The Roving Tree. Elsie Augustave

      Chapter 7

       Or will it mend the road before,

       To grieve for that behind?

      —Walter C. Smith

      Mom wrote a book about Haiti,” I told Pépé, who had come to our home with Latham the day after we arrived in New York for the holidays.

      “Your father helped me meet the right people to make it happen,” Mom said. “You must have been about two or three when we were there.”

      “I can’t remember meeting any of you.”

      Mom smiled and twirled her glasses. “You were too young.”

      “I told my father about Iris,” Pépé said, “but he didn’t know she was Latham’s goddaughter.”

      “I’m meeting two friends at a jazz club,” Cynthia butted in. “You two are welcome to join me.” She then turned to Latham. “Is it okay if Pépé spends the night? We’ll probably come back late.”

      “It’s up to Pépé. Any plans for tomorrow?”

      “Shopping in the city,” I answered.

      “Here’s the key to the loft. You can drop Pépé back there whenever you like.”

      “Pépé should just stay here with the girls. It will probably be more fun for her,” Mom suggested.

      “That’s a good idea,” Latham said.

      Continuing the tradition that started three years earlier, Cynthia and I were in charge of Christmas dinner. We roasted a turkey with chestnut stuffing and baked broccoli soufflé. Pépé made spicy rice and beans. Latham, who almost always shared our Christmas dinner, brought some of the best French wines. Mom baked a pumpkin pie. Dad’s duty was to play Christmas carols on the stereo. When the meal ended, we all retired to the living room to share Nat King Cole’s Christmas spirit.

      The phone rang and Dad picked up the receiver after the third ring. “Could you leave a number where we can call back in half an hour? I can’t talk right now,” I heard him say in French.

      I grew inquisitive when Dad called Mom and Latham to his study. When the three of them emerged about twenty minutes later, they sat down at the dining table where Cynthia, Pépé, and I were having tea.

      “We have some serious news to share,” Dad said in a solemn tone that made me nervous. Somehow, I had a feeling the serious news concerned me. He moved his seat closer to mine, wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and gazed at me. “Life is about good moments and bad moments. We should be grateful for the good ones and strong enough to endure the bad ones.” He lowered his head.

      Unable to think of what this was leading up to, my confusion gave way to irritation and impatience. “Just tell us what happened,” I snapped.

      He covered me with a kind look and softly said, “Hagathe passed away this morning.”

      The room started moving and shutting in on me. Feeling suddenly out of breath, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply as guilt took me by the neck, choking me. I wanted to cry, but no tears came to my eyes. “Why didn’t you take me to her?” I shouted, casting accusatory eyes at both of my parents, though unsure of why I was blaming them. They turned red, but offered no explanation. My mind drowned in a body of doubts and suspicions. The wood burning in the fireplace crackled and the humming of the fan above the stove grew louder in the room that had gone silent.

      “It was her desire for you to travel to Haiti to pay your last respects,” I heard Dad say. “We’ll take the first flight out to Port-au-Prince.”

      Latham, who sat between Pépé and me, reached for our hands and held them in his. “We have something else to say; something that concerns the two of you.” His grip tightened. “Everything happens for a reason, and I think it’s because of destiny that we are all here in this room with Iris in this time of grief.”

      “What is it?” I asked, convinced the lengthy prelude was to prepare me for more bad news.

      “I tried to bring you and Pépé together,” Latham said, turning to me. “I have even prayed the two of you would eventually discover the truth, but now the day has finally come. Brahami just gave me permission to tell you . . . to tell you that you are half sisters.”

      My vision blurred; my heart fluttered. Speechless, I stared at Pépé with empty eyes. She looked away, wiped her silent tears with a bare hand.

      Anger unreasonably stirred inside me again. “What’s with all these secrets?” I blurted.

      Dad gently put an arm around me, and I buried my head in his chest.

      “I’ll call the airlines,” Mom suddenly announced.

      “Please make a reservation for me too,” Pépé said in a shy voice, fixing tearful eyes on me.

      I wanted to thank her, but no sound came from my mouth. Unrest and resentment seethed inside, challenging me.

      “There’s an American Airlines flight at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” Mom said, holding her hand over the telephone mouthpiece.

      * * *

      That night, I couldn’t fall asleep. Questions whirled in my head like an endless drum roll. I wanted to know how my natural parents knew each other and, most of all, I wanted to know why my father had never acknowledged me.

      “I have a headache,” I said, entering Mom and Dad’s bedroom.

      “Come here.” Dad signaled for me to sit. I lay on the bed between them and closed my eyes. Mom left the room and returned with a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water.

      “I’m going to try to sleep now,” I said, after swallowing the pills.

      “Do you want to talk for a while?” Mom asked.

      “I don’t know what to say,” I offered, sitting down again.

      “When we get to Haiti, you should talk openly to Brahami,” Mom suggested.

      “Listen to him with an open mind,” Dad added.

      I left the room, pondering how it would feel to meet the man who fathered me and how I was supposed to have an open mind when all I felt was animosity.

      Just as I was reaching to turn off the lamp, I heard a knock at the door.

      “How are you feeling?” Pépé asked, as she stepped in.

      “Fine. Just fine,” I said, looking into her puffy red eyes.

      “May I sit down?” I ignored the question, but she sat at the foot of the bed anyway. “I don’t understand why Papa never mentioned you.” She paused, as if waiting for a reaction from me. “I wonder if my mother knows about you.”

      I can still hear the urgency and intensity in her voice.

      “What difference does it make? She wasn’t the one who screwed my mother,” I responded in a flash of malice. I watched her delicate features tense up. Her hazel eyes suddenly seemed deeper and darker. I turned away from her, faced the wall, and heard her say good night before closing the door.

      Half an hour later, I was still awake with thoughts of having mistreated Pépé. I eventually fell asleep, wondering how to apologize. I expected to see a reproachful look when I saw her the next morning, but there was only forgiveness. No words were needed, yet a tidal wave of regret still washed over me.

      * * *

      The