rain on her parade. I know how many times I saw my momma pray when I was little. Hell, we both knew how that ended.
So, I lied.
A good, old fashioned headache never hurt nobody, so Justice wouldn’t worry too much. Now, I’m chucking all my favorite books from Dawn by Octavia Butler to Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist for mindless smut.
For four years, I’ve set aside much of my life to be a mother and a wife. While I wouldn’t change it for the world, times like this remind me how I’ve put my all into what I do. And how I’m out of practice of just doing me.
“I have no life,” I mutter, heading into the kitchen. In a few minutes, I’ve set out all the ingredients for a complicated Japanese rum cocktail I created for my old employer. Michie, as well as much of his clientele, is Japanese.
It’s a complex drink with toasted wood chips, digital smoke infusers, and even a cigar. While beginning the process, I imagine the smooth, full-bodied aroma of the expensive cigars Michie selected for his bar. An old, cherished memory transports me to a place that I can’t forget no matter how much I’ve endeavored to—when my father loved us.
In a dress that swooshed around like a bell chime, I stood at the door to the bedroom. The Eiffel Tower glowed off in the distance. I lived a pretty black princess dream. Hell, any young girl’s dream.
Dad had just returned from A La Civette. The scent of tobacco lingered in the air. Momma was running through the living room of a suite in a Paris hotel, Daddy chasing her. A sheer dress adorned her skin, but she made it look classic—the pure white distinct against her supple dark skin. Barefoot without traction, she’d slip. Daddy crouched down and scooped her high in the air, kissing her.
“Did you have to steal my cellphone?” he asked her.
“No,” she replied between laughter as he used tickles as a means to grab his phone from her hands. She’d just forbade him to bring the damn thing to dinner. We were celebrating my seventh birthday.
Holding the cellphone behind him, Dad kissed her forehead.
“You don’t play fair,” Momma replied.
He grabbed all the stemless pink roses from a vase, handed them to me, then dropped his cellphone in the water. I sputtered on my own laugh.
Dad winked. “Problem solved.”
“No, you didn’t?” She shook her head. “Look at your father,” Momma said. “Those white folks see us acting like that downstairs. They won’t know what to think!”
Dad cut her off, saying his full name as one would give a royal title. We were black royalty. He’d always said so. Money would do that for us, he said. There was no limit to the money to be made. It always seemed foreboding. He’d even said it more, as an example, when giving money away. He was a very generous man.
Dad pulled at my thick ponytail. “Now that my sweet pea is lucky number seven—”
“No luck, only God grants us another birthday,” Momma replied.
“That’s right, only God.” He reached down, exaggerative in prayer as he tried to lift Momma and me in his arms at the same time. We all fell in a fit of giggles.
“You’re so silly, Dad. You carried us both last week.”
“But you’re seven now; Daddy’s big girl.”
As the memory fades, I’m tormented by the uncertainty of which pain has a hold on me. Though most people view me as a glass-half-full person while I grin and refresh their drinks, I’m secretly not. The quest to suppress my memories over the years has failed to eradicate certain feelings. Feelings like being wrapped around my father’s arms or holding his memory in my heart, no matter my attempts to forget. It’s as if when my parents’ hearts stopped beating, mine started marching in double time.
To be honest, I’d rather erase every fond feeling of him and keep a vise grip on the bad ones. Only, the bastard never gave me a single harrowing memory. Not until it was too late. Wrought to the core, warring thoughts snake through my mind:
Momma was never there to make me chicken noodle soup to relieve a sore throat. She was never there to give me advice. I’ve had to tell myself to take risks, be bold, gracious, humble. She was supposed to be my other best friend. The one who helped me try on wedding dresses and hide them from Leith.