Pretending that I don’t like him anymore breaks my heart. I don’t want to do this to him, but I feel as if I don’t have a choice. Before I allow my heart to sink and melt once again, I think of what I must do. My mother is the one who will make my life complete here, not him. I have to sacrifice something in order to get her here. Until then, there is no room for Kasim in my heart.
It’s so quiet on the car ride back home that I can hear everyone’s breath. Me and Donna have the same rhythm—we both have let go of something heavy and deep.
TWENTY-THREE
TODAY IS THANKSGIVING—a day for families to come together and give thanks, my cousins tell me. I remember how my aunt and cousins used to call us in Haiti to wish us a happy Thanksgiving. We never knew what it meant, so we just replied, “Oh, mesi. Same to you!”
Matant Jo has come back to life, and the last few days have been a crazy cyclone of making lists of foods we want to eat, rushing to the supermarket, waiting on long lines, and chopping, and slicing, and seasoning. My cousins are not involved; it’s just me and my aunt. Pri has asked for pies—pumpkin and sweet potato. Donna wants something called cranberry sauce. Chantal asks for Haitian rice and beans. At first, Matant Jo seems like she has it all under control. The pots are ready, and the ingredients are out on the table and counters ready to be prepared. She’s humming and telling jokes and I’m only here to help.
But now when I walk back into the kitchen, I see her holding her head as if she is about to pass out.
“Matant! Are you okay?” I help her over to a chair and give her a glass of water to drink.
“Fabiola, you have to finish. I have to go lie down,” she says, still holding her head.
I help her over to her room and into her bed. I check her forehead and make sure she’s tucked in. I bring another glass of water for her and she takes a few pills with it.
“What are those for, Matant?” I ask.
“I told you before, Faboubou. Pain. It hurts everywhere.” She disappears underneath her covers.
I stare at all the foodstuff. Some of it I don’t recognize, but there’s a list on the refrigerator door: stuffing, cranberry sauce, macaroni and cheese, collard greens, black-eyed peas, sweet potato pie, Haitian rice and beans. Then someone has scribbled at the end of the list: Don’t burn the turkey, Ma!
The huge, fat turkey is sitting in the sink. I watched Matant Jo just shake some salt and pepper onto it and wondered what else she was planning on doing to it since salt and pepper is hardly enough for a whole turkey. So I roll up my sleeves, wash my hands, and start my magic.
I pound garlic and scallions to add to the turkey. I use cloves, too, and lots more seasoned salt. I soak kidney beans, and wash the rice and set it aside. I’ve gotten my own ingredients from the supermarket, so I peel cassava, slice plantains, boil the salt out of dried fish. There’s fresh and canned pumpkin, and I smile to myself thinking that soup joumou is just what my family needs now. I chop carrots, celery, and potatoes. I grate cheese and melt it down with butter and milk for the macaroni au gratin.
I spend a long time cutting up the big turkey into small pieces—throwing out extra fat and rubbing it with lemon down to the bone. I boil it for a long time before it’s tender enough to fry. I check on Matant Jo now and then, and she only mumbles that everything smells good. Pri tries to come in, but I stop her. I’m at peace here in this kitchen—seasoning, chopping, and stirring pots. I pour every prayer and blessing into the dishes. I hum over the food as if my songs and words will be a protective magic. Chantal tries to come in, too, but I only let her taste the rice and beans since that was her one request. She offers to set the table. I make sure to cover all the pots so that my Thanksgiving meal is a surprise.
I let the warmth of the house wrap around me. I let the scents of my food fill me up with nothing but joy, because this moment is like a hug from God.
Matant Jo has come out and is alive again—dressed, hair and face done, and smiling bright. She looks at me and mouths, “Thank you.”
We stand around the table and Pri grabs my hand. Chantal grabs my other hand. We’re all holding hands now and I smile even brighter because I see that my beloved aunt and cousins pray, too.
“God,” Pri starts. “I think our cousin, Fabiola, being here is the best thing that ever happened to us. For real.”
They all make a sound that lets me know that they agree, and something wells up inside me as if it’s been sitting there all along waiting to be set free, and I cry. It’s a hushed cry—not like a storm, but like a drizzle.
“It’s like she was supposed to be here all this time,” Pri continues. “Like she should’ve never left when she was a baby. And I wonder sometimes what it would’ve been like if she and her moms stayed . . . if we stuck together like family.”