My father’s last words were to my sister-in-law Melanie. “Take care of Larry,” he told her. Soon after, he took a turn for the worse, and it wasn’t just to see if he uttered our own names that we spent those final hours hovering at his bedside, but it would be a lie to say we weren’t listening. The fact was, if he had instructed my husband, Bill, to take care of me, I would have considered it another sign that I required particular vigilance, which was a widespread belief in my family. As it happened, he never said another word between his caution to Melanie and his last breath.
We hadn’t really thought of Larry as his favorite, although he was the only boy out of the four of us. He’d done well for himself, having become a corporate lawyer and won the charming and beautiful Melanie as his wife. If anything, we thought my father favored Melanie over the rest of us girls, but maybe that was just because she was new.
But we were grown now, and we grieved him as adults, remembering his unwavering faith in God and the Church, his compassion for those upon whom luck had frowned. Then, after our informal tributes and the formal eulogies, we reminisced about his devotion to identifying what needed correcting. The Church for instance: it allowed meat on Fridays now – a change to which he seemed to have resigned himself without too much anguish but about which he complained with obvious pleasure. Also, mass was in English now, and worst of all, guitars accompanied some of the hymns. “An abomination,” he called it.
We recalled his enthusiasm for improving us by pointing out our flaws.
“I was the bossy one,” Sheri recalled. “As if mom could have handled you three alone. Ha! Without me bossing you around you’d all be living in shame and degradation.” This was a state Dad had often warned us of.
“So right,” Larry said.
“God,” Jocelyn said. “I was too trusting? That’s what he always said. Like I didn’t learn to expect the worst from you guys every day of my childhood.”
“We did get you quite a few times, though,” Sheri said. We all thought silently about a first date and a water balloon dropped from above. Jocelyn tried to laugh, but it came out “huh.”
“Larry, what was your flaw? Too full of yourself, right?”
“Oh, yeah, that was one of my problems. Also, I was supposed to be more protective of you girls. Not sure what he wanted from me exactly. Beat up your boyfriends if they went too far?” The brothers-in-law laughed, but not like it was funny.
“And Kelly…” Sheri said.
“Scatterbrain!” they all chorused. My turn to dredge up a humorless laugh. They went on to annoyingly enumerate all the things I had lost – money, musical instruments, cars – and the things I’d forgotten, like switching from slippers to shoes before going to my teaching job. There was much hilarity as they reminisced about the beautifully wrapped empty box I’d given Mom for Christmas one year, having forgotten to insert the gift.
I noticed Melanie, sitting next to Larry with an amused smile and sad eyes. She didn’t mention it anymore, but as bad as we made things sound, she envied our little army of four, having been an only child.
My personal opinion was that with my father’s exposition, these flaws, rather than diminishing, swelled and hardened in us, cemented by their weaponization in our sibling spats, and were scabbed over and absorbed into our identities. No matter how many responsible deeds I did, I would always be the ditzy one.
Overall, though, he was a good dad. He listened to us, and he saw us as people. One evening at dinner, he declared my views about eliminating poverty to be childish, so I read news articles devoutly for weeks, maybe months, to coax my understanding into maturity. I came back to the table and made my revised case, and when he questioned me, the pride in his half-smile and the seriousness of his voice seemed to move me a few steps closer to the enchanted state of adulthood. His rare compliments--on a good play in a soccer game, or something a teacher said in a conference--we drank in like an elixir, strengthening ourselves.
The effects of his death didn’t fit into words for us. We expressed it in the way we sought each other out, like blind puppies, drawn to our mother’s house, hungry for sustenance. Our mother would hug us, start to wash the dishes or sweep, and sit down, staring at the table and wiping her eyes; she seemed to be using all her energy to swim away from some drain that would swallow her whole and forever. We tried to throw her emotional lifesavers, to keep her afloat: hugs, encouraging whispers, funny stories about our children. To pin our hopes for comfort on her was fruitless, and invoked a kind of low-key despair. We did the best we could, and looked to one another for consolation.
Like a foghorn in a directionless storm, Melanie guided us.
To be truthful, some of us have struggled to accept Melanie into the family since Larry married her four years ago. She’s very earnest; well-meaning in a way that a pillow embroidered with “Live, Laugh, Love” is well-meaning; as if you needed a reminder not to “Die, Cry, Hate.” Anyway, she confidently assured us we’d meet him again in heaven – something I, and I suspected at least a couple others, had serious doubts about – and had us praying and singing hymns, which was embarrassing and something we would never have done on our own, but comforting in its way. She was like an event planner, where the event was our father’s death.
It was also Melanie’s suggestion, a week after we laid my father in the ground, to take a healing family trip to Hawaii. It sounded like a good idea, although I had some reservations. They say you’ll never regret the things you did, only the things you didn’t do, but doing this particular thing seemed rife with opportunities for regrets. We did it anyway.
The family was unwieldy – four couples, five children--one of them ours--and my mom – so it took a few weeks to organize, but we finally nailed it down, nine days in June. Larry paid mom’s way, since our dad’s special flaw was not being a great provider. It all came together, Melanie insisted, through the power of prayer. Well, I needed the power of something for this trip: Bill and I were in a tough place.
We had tried for three years to conceive a child, without success. Melanie had attempted to comfort me by saying maybe it wasn’t in God’s plan for us to have a child right now, as if God was Amazon and we didn’t have Prime. She’d named her and Larry’s little girl Angelica.
We decided to adopt. We wanted to make a home with a little one who really needed one, so we went through a county program and were paired up with a two-year-old girl named Amaya. Suddenly, our measured life burst out of its container: noise, needs and discoveries filled our house. No one had told us what a joyful, savage, tedious thing parenthood would be: a holy thing, despite the tediousness, or maybe because of it. If they did tell us, we didn’t understand it, until Amaya came to us. We had Amaya because her birth mother had not, in the eighteen months the authorities gave her, been able to stop using heroin.
Although she was also new, she wasn’t welcomed by my father quite the way Melanie had been, maybe because of her mahogany skin and unruly tangle of black hair. I know in time he would have fallen in love with her, but we didn’t get that time. I didn’t have to think about it too much, though, because the rest of the family adored her. We hadn’t planned on having a child who was just four months younger than Melanie’s Angelica, but that’s what we got, and we loved that they would be cousins.
No one who’s ever worried about sitting near a screaming child on a plane could possibly imagine how bad it was to be with us on that plane to Hawaii. While Angelica played on her tablet and ate raw carrots and broccoli, Amaya struggled ceaselessly to escape, expressed her displeasure with her heartiest shriek, and used her tablet to whack the man in front of us. For three tense hours she cried, and when she finally could no longer maintain the full measure of her outrage, she collapsed into sleep. In the sudden quiet, I felt everyone in the plane exhale. An hour later she woke up, smiled and reached for me. And I couldn’t even pick her up, because I couldn’t face trying to wrangle her back into her seat for the landing. So we had more crying, not as loud this time, with some blessed silences when Bill and I fed her an unprecedented number of cookies.
“The screaming is actually a good sign,” I told my family as we waited for our luggage. They didn’t utter a word, but their expressions conveyed their doubts. “She was so quiet the first few weeks we had her, remember? It was like she was holding her breath, waiting to see if she would actually survive being with us.” She was winding down in Bill’s arms now. I thought about her, how she’d stood, a lone, tiny figure, in the middle of the living room, tears running down her cheeks, turning away when we tried to comfort her. She’d gained some volume, and she let us hold her sometimes now, but the tough challenges – skinned knees, bad dreams – she insisted on facing alone. My family’s skepticism made me want to cry, so I went for a laugh.
“Lucky us, now we get multiple meltdowns daily. And sometimes nightly. Now if she would just let us help her when she’s hurt or scared…” And I burst into tears.
They gathered around and made sympathetic noises, rubbing my back and praising my fortitude. Was I manipulating them with my tears? God knows, being the baby of the family, I’d been accused of that, but I really did need them; I’d just put off saying it. I needed them on my side for this battle against the dark force that held my daughter hostage.
Hawaii was even more beautiful than I’d hoped: the travel posters of palm trees and moonlight shining on the water came to life, with us right in the middle of them. Amaya slept through most of our first night, having depleted herself on the flight. She was in a happy mood the next morning, except for those typical toddler protests about diaper change timing. She loved the beach. She’d always felt right at home in sand, and adding water was almost too exciting: she clapped her hands, danced, and shrieked with joy. We did our best to be responsible parents and cover her with sunscreen and sun hat, and she did her best to thwart us, but all in all our first trip to the beach was a success. The whole family was happy, and we celebrated that night with mai tais and pupus and toasts to Dad.
At the breakfast buffet the next morning, Sheri and her husband Dan, whose room was next to ours, reported that the earplugs we’d given them had been “somewhat helpful,” painfully pressing my guilt button.
“Oh gosh, I’m sorry. I hope it’ll be better tonight,” I said, cognizant of the tenuousness of that aspiration. But what was I going to do? No one had ever been kicked out of our family, and that wasn’t going to change now, not with our precious daughter.
Amaya and Angelica, sitting together with parents on each side, amused each other by picking up pieces of syrup-covered waffles with their fingers and waving them at each other before stuffing them into their mouths, giggling as they chewed. Melanie reached over and tousled Amaya’s hair, and asked if we were going to put it in those cute little braids. I shook my head, and her eyebrows went up in that alarmed-but-supportive way she had.
“Why not?”
Well, long story, and we did our best to recount it faithfully.
I told her about the follow-up meetings for non-black parents of black babies. They’d invited some African-American women to come in and show us how to do the girls’ hair in those cute braids.
“Cool,” Larry said. Bill jumped in.
“There’s a big emphasis on preserving their culture and supporting their black identity, which we totally agree with. But most of the little girls really hated it. A lot of them were crying. Amaya too, but then she just zoned out, which was even more unsettling.”
I nodded. “They did let the kids take breaks and play with their tablets, and that helped, so we said we’d try it at home.” I looked at Bill.
“One thing we were really craving at that point was more screaming from Amaya.” He shook his head, and the others did too, with smiles of understanding, except Melanie, whose look of concern had frozen on her face.
“So when we went back a couple weeks later, and Amaya’s fluffy hair was flying free,” I said, “you’ve heard the term ’culture clash?’ The black women were really upset with us. They told us we didn’t care about the kids, those of us who showed up with wild-haired babies.” I didn’t tell them what it felt like for me: as if my white skin was a glowing badge of shame, and my failure one more act of oppression. Afraid I was harming my daughter no matter what I did.
“It’s really important to black families that their children look well taken care of,” Bill said. “And we want to respect that. But we’re her parents.” The muscles of his face were drawn tight.
Sheri’s voice, uncharacteristically gentle, embraced us. “Yes. You are her parents and you will do whatever is best for her. I know that. We all know that.” Hearing that eased me more than sitting on the warm sand with the cool breeze fanning me and gentle waves rocking in the distance, which was saying something.
“If she wants those braids someday, I’ll be happy to help her get them,” I said. I sighed. “Thanks for listening, you guys. I’m afraid this won’t be your last chance to support us through this.”
Melanie’s forehead lost a bit of its corrugation, and she opened her mouth, but no words came out. I could tell she really wanted to have an answer to this dilemma—from what I’d observed, having answers seemed to be crucial to her identity—but she didn’t. She understood our situation exactly, and she wished she didn’t. I had to sympathize.
Hawaii was alive with greenery; the air above laced with the scents of the ocean and sweet pikaki. The meals with family, the times Bill and I traded off taking care of Amaya so the other could snorkel. The times Amaya stayed with other family members, so Bill and I got to be alone, however briefly. Amaya seemed to share our feelings. So much so, that a surprising thing happened.
Melanie and I were at the protected baby beach with our daughters (I loved that word, daughter.)
“Amaya is really doing well, isn’t she?” Melanie said.
“Better than I expected. We still have our challenges, as you may have noticed on the flight here.” I chuckled as if it were a minor blip, and our days weren’t full of frustrations and heartaches.
“I always just remind myself that I’m too blessed to be stressed!” Melanie smiled sweetly, but my face was conveying my reaction more honestly than I’d hoped. “Oh, I know it’s different for you guys,” she added, with her best supportive look. “You were so brave to adopt a child with her background.”
I smiled and shrugged, and sat back in my beach chair, eventually dipping into a light, sunbathed sleep while Melanie made sandcastles with the girls. When I woke up, I offered to take over so she could have a turn to relax.
Amaya wasn’t interested in castles, preferring to pick up and throw handfuls of wet sand. Angelica focused on toddling down to the shallow water to fill her pail, bringing it back and pouring it into the hole she and Melanie had made in the sand.
Amaya had come to Hawaii with a few words under her belt, like “baby” and “mama,” although I wondered sometimes who she was thinking of when she uttered the latter. She looked fascinated when Angelica said whole sentences, or sang Five Little Monkeys. On this morning at the beach, then, out of nowhere, Amaya started saying words, imitating the ones with which I was always showering her. Sand. “San?” Beach. “Beat?” Daddy. “Da-dee.” Angelica. “Adaweka!” Water, mountain, sky: I pointed and gave them their labels, and she repeated each one. She learned to say “aloha.”
I was bursting. My daughter could talk, and she was learning it from me! I was her mom, and she was imitating me, trying to be like me. The social worker had warned us that her speech might be delayed, since her biological mom may have been too impaired to talk to her much. But now, I’d rescued her from her silence. I know how that sounds, but I’m saying it anyway. I rescued her.
We were working on “eye” and “nose” when I heard the scream, and I knew right away whose it was. Angelica had been trotting back and forth to the ocean, I’d known that, but at some point, the awareness had sunk down, its weight too much for my attention to hold while I was celebrating my new power. I jumped up to see Melanie, so shapely in her bikini, reaching the water in three strides to snatch up Angelica, who was wet from head to toe and howling. Had she waded out too far, been knocked over by one of the gentle waves? I didn’t know; I only knew I wanted to die.
What did I say? Oh my God, I’m so sorry? I thought she was right there with us? I have no idea. I only remember Melanie, clutching Angelica to her chest, turning her back to me, protecting her. Her picking up the towels and diaper bag and walking away. No look of disbelief, no scathing words, nothing.
Amaya watched them leave and cried, “Adaweka, Adaweka,” transitioning into full-throated screams at the abandonment. I tried to distract her by pouring soft mud onto her feet, but it was nothing more than a nuisance to her and she kicked it away. I waited, blurring my mind a little to soften the sound of her wails and the sight of our curious beach companions; and her grief played out. We lingered in the sand a bit longer, and I tried to put my heart into it, but my heart felt insubstantial, something cut out of crêpe paper. I stopped saying so many words, and so did Amaya. I moved her to the towel and gave her a sandwich. My stomach was empty and that’s how I wanted it. I called Bill to come get me.
Amaya fell asleep in the car, and I confessed to Bill my terrifying negligence. I prayed for him not to lecture me. The words “she could have drowned,” and “how could you?” didn’t need to be said. He carried Amaya up the stairs to our condo and lay her in the crib. Only then did he hug me. “It’s all right.” That’s all he said. “It’s all right.” That’s all he said. “It’s all right.” Was it all right? It’s what he would say—he loved me, and wanted to protect me—but was it what he was thinking?
At some point, I pulled myself away and went to the kitchen to make the fruit salad, our contribution to the potluck dinner in the park that evening. Sliced the hard shell off the pineapple, quartered it and cut out the core. It might have gotten a little salty, because I was crying off and on. Our picnic supper was going to be hell.
Although it was still balmy, the sky had clouded over and the air felt heavy when we got to the park. We spread our towels and mats on the grass and unpacked the dishes we’d made in our tiny condo kitchens. At first things seemed normal. Jocelyn smiled and said hi, and Mom passed out praise for the various culinary offerings. But when no one asked me about our day, and Melanie and Larry didn’t seem able to look at me, I shrank into myself. Everyone knew I’d fucked up; Melanie’d told them. I was the stupid, idiot baby who might have let a child be swallowed up by the sea. What was my father thinking, if he was indeed watching? Nothing good, nothing about my maturity or intelligence. I wondered, if I’d had another family, a different family, if maybe I would have turned out better. I wanted this family, though, the one I’d lived with; competed, argued, laughed, and reconciled with. This family, even Melanie.
Calm down, I told myself. I took deep breaths and searched for positive thoughts, but my tears won, fighting their way to the surface. It was so damn quiet, just my sisters murmuring to the others, my mom chatting with Melanie. At one point, Melanie peered over at me: not glaring, but not smiling either. What in the world did that look mean? I wanted to retreat to the condo and sit in the dark without moving, searching for a state of nonbeing, a living absence. But what good would it do? I’d still have to come back, and they’d have their eyes on me all the time, trying to make sure I didn’t inadvertently kill my child or someone else’s. It was my fate.
Having acquiesced to eat a few bites of food, Amaya and Angelica broke away, giggling and screaming. Chased by Jocelyn’s six-year-old son, they circled our party with their little arms waving above them. Amaya had withheld her laugh for so long; the sound of it now, raucous and high-pitched, was, to me, the most precious thing in heaven or earth. I didn’t deserve her.
I stood up.
“Guys,” I said, not yelling, just firm. They looked up. To my eyes, they looked annoyed, resentful of the interruption.
“One of you needs to take her. I shouldn’t have her. Something’s wrong with my brain and I’ll never be able to keep her safe.” I’d stopped crying, stopped hating myself, felt strong and resolved, ready and willing to make the terrible sacrifice. My heart thumped in my chest. “Melanie, maybe she’d be better off with you.”
Bill sprang up, wearing a face I’d never seen before. “What the hell, Kelly? Were you going to consult me? You think you’re going to give our child away like she's your property?” He backed away, as if he needed to keep himself from hurting me.
The quiet that followed was like the pause between a lightning flash and the ensuing clap of thunder. I looked across and saw Amaya’s face, her dark eyes searching, her eyebrows knit, puzzled. Then everyone was talking.
It happens to every parent, they said. Remember that time…stories of babies falling off counters in their carriers, toddlers slipping out of lightly held hands, teens allowed to go to the wrong party. Their voices surrounded me, but Melanie’s tremulous words stood out, like reeds in flowing water. “I couldn’t possibly…” she said. And I knew she couldn’t.
Now Amaya was close to me, electrified by the aroused voices of the adults. She was crying, stamping her feet, and I knew her next move would be to collapse, engulfed by the chaos. I reached for her, swung her up into my arms, and walked away. Held her as she screamed and squirmed, made my way down the sidewalk through the stares and sympathetic smiles of strangers, and carried her into the condo. I set her, still crying, on the bed, and placed my hand on her damp back. “My sweetheart,” I said. “My baby. My little one.” And she let me. She didn’t scoot away, shrinking from my hand as she had so often done before. She cried, and then, after a time, she stopped. She looked at me, turned her tear-stained face to mine.
“Mommy,” she said to me.