phalaenopsis orchid to the trunk of a small palm tree. Wrapping them gently with twine.
“This is what I do with my orchids, now. I buy potted ones, and after the flowers fall off, I bring the plants out here and fasten them to a tree, and they thrive. We don’t have to water them or anything. They just blossom, and then they die, and then they come back.”
I take her in for a moment, the joy and wonder in her eyes, like a child. She almost vibrates as she points out the blooms throughout the cluster of palms. Fuchsia and ivory and golden yellow. A distinct look of pride paints her face. This is her happy place.
It is rare that I see my mother happy. Most often it’s in old photos: black and whites, blue-tinted color snapshots, my father’s slide collection from the ’60s and ’70s. She was at her most radiant then. Not because of her youth but because she seemed truly happier in her skin. Glowing in the Caribbean sun. Surrounded by her doting husband, friends, relatives, and a community in which her family had been part of the fabric for generations. The kind of community they don’t have here. The kind I could never have in Paris.
“Do you ever miss Jamaica, Mum?”
“Hmm?” She’s distracted, inspecting a petal. “No, not really. We go back often enough.”
“Not to visit, but to live. Do you ever miss your lives there?”
She shakes her head, no hesitation. “It’s not the same Jamaica. With both Mummy and Daddy gone, most of our friends moved away, and the family scattered, it doesn’t feel the same. Kingston doesn’t always feel safe. And living on the north coast would be too far from our friends there. Jamaica doesn’t have the same pull for me. Not for a while now.”
“But you and Daddy are still so Jamaican.”
“Yes, well… you carry that with you.” She scratches a mosquito bite on her forearm. “Do you feel fully French?”
“Not at all. But the longer I’m away, the less I feel American.Not that I’ve ever really felt American to begin with. Except when I’m in France or Jamaica, I guess. But coming back here has really made it apparent how much of an outsider I am. Like I’m living in limbo.”
“Well, yes, we are the sum of all our experiences.” She returns to securing the twine before moving on to another tree. “And all these little pieces of you make you stronger. Make you more adaptable and capable of existing in various places.”
