Suitcase Of Dreams

We had a picture-perfect start to 1999. It was the year I would turn 18, a major milestone. This was the age when I thought I would be free from parental control. I should have known better, because Mom was having none of it. Once you lived under her roof, you will always be a child to her no matter your age. She consistently repeat, “Two woman cah live een a one house.” These were the bounda-ries she created. Everyone knew their role and how to play them.

Coming from the Caribbean our educational system there was quite different, so my grades were adjusted to fit that of the American educational system. I sent out college applications, and I was preparing myself for graduation, SATs, and Regents state exams. For someone who is ac-customed to tropical weather, January had felt like the coldest month of the winter, and I am fortunate enough to be born in it. In all my years of growing up, I had never had a birthday party because money was always an issue. So, for my 18th birthday, I asked Mom if it would be okay to throw a party at the house. Back then, house par-ties were the rage. Mom said if I worked and saved half the money, she and Dad would put up the other half and throw me a party. I was determined to make this party happen. A month before the party, I bought two packs of invitations, took them to school and invited fifty of my classmates. There was someone special I needed to extend an invitation to as well. His name was Caleb. He was my teenage sweetheart back on the island when I was about fifteen. I reached out to him by phone and elaborated to him all the reasons he needed to make this party. He ac-cepted my invitation.

I started to notice some differences in the way Mom acted towards us. Mom was strict and was very fond of yelling, but somehow all of that was changing. Instead of getting frustrated at the simple things we did or did not do, she would just laugh. There was a sincerity in her laughter, and as much as I loved seeing that smile on her face, there was something wrong with her physical appearance. She had struggled with weight issues most of her life, and no matter what she did, she just wouldn't lose the weight. However, now I noticed a slight shift in her body weight. She was unusually pale, and there was sadness and pain in her eyes. She looked different. But she kept smiling.

At age eighteen, a lot of things mattered to me. My God I was vain! I was obsessed with my appearance. I loved wearing heels, my nails were done every two weeks, and I was obsessed with shoes. You name it, I had it: heels, flats, sandals, sneakers, boots. I spent a lot of time and money at the salon, and I spent a lot of money on hair dye. Naturally, for my birthday everything had to be spe-cial. I woke up early and was dismayed to find it sleeting but I was determined to not let the weather mess up my plans. I headed for the nail and hair salons. The weather did not improve as the day went on, and I wondered why Mother Nature was hellbent on spoiling my first birthday party ever. Why couldn't it just be cold and no rain? Why did it have to be both? I was afraid no one would show up, but I had to be as persistent as the weather. I went to the 99 Cent store, picked up my balloons, and headed home. Mom worked incredibly hard, standing in the kitch-en all day cooking, then helping me decorate the living room for the party.

I had always thought my best body assets were my breasts, so I would wear things that accentuated them. For the party, I remember buying a long, sheer white top and a white tank top to wear under it. I paired this with a red velvet skirt with a very high split to the side and complet-ed the ensemble with a pair of black suede, open-heel sti-lettos. I ruled the world for one night, and for the first time in a long time, my hair was long and its natural color, black. My two best friends Ro and Zoe were present, and even if no one else showed up, I still would have been happy because my sister, brother, mom, and dad were there.

I anxiously awaited to see Caleb. He too had immi-grated to the U. S. He was tall, brown, and quiet. His qui-etness was quite mysterious to me. I was always curious to know what he was thinking.

I remember the first day I laid eyes on Caleb. I felt all sorts of weird sensations. My heart beat fast, my chest ached, my mouth went dry, and my stomach was in knots. If only he knew the effect, he had on me! I’d had infatua-tions with boys before, but not like this. Something hap-pened to me the day I saw him. I gave him the key to my heart, and he never gave it back. Every time I was with him, I became overwhelmed with emotions. I wanted to hold him and never let him go. I remember being speech-less the first time he kissed me, wishing he wouldn’t stop. He was taller than me, so I had to get on my toes just to reach him. His face used to fit perfectly in my hand. I felt as if I was floating on air, and I wanted to stay with him and kiss him until the sun came up. Then it hit me that if my mom came and found me, I would have been in a world of trouble, so we said goodbye. He vanished into the night as he walked back to his village over the hill, while I went home. He didn’t show up on the night of my 18th birthday party.

Though disappointed that my crush was a no-show, I was happy and pleasantly surprised that most of my classmates braved the weather to come and celebrate with me. When it came time for me to cut the cake, my mom walked over and gave me a hug, kissed me on the cheek, and said, “I love you, and I am so proud of you.” Who was this person, and what had she done with my mother? Showing affection openly was not something we did in my family. Oh my God! Something was wrong. That hug felt like a goodbye hug.

Tears rolled out my eyes like waves on a California beach. It was the first time my mom had said the “L” word, and she had said it when a lot of people were around. Her eyes had a strange yellow glow, and her com-plexion was pale, but to see this, you had to carefully ob-serve her. I wondered what was happening to my mother, whom I admired so much, who had made it this far in life without an education yet raised such well-rounded chil-dren. In my heart, I knew something was wrong with her, but I didn’t want to admit it. My woman’s intuition was activated even before I knew what it was. After the hug from my mom, my brother, who was now eight months old, walked over to my cake, sank both his hands into it and began eating. His entire face was soon covered in ic-ing.

After the party ended, my guests went home, leaving me with a big mess to clean. I was so tired that cleaning was the last thing on my mind. Fortunately, my two best friends Ro and Zoe stayed back to help me, even though they too were exhausted. The three of us sat in the kitchen around the table, feet up, discussing who should start the dishes, who should sweep the floor, and who was going to take out the garbage.

Mom came into the kitchen and heard us debating the choices and said unselfishly, “Go to bed. I’ll clean up here.”

I hesitated for just a second because she had done so much already. I knew she was tired too, but I didn’t argue with her. We went to bed. I lay in my bed and pondered what was going on. Normally, Mom would have said, “Your party, your friends, your mess. Then you have to clean up.” This was not my mother. I did not recognize this person. My mother was letting me get away with not cleaning up my mess. She never ceased to amaze me. The next morning, I got up to find the place spotless, as if nothing had happened the night before. To think about it today, it still brings tears to my eyes.

I was out on winter break from school and then it was time to go back. I’d had a wonderful Christmas and birth-day, so I felt good when going back to school. I had dyed my hair red, and being 18 years old, I felt like a grown woman. Who was like me? I was the queen of the world; I ruled. I liked the idea of being 18. It meant I was legally responsible for myself, and my mom couldn’t tell me what to do. Despite living in America, my mother was still from the Caribbean, and that meant you were not legal un-til you were 30 or moved out of her house. Mom made sure I understood that. She beat us when she felt it was necessary, but I wasn’t afraid of that; I was more afraid of her yelling. I understood it was frustration that caused her to yell, and that pained me. I hated when she was unhap-py, which wasn’t very often. Bit by bit, the facial expres-sions and yelling subsided.

Time began to move quickly once we went back to school from winter break and returned to our normal rou-tine. Mom did her usual chores like cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the baby. As always, she loved watching her daily stories on TV and would give us updates on what was happening in each episode. The shows were addictive; she even got my dad to start watching them. She took homework very seriously. It was a song my sister and I got tired of hearing. As soon as we walked into the door, the first words out of her mouth were, “Please get your homework done.” She would say this in a strong and stern voice. As always, Lala never had homework, or she al-ways did it either on the bus, or in class, or after school. This always caused a fuss and fight between the two. When mom was fussing, we dared not answer back. We could fight with her in our heads, but never could there be a verbal exchange. My sister was not as good a student as I was. She was more of a hands-on learner than an aca-demic. Her report card average was usually around 65%, while I was always on the honor roll. Mom constantly ar-gued with her about this, and it made her feel that Mom favored me over her. Perhaps Mom didn’t use the best approach, but it was all she knew.

Mom’s attitude towards us changed. She didn’t disci-pline us as much as she once did. The forceful mother I knew grew soft on me. She laughed a lot more than usual. My mom was very good at pretending—all that time, she was experiencing excruciating pain and kept it to herself.

By the time May of 1999 rolled around, Mom’s eyes had gotten weaker and the yellowness had intensified. She had begun locking herself in the closet, a behavior that was so unlike her. These closet visits were much too fre-quent. I remember asking my sister, “Do you know why she’s always in the closet?” Lala usually gave the same response, “She is cleaning.” I would protest, “But she just cleaned the closet yesterday.” Since we were kids, nothing ever bothered her, so Mom’s being in the closet every day didn’t seem to be cause for concern. Dad didn’t seem to be paying attention either. It seemed like I was the only one who noticed something was wrong.

Often, I would hear little sniffles, like she was crying. When I opened the closet door and asked what the matter was, the answer was always, “Allergy,” or, “Some dust got into my eyes, so they are watering.” I would suggest she get out, but she always insisted that the closet had to be cleaned. Something was very wrong. I just couldn’t figure it out. In Mom’s mind, things were always fine, and any ailment could be cured with painkillers.

I spoke to Dad about Mom’s unusual behavior, and we made a collective decision to stage an intervention. We got her out of the closet and demanded she tell us what was happening. After constantly pressuring her, she final-ly confessed. “I have been having some really sharp pains in my stomach that are unbearable,” she said.

Day after day the pain got worse. Even after she had told us about it, she would still put on that happy face to fool us into believing she was doing fine, but we knew differently. We begged and begged her to seek medical at-tention, but she stubbornly declined. Things began to get confusing and frustrating. She refused to do things she used to find pleasure in. She slowly became uninterested in the everyday chores she used to like. The same woman who scolded us about sleeping late was missing Guiding Light every mornings.

We pressed her to find out more about the pain, but she kept saying, “I’m fine.” After weeks of uselessly try-ing to convince her to go to the doctor, we kind of just gave up. We decided the pain must not have been that bad if she is refusing to see a doctor. We began to ignore it.

On my brother’s birthday, May 8 1999, we bought him a cake. Mom, Lala, and I sat in the living room of our two-bedroom apartment and watched him make a mess of himself as he ate. Daddy was not there. Like Lala, he had this nonchalant attitude, and never showed interest in any-thing other than going to work. I hated that about him. Mom usually made excuses for him. She often said it was because he was working so hard, and I guess a part of me realized that. I understood we needed the money but, as his daughter, I still expected him to be an active father. He was still a great father to us but missed out on a lot by working too much. Still, even without my father’s pres-ence, that day was beautiful. Mom must have been feeling better because she didn’t show any sign of pain; that day, she was all smiles and laughter.

It wouldn’t last. When she couldn’t tolerate the pain any longer, she finally told Dad the pain was back, and it was worse than before. She said she thought it might be gas, and proceeded to fix it with old-time remedies, like drinking hot water, ginger tea, and sweet sugar water—none of which worked. I saw the panic in her eyes. She was afraid of the unknown. It was frightening to us not knowing what she was going through or being able to feel what she was feeling and to top it off, she continued to refuse to see a doctor. We tried every tactic we could, but she was so darn stubborn.

After weeks of pain, her body couldn’t take anymore. She finally made an appointment to see a doctor. That made us happy; now we could finally find out the cause of the horrible pain in her stomach. At first, the doctor him-self didn’t know what was wrong with her. He gave her some medication and told her it was gas, her initial self-diagnosis. This infuriated me because the medication did not work; it only made things worse. The pain did not subside. Our worry intensified. She kept on saying, “Trust in the God we serve; he’ll make things better.” I had no faith, and, in my ignorance, I said, “Trust in God? He is the reason you are suffering like this!” She hated when I talked like that because she understood the ways of God in ways I just could not. I didn’t comprehend trusting in a God you couldn’t see or converse with interactively. But she continued espousing all her biblical teaching.

After the medications didn’t work, the doctor ran a series of tests including blood, kidney, and bladder—anything he thought might be associated with stomach pain. After the test results came back, the doctor quickly called and said Mom had a lump around her kidney area. We were now in June of 1999. By the time her condition was diagnosed, her appetite had almost disappeared com-pletely. For the first two weeks of June, she had hardly eaten anything. By the third week, she began to vomit. In our ignorance and inexperience, we really didn’t take it seriously, until Mom said one day, “If only you guys can feel what I feel inside. I feel as if I’m going to die.” When I told my dad what she had said, his response was, “She loves calling death on herself.” I believe he was in a state of denial.

Our family and the extended family on Dad’s side had planned to take a vacation that summer, which was ill-timed due to my mother’s illness but there were more to the planned vacation. One of my mother’s first cousin whom she was closed with was getting married. His name was Jim. Jim was also close to daddy’s family and that’s why they were all in St. Vincent. Dad and I decided to stay back with Mom and the baby because of Mom’s condi-tion. The morning, Lala woke up and got ready for her eight-hour journey. Dad loaded his white Chevy van with her suitcases for her to take the reverse journey we had taken two years before. As Lala got ready to walk out the door, she opened Mom’s bedroom door to say goodbye. Mom sat on her bed as if she had been waiting all night for my sister to come in. With a huge hug, Mom said to her, “Take care of yourself, and come back in one piece, be-cause your father and sister are going to need you.”

What the hell was that about? Mom was never that expressive, these expressions of love were becoming regular. This was very strange: a hug and a kiss, telling Lala to be careful. Yep, something must be terribly wrong. It was as if they would never see each other again. Without a doubt, that was goodbye.