She tugs at my arm, but still, I don’t move.
“Fabiola, my mother is gonna handle it, all right? She’s the one who sent for you both in the first place. She’ll make a few phone calls, and before you know it, your mom will be here.” Chantal’s voice is candy—sweet but firm.
She takes off her thick, long scarf and wraps it around my shoulders—a gesture that only my mother has ever done for me. Back in Haiti, it was always just me and Manman. But now, my world has ballooned and in it are these three cousins, and my aunt, too. Family takes care of each other, I tell myself. We will get my manman.
We leave the airport. It feels like I’m leaving part of me behind—a leg, an arm. My whole heart.
THREE
DARKNESS SEEPS INTO every crack and corner of this Detroit. Even with a few lampposts dotting the streets, I can’t see the breadth and depth of this city that is my birthplace, that is now my home. I squint to see if the big mansions I’ve seen on American TV will glow or sparkle in the dark. I hope to catch a glimpse of the very tops of the tall buildings, but the car is moving too fast—with its fancy seats, too-loud music, and the scent of shiny new things.
Chantal sits so close to the steering wheel, her small body enveloped by the leather seat, her hands steady. Donna sits in the passenger seat and she keeps checking her reflection in the rearview mirror, the sun visor mirror, and her phone. She pulls out a big brush from her bag and brushes the ends of her long hair. Pri is next to me in the back and turns on her phone to stare at the screen. Everything is quiet, tense, until Chantal changes the music and turns the volume up really loud. The car sways a little because Pri starts to dance as she says, “Aww shit! Yo, turn that shit up some more, Chant!”
The bass reaches my insides, but it’s not enough to shake the thought of my mother from my mind. I lean my forehead against the backseat window and try to see past the speeding dark and into this new world called Detroit. I try to take it all in, even the heavy music, so I can save every bit for my mother. I remind myself to smile, because finally I am here on this side of the good life.
We pull onto a smaller street and park at the corner. Chantal turns the music off and the car is still. I stare out the window. There are no mansions or big buildings here. The small houses are so close together, they might as well be holding hands.
Donna helps me out of the car. “Welcome home, Fabiola!” she sings.
The front door to a small white house swings open. There are a few steps and a narrow porch leading up to that door. I want nothing more than to rush in to let the house’s warmth wrap around my cold body. A dimly lit lamp shines a light on the person standing at the door, and I recognize the face. It’s like Manman’s, but rounder and thicker. They have the same deep-set eyes, the same thick eyebrows that will never go away, no matter how many times they wax or pluck them. But she doesn’t smile like my mother always does. Half her face barely moves, frozen from her stroke. Manman was supposed to be here taking care of that face.
She is fatter than Manman, but her clothes are smaller and tighter and shorter. Wait till my mother sees her big sister dressed like a teenager at a Sweet Micky concert, oh!
Matant Jo last saw me in person when I was a tiny baby, and since then only through Facebook photos. My aunt comes toward me, arms extended wide. She hugs me tight and I breathe in her smell. My mother has been the only family I’ve known my whole life, and here, in my aunt’s arms, my world feels bigger, warmer.
When Matant Jo lets go, she says, “Valerie was supposed to be here. So what happened, eh?” I recognize her deep voice from all those long-distance phone calls with the 313 number. Manman said that Matant Jo used to have the sweetest birdsong voice—so sweet that she could make a man fall in love with her just by offering him a glass of water.
“Matant, they said they are detaining her,” I say.
“They’re sending her to New Jersey. They’re not gonna let her in,” Chantal adds as she takes off her boots by the door.
“But she’s already in,” Donna says. She sits on the arm of the living-room couch and slides off her coat. “Why would they send her to a whole other state just to send her back to Haiti, Ma?”
“Yeah, Ma, that’s fucked up.” Pri drags my bags to the bottom of the stairs, then lifts one onto the first few steps. “So trying to come to America from the wrong country is a crime?”
My aunt looks at my four big suitcases and her face falls. Then she inhales deep and only one shoulder raises up to meet her breath. She shakes her head as if she’s already given up.
“I will try, but . . . ,” she starts to say. “These things, Fabiola . . . they are so complicated, yes?”