Something was different. Like before, in the dream Rose’s legs ached from running for so long, but adrenaline ensured each step, one after another. Her legs were heavy, like she’d been running knee-deep in mud. Something was chasing her. As she ran, the uncomfortable urge to look back gnawed at her. Nevertheless, her neck was locked forward. It’s not like turning would have made a difference; she was surrounded by darkness. Her breath echoed around her as the thing reached closer. Her legs gave away as soon as the thing’s breath grazed the nape of her neck, raising goosebumps that reminded her it was all real. Its breath touched her skin. Whispers.
When the nightmares had first started, she used to wake up shaking. The first time it happened, she had called her mother, Charity, whom she felt no closeness to, asking for a prayer of protection. As soon as dawn had broken, Rose decided she had overreacted and that calling her mother had been a mistake. From that point on, the dream had become a recurrence, visiting Rose two to three times a week. And each time, it left her with an overwhelming feeling of despair that possessed her long after it was over. She would then feel an overwhelming feeling of despair before the mud and darkness swallowed her whole. This had always been the case in the past. But not tonight.
Tonight, when the thing caught up to her, and the ground swallowed her whole, she felt a deep respite she had never felt before. The mystery of it no longer mattered. In this new place, everything stood between time; the date of her birth, the laughter of her nieces and nephews, her mother’s condescending glare, and the feeling of despair that lived rent free in her subconscious. The thing wrapped itself around her. It was as if it were preparing to consume her, but it held her gently, like a warm womb holding life itself.
Rose opened her eyes. A street lamp outside animated the wooden floors and her orange curtains, creating a warm hue in the small room. Students weren’t allowed to hang curtains in the dorms, but being an RA meant Rose had some secret privileges. She more than earned it given how challenging being a law student was at Florida State University College of Law.
The alarm clock on the nightstand revealed it was 4:07 A.M. Each time after the dream, Rose was met with unexpected inspiration. That what she liked most about the dream; it had the power to make her feel like an artist again. That feeling was her secret; a hope that she was still an artist despite her life as of late. Even Eva and Astrid, her favorite cousins, didn’t know she hadn’t fully moved on from her endeavors to be an artist. Beneath her bed housed a pile of blank canvases that no one knew about.
Each time she had the dream, she found herself painting. And each time, midway through she remembered her freshman year in undergrad, sitting in the esteemed Robert Harkness’s office. She’d kept this detail to herself, but the renowned artist specializing in surrealism and portraits had been her reason for applying to this school. On that day, as he reviewed her work in his paper-stuffed office, he shattered her without ever knowing it. “Your art is… unchallenging, stale,” he had said after reviewing her work. “It simply has nothing new to offer… It’s boring. I’d strongly suggest finding a vocational degree.” She had dropped out of the art major that same day..
Portraits always had a gravitational pull towards her for reasons she never understood. She admired Pablo Picasso and Edvard Munch’s work, and her work reflected that. She loved using various colors that didn’t belong on a face. The eyes – the hardest part – was her favorite to work on. It was a piece of her art she could not get quite right, no matter how much paint she mixed, how many different brushes and techniques she used. Nevertheless, each face she painted made her feel like she was meeting a new person while simultaneously becoming someone else.
How she felt when she painted and who she believed herself to be could not have been more different. She was a Haitian girl; who was ridiculed for not speaking fluent French, the colonizer’s language; a Haitian girl, who upon coming in the states was called “Dirty Haitian” and Frenchie by people who had no idea how beautiful her country was; a Haitian girl, who always did what was asked of her, and whose sole purpose was to seemingly make her family proud. Coming from a place frequently described by most as a “shithole” added a level of pressure she could not escape. It was pathetic, but it was her reality. Tonight, like many nights when she felt inspired to paint, she could finally escape her boring , ensnaring life.
The melting face she half assed that night was no masterpiece. In fact, as soon as she assessed her work she felt disgusted. Finally, she resigned to the dead eyes staring back at her and she covered the wet canvas.
She stood naked in the shower, water drops tittering and tattering on her shoulders, relaxing her. The sense of calm the dream had given her was all gone, but it gave her something to look forward to when the dream undoubtedly paid her another visit. For the first time in a few weeks, Rose thought of her grandmother, the woman still living in Haiti who had raised her until she was 8 years old, until she was summoned to the states by Charity, her mother.
Since it was Sunday (church day) Rose fashioned her hair in a high bun with a side twist at the front. She added just enough makeup to hide the dark circles under her eyes, and some mascara to make them look awake. After dressing, she finally looked in the mirror to assess her appearance. There was nothing particularly wrong with the reflection that looked back, but it nevertheless made her uncomfortable. There was discomfort in her large eyes, which she often avoided. She felt uneasy whenever she looked at herself, and that feeling had been there for as long as she could remember.
At the church, Haitian mothers and grandmothers fanned themselves quietly as the pastor gave his sermon. Despite the large fans tethered to either side of the room, every so often he patted sweat from his glistening forehead, not missing a beat while addressing the congregation. Charity sat next to her daughter, never having left her side since the moment they met in the church parking lot. She had eyed her daughter from head to toe, looking for a hair out of place; any imperfection. Now, she was watching the pastor intently, and nodding every once in a while in agreement to words he spoke. Mika, Rose’s older sister and the apple of their mother’s eye, sat on stage next to her husband, the pastor’s second oldest son.
Roughly eighty-three percent of the congregation were women. As baptists, it was expected for each and every one of them to honor God in accordance with the church. To Rose’s dismay, it meant no earrings even though her grandmother had taken the liberty of piercing them a long time ago. Rose also held no interest in becoming more involved at church, which Charity blamed the grandmother for. Rose found it ironic that a woman estranged from her own mother would have the audacity to shame her, but these were one of the many thoughts she kept to herself.
Charity discreetly elbowed her, pulling her back to the pastor’s words. Here, nothing mattered more to Charity than to maintain the facade of a picture perfect family. When Rose was twelve, around the time of her first bleeding, tears flowed uncontrollably from her face, which prompted worried glances and unwanted questions. One glance at Charity’s face revealed to Rose that she was in trouble. You’ve really embarrassed me and yourself by pulling this stunt, she had said as soon as they were back in the red faded toyota. Ou telmen fe grimace, tout moun vire pou yo gadew. She had attracted negative attention from the people whose opinion mattered most to Charity. How could Rose possibly have negative emotions with such an amazing mother? A mother who sacrificed her own hopes and dreams to award her a brighter future she herself never had?
After service, Rose and Charity greeted members of the congregation as they always did, their smiles rigid as ice. Rose remained silent as her mother greeted the church ladies, one bragging that her daughter would soon be a practicing lawyer, and another chiming in that she was expecting a wedding soon for hers. Rose avoided their eyes as they eyed her like fresh meat at the market. She had long ago learned to handle her emotions conservatively; to retrieve inward and to not express her true feelings. She learned to do exactly as she was told at her own expense. Nothing was worse than causing your mother shame in the only place she felt powerful. In the process, she accepted that her wings had been clipped before they grew, and that in their place anger and resentment festered.
What came next, Rose looked forward to each week. As they pulled in the cemented driveway, she could already smell the rice and beans and hear her little cousins screaming above the music coming from the backyard. Despite her complicated feelings towards Charity, there were few things Rose loved more than her family. Every Sunday after church, her aunts, uncles, and too many cousins to name would get together at Aunt Esther’s house. Her Haitian Creole had grown heavy from lack of use, but despite the accent, she made an effort to practice as much as she could. It’s the one thing she refused to give up from her childhood in Haiti. Her two aunts, Lorianne, and Esther, religiously organized cookouts the family attended. Their husbands (victims, really) did as was asked of them. On these occasions, Rose caught Eva and Astrid. The scene was happiness itself: Lorianne’s boisterous laughter at some joke told, Uncle Josue on the grill, dancing to the music, and the squealing and laughter of playing children. Rose’s mother sat in the shade near the sunroom explaining week’s sermon to Lorianne, who looked bored yet afraid to offend.
Rose was chasing her nieces and nephews with water guns as they screamed and giggled, hiding behind uncles playing dominos in the shade. Her green dress was somewhat soiled with water. Uncle Roosevelt DJ’ed – if plugging a phone into an aux cord attached to speakers, and playing zouk counted as DJing. Her life and her relationships were complicated, but on Sunday afternoons it didn’t matter that she was no longer an artist. It didn’t matter that she had no idea what she was doing in law school. When she was around her family, Rose knew exactly who she was supposed to be.
Someone was perpetually missing in these moments; Rose’s grandmother, Edwige. Before moving to Florida, it was her grandmother that bathed her, told her stories of Toussaint Louverture, bought her school uniforms, helped her with her homework and made her dinner. Over the years, her face had become harder to picture; the creases on her forehead below the white head-wrap, her fading smile, the depth in her wise eyes slowly becoming shallow. The thought of forgetting her grandmother was a devastating one, but her mother and Edwige had an agreement; when she comes abroad, you must cease communication. Her mother never explained why. Even though she was a reticent child, she never stopped missing her grandmother. She never stopped missing home. Home, she thought. Haiti. But could she consider the tiny half of an island her home, after all these years? She had already forgotten the hubbub of street merchants, the smell of fish in the morning market, and the ice truck’s familiar annoying melody at 6 AM, exactly an hour after the rooster’s first crows.
When Rose turned 15, she finally mustered up the courage to ask her mother why they never visited, and why she wasn’t allowed to call home. She never got a straight answer. The change was abrupt for an eight year old, and even now, seventeen years later, her questions were still left unanswered. Kids these days ask too many questions, she would say angrily, before ranting about her childhood and the importance of obedience…. She conveniently forgot that Rose was no child. She was a twenty five year old woman, but in a Haitian household, that held no weight. In the back of her mind, Rose wondered when she would muster up the courage to call her grandmother. Would she forgive my silence after all these years? Was she faring okay? She wondered if the spotless tin-roofed house still looked the same. When would she stop asking herself these hypotheticals and seek out real answers?
The following Monday at 11:05 A.M., Rose felt anxious for two reasons: she had so much reading to cover that she hadn’t gotten to on Sunday, and it was lunchtime. She hated sitting by herself because it always felt like everyone was staring at her and judging her. The cafeteria was crowded when she arrived. From the distance she could see some classmates in line for stir fry. They grew quieter and quieter as Rose approached.
“Hey, how’s it going?” Rose said with a smile. Katy hesitatingly returned her smile then looked the other way. The two other girls didn’t say anything. Rose suddenly didn’t know what to do with her hands.
Last weekend, there was a party at a senior’s off campus apartment. The girls had agreed to all go together. Nevertheless, when Rose arrived at their dorm across campus, the lights had been off, the room locked. After a few unanswered texts, she concluded they had gone to the party without her. There had been rejections before, but if Rose could just earn their approval, maybe things would be different. She would continue trying until they found common ground. Besides, they were one of the handful of black girls that went to this school. Call her resilient, but overtime these experiences chipped away at her self esteem.
The party would have been the perfect opportunity to bridge the gap; an opportunity missed. These girls in front of her in line were her way in. She would continue trying until they found common ground. Besides, they were one of the handful of black girls that went to this school. Call her resilient, but overtime these experiences chipped away at her self esteem.
Karen finally broke the awkward silence by mentioning the test they both had Wednesday on bond agreements. The girls both expressed nervousness about needing to study, and it was back to the awkward silence.
The girls shifted awkwardly, the silence growing louder than the hubbub surrounding them. When their stir fry was ready, they left. Mika would have been disappointed had she seen Rose now. Get it together, she would say. You’re not here to make friends, just to get your degree. But to Rose, she wanted more than just a degree. She wanted friendship. She wanted a sense of belonging, to no longer be on the outside looking in. She wanted the self assuredness everyone else seemed to have that she did not. She wanted power.
That night in her room, in the midst of reading for the quiz she had Wednesday, Rose felt something gnawing at her from the inside. She was restless. And so she began a familiar ritual.
Rose turned on the radio and pulled out a canvas from under her bed. It was the safest place under her mother’s watchup eye during her impromptu visits. The large tubes filled with various colors in oil paints were inconspicuously hiding inside the secondhand ottoman she had bought her first year of law school. Rose liked oils because she liked the idea that no mistake was final. If the paint was still wet, you can scrape it off with a palette knife, rag, or brush, or wipe it away. Dipping your brush in solvent was also an easy way to remove layers of paint. Even with smaller mistakes, once dry, could simply be painted over, making perfection attainable. She used an old tomato jar to house the solvent. She often wished life was as easy as painting. If she was afforded the luxury of messing up, what mistakes would she allow herself to make? What decisions would she make as quickly as a strong brush stroke?
She then threw an old basin liner on the floor to protect the wood floor, and picked up the dirty palette, prepping it as it balanced between her hip and thumb. Just as she dipped her favorite round 16 brush into the jar of turpentine, her phone buzzed. Mother, it read. Rose ignored it. She didn’t know what she was painting yet; she never did. She often went where the brushstrokes wanted to lead her. One stroke up, one stroke left. As an unfamiliar song blasted from the radio, Rose moved the brush to make something from what she felt and mixed it in with the song’s influence. Her phone rang again. Rolling her eyes, she dipped the brush into the inviting red she had thought to add to the palette. A few seconds later, it buzzed again. It must be about bible study, Rose thought. She flicked her left glove onto the plastic liner and pressed the overbearing green button.
“Hello?” she struggled to hide her annoyance.
“Rose, se manman’w.” Rose, it’s your mom. Her heart dropped. Whenever Rose’s mother introduced herself via phone, she knew there had been bad news. She thinks about her cousin and her sisters.
“Is everyone okay?” The words that followed changed the course of everything.
~~~~~
The minutes trickled by as Rose sat in disbelief. In that state, she went on painting as if her mother hadn’t called. By the time she was done, it was past 2AM. Her entire back ached, and hues of red, green and orange covered her brown arms. Breathless, she looked over her work. Her pessimism created the perfect distraction in that moment. Staring at the mess in front of her, her emotions, some of which weren’t even connected, finally caught up to her. Selfish. Unchallenging. Unoriginal. Safe. The words echoed through her head despite the loud music. The rhythmic banging from the wall she shared with another student pulled her back to reality. She quickly turned off the radio, then found herself sinking against the wall. Her grief was like a disarray of tangled threads, filling her with despair she couldn’t even begin to understand.
“Se gran ou. Li mouri.” Her mother’s voice echoed in her head. It’s your grandmother. She has passed away.