November2010
Dad’s birthday is coming up soon. It is going to be hard on the family because we’ve always thrown grand parties to celebrate birthdays. It’s a tradition that supplies us with many crazy memories. When I was three years old, we had a black and white birthday party for Dad. Dad and I got the same suit and mom was the designer who made sure that Dad and I matched and looked handsome to perfection. At four years old, we had a 70’s themed birthday for Uncle Mike. Mom designed our three costumes. One month before the party, Grandma Glo and Ria saw my costume and asked mom to costume make their 70’s outfit ideas. At the party they acted like 70’s women visiting the present. I still remember every great moments of that party. For my fifth birthday, we had a Beach birthday party at the Vanderson grandparents’ beach house.
The following summer, mom and dad separated. The separation destroyed our festive attitude. Even though we all had birthdays, Dad’s birthdays were always the best themed birthday parties. The grandparents tried to switch the theme birthday parties to my birthday but every theme wasn’t the same without dad in the center of the festivities.
Seven years of pretty lame birthdays ended the day mom pulled me aside and talked to me about her plans for dad’s ‘coming home birthday party,’ as she called it. She had planned a grand soccer themed birthday party. The rest of the family was a little unsure of what that would trigger but she knew it would trigger great memories and a promise to never ever do anything that can hurt the family. She was right and had the best idea for dad’s return birthday party. That party and the next birthday parties were successful and full of great memories that helped diminish my nightmarish nights.
Not having dad around during his birthday is hard on all of us. We did have a time when he was alive but not really there and we could deal with not having a party at that time. But this is a different birthday, we want him here to celebrate but we won’t have him around although he would have loved celebrating with us.
“Don’t think too hard. I have ideas, I just need your opinion and input.” mom tells me as she plants a kiss on my left cheek. “I have been sitting here staring outside. Reminiscing on the great times we usually have this time of year.” I say.
“Well we don’t have to stop having more great times here.”
I bend forward with my elbows on the table and my cheeks buried in my hands and smile. “So what’s on your mind?”
“Your dad’s birthday is coming up. I know he’s not here but I want to have a thanksgiving service and a party here after the service. What do you think?” she asks.
“It’s a great idea mom. What are the details?” I ask. I’m on board with what she wants to do but it’s going to be a different kind of party.
“Well I was thinking, a thanksgiving service at the church. I’ve already spoken to Pastor Baker and he’s looking forward to the service,” she answers. “We’ll have a few people come and talk about your father. Close friends and family. I put together a list.” I take a look at the sheet of paper she passes to me and read through the names. Family and some of dad’s friends that I know and a few I don’t know.
Mom is second to last on the list and has placed my name as the last speaker for the service. I would love to tell her that I don’t want to speak or that I don’t do well in front of crowds but making her happy is more important.
“Okay. It’s a great list.” I express. “I’m thinking party afterwards. Themed party as always, of course. I’m thinking Memory Day as the theme,” she says.
“Memorabilia of your father will be displayed around the house. We’ll give time to tell a few stories about him and spend the night remembering…the great memories we will always cherish.” she goes on as weekend plans flood my mind.
“Sure. That’s a great plan ma’.” I’m not really concentrated on what she is saying. I’m preoccupied by the interesting weekend ahead of me. I take a look at the clock on the wall and it indicates to me that I’m late. Late for my meeting with Zaine and Lucille.
“Way to be excited,” she disappointedly points out. “I’m sorry mom, I am very excited…I really am. Dad would have loved it if he was here. I’m excited and I can’t wait to put it all together.” I tell her.
“Good,” she hesitates. “What’s on your mind, everything okay at college?”
“Oh, no everything is fine. It’s just that I kind of have plans for the weekend with Lucille and Zaine and I’m late for our meet time.”
“Oh. We’re done actually. We can talk about this later. I just wanted us to talk about the service and the party idea. Since it’s in a month, I need you to submit some of your ideas by the end of the week so we can get things done on time for the big day.” she says.
“I’ll have my ideas for you by the time I’m back from my Virginia Beach trip with Lucille and Zaine.” I pick up my bag and walk around the table to kiss her on the cheek. She grins. “What?” I ask.
“You said her name again before saying Zaine’s name.” Even though I did not mean to, I’m glad it brings a smile to her face. “She’s just a friend. She might actually hit it off with Zaine,” I exclaim placing a smooch on her right cheek.
“When I find the right girl who feels the same way I do, you will be the first one to know. And you’re going to love her.”
By the time I take a bus to Zaine’s house, both Lucille and Zaine have been waiting in the car for the past hour, ready to go. I hop in the car and we drive off. About five minutes in our drive, I get a text from mom. ‘Traveling mercies for you, Lucille, and Zaine. I Love You.’ Since the accident, mom has been very protective of me, especially when I’m traveling out of state. I haven’t been outside the country since the crash and I don’t think she will allow it till I’m thirty. ‘Thank you ma’. I love you.’ I text back.
Zaine blasts some Lecrae Rebel Album in the sick sound system he got on his birthday for his 1967 Chevrolet Impala. This trip looks very promising when Zaine passes me the info on the other survivor of the bus accident. He lowers the volume of the music. “My cousin found the girl, all he could tell me was where she’ll be tomorrow. She does the same thing every Saturday.” Zaine says.
“During the week she has school. A high school student. Also during the week, she sees a shrink and spends time with her large family.” I read.
“A shrink! She must be taking it very hard.” Lucille’s comment hit me like hateful words directed to both this girl and me. Her words sound so insensitive for someone who doesn’t fully understand the pain this kind of tragedy can engrave in someone’s memory. But I prefer to let it go because I’m not exactly sure how she meant her comment.
“On Saturdays she spends about two hours at the park. From 2pm to 4pm. She’s dropped off by her sisters and picked up by her brothers,” I add.
“Tomorrow will probably be the best time to see her without her large family interrupting.” Zaine explains.
“Then she spends the rest of the day with the family. And on Sunday, she spends it at the church and at her shrink’s house with the family.” I add disappointed. Such a schedule makes it difficult for me to have time to chat with her. All I want is to spend time with her, just making small talks until we get comfortable enough to talk about the accident, our loses and how to deal with the impact on our future.
Miradel joins us at the dining room table. I pull a chair in between Dieudonné and me. She slides her cute 5-year-old body on the chair as I continue telling the story.
Saturday comes fast enough, especially because I couldn’t sleep. I spent some of my night thinking of meeting this person. Today is my time at least to tell her who I am and maybe she’ll want to meet again some other time. I see a friendship building up soon.
It is chilly out even though the sun’s shiny rays are a little bit blinding. We arrive at the park around 12pm and have a picnic lunch on the grass. An hour later, a couple and their two toddlers arrive at the park for a small picnic. Fifteen minutes after, a father and his son walk to the playgroun
d. As I watch them I am reminded of times when I would play with dad in the backyard.
When 2pm comes around, I sit in anticipation. I fear recognizing her and at the same time, I fear not recognizing her, not knowing who she is. Maybe our connection through the accident will attract me to her and take my fear away.
A group of five girls arrive at the park. Two Black girls, one Hispanic girl, an Indian girl and a White girl. They’re all beautiful. Four of them are dressed like movie stars. The only dressed down girl in the group is holding a notebook, a pencil and color pencils. I don’t see her face. They sit at one of the tables near the playground. They chat and laugh for about five minutes before four of the girls leave. One of the black girls, the one who was holding the notebook, stays at the table.
“Those can’t be her sisters, really!” Lucille says.
“Like Zaine’s cousin said, she’s dropped off by her sisters and picked up by her brothers. Large family. Maybe she’s in a foster home.” I say. All the girls seem to be from different backgrounds, but it wouldn’t surprise me if they were all placed in a big foster home. Maybe the girl also lost someone in the accident and has no one else to go to. We might connect even more and be able to help each other deal with our losses.
“It must be her. She’s black; I was coming from South Africa. She might be an African girl or an African American visiting the continent… It must be her.” We sit there watching her every move. Her back is all we see. I did not pay much attention to her face before she sat. I can’t really tie her face to anyone I remember from the flight or the bus ride.
I can feel my heart racing inside my chest. An hour passes by with my feet trembling and hitting the grass each time I stand to make a move.
“It’s now or never guys. I want to talk to her before her brothers get here.”
My steps are slow and calm. I don’t want to scare her. I should start thinking of a way to initiate a conversation without sounding like a creep. A few feet from her table, I see colored drawings on three different white papers. I raise my head and I connect her drawings to the father and son playing at the playground in front of her. Even from far, her drawings seem so detailed and professional.
“Use her drawings as a start”, I whisper to myself.
“Those are amazing,” I say gently. “You did those?” She doesn’t say anything and goes on with coloring the father’s jacket on another drawing.
She turns back and looks at me. Her face is very familiar. The scar on the right eye. The silky brown skin. She’s the girl who sat by me on the plane. And on the bus. My first class neighbor. I don’t forget physical uniqueness. It’s her without a doubt.
“Thank You.” she says in her distinct African accent. I hear her speak for the first time. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe she survived. I remember holding her hand a few seconds before the accident. She was scared. She looked worn-out when I first saw her on the plane. But she now looks healthy and strong. Our last moments on the bus, before being ejected out of the bus, flash through my mind like an action movie.
“You can sit if you want. I will be leaving soon. I just need to finish coloring this drawing,” she says.
“Thank You…take your time” I answer as I sit confused. I don’t know what to tell her. She doesn’t seem to remember me. Maybe she doesn’t remember much of that day or of me since we barely talked and she barely looked at me.
“I love seeing people make memories. It makes me smile and hope,” she says with a smile on her face. “Memories are hopes we…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She blows on the paper.
“More and more people should take pictures, draw memories and write memories down so that you always get time to see them when you want. They’re so precious.”
I listen attentively. Not missing one word as they each sink in my spirit. She picks up one drawing at a time and takes a look at them with a big smile on her face. The first drawing is the father holding his son’s hand, the second drawing is the father putting a Band-Aid on his son’s knee and the third drawing is the father pushing his sun on the swing.
The girl stands and walks to the father and his son. “This is for you,” she says giving the drawings to the father. The man looks at them and shows his son.
“Thank you, they’re amazing,” he tells her.
She smiles. “Keep the memories alive, every day.” she tells the father. She walks back to the table and gathers her things.
“At the end of a life, the memories remind us of the purpose of each life…to impact another for the better.” She says. I want to utter something but I don’t know what to say. She has poured so much wisdom. I would like to say something in return. It might be the right time to tell her who I am but here come her five brothers. Three Black boys, one Hispanic boy and a White boy. They all look tuff and cool in their rich kid’s clothes. I’m starting to doubt this whole rich looking brothers and sisters from a foster home story.
“Is he bothering you?” one of the boys asks.
“No I’m okay, he was just asking for the table. We can go now,” she answers. All the boys give me bad looks as they walk away. “It was good talking to you.”
“I just want to say,” I blurt out. She slows her steps and turns to me to wait for the rest of my sentence. “I’m the other survivor of the bus accident. I just wanted to meet you and see how you’re doing.” My confession angers her brothers who decide to walk her away.
“Stay away from her.” they warn me. She seems to want to talk to me but they’re keeping her and taking her away and I can’t do anything about it. They walk away and I take slow steps back to Zaine and Lucille.
“So?” Lucille asks.
“I don’t know her name yet, but I know it’s her and we’re going to speak again…soon.” I answer.
“Two decisions made in one day. Two decisions to move forward.” I utter.
“They were good decisions. I chose to move forward by helping my mother celebrate the life of my father.” I add. “That must have taken a lot of courage.” Dieudonné states.
“Adding to it, I chose to move forward by building a friendship based on a common past.”
“Crazy.”Dieudonné tells me.
“Indeed but those decisions changed the way I looked at the past.”