Island Secrets

Christobel was a free-spirited beauty everyone liked. They endearingly called her “Chris,” and she seemed to prefer that. She greeted you with a pearly white smile that sparkled up to her eyes. Snake eyes, her father called them. She had been a mischievous little girl whose mischief matured into something resembling evil. Secrets and lies provided the necessary cover of her true self, but she couldn’t help it. She was born that way.

The island paradise was vibrant with nature and filled with days where the sun’s rays smiled down on you and the warmth kissed your skin. Palm trees swayed to the rhythm of the gentle breeze, and crystal blue waters caressed the numerous beaches along the coastline. Tourists loved sunbathing here, breathing in the fresh air, eating savory seafood, and sampling the many delectable dishes prepared by the nimble fingers of hands used to making their way around Caribbean kitchens. Everything was perfect, on the surface, at least – as long as it wasn’t hurricane season. That was a whole other story. The last few decades of rising temperatures and receding shorelines were wreaking havoc on this otherwise heavenly place. Everything was affected, really. But natives simply carried on with life. What else could they do? No great foreign nation was going to rescue their economy, so they did the best they could. That’s what they always did. They were survivors after all. A now underdeveloped nation, they had survived slavery and colonialism, exploitation, abandonment, and even so-called humanitarianism. They push past all of it and exude hospitality to strangers. It’s as if they can’t help it, it’s in their blood to treat others with kindness and caring. These island survivors found a way to the happy life – ignore what you could, bear what you couldn’t, fight when you had to, and laugh your way into joy. So many things got passed down through the generations of survivors: some good, some bad, some healthy, some not, but you gotta do what you gotta do. And almost no one knew what Chris’ mother had to do.

Agatha was born in a poor fishing village of people whose reddish-brown complexions matched the fertile soil. Vegetation sprung up everywhere, but making a living was limited in such an underdeveloped place. Fishing was always available, so was basket weaving and a few other arts. It’s as if basket weaving chose Agatha, because that’s what her mother did, and her mother’s mother, and a long line of mothers before her. They were talented artisans. Back in the day, owners took the handcrafted wonders and sold them abroad, making huge profits without as much as two pennies going back to the people who made them. These days, however, artisans were able to market their own goods and make a decent living. Tourists always wanted something to show for their travels, and Agatha was happy to oblige them. She made baskets and other items, large and small.

Her trips on market days always seemed to add a special skip to her step and twinkle at the corners of her mouth. It was nice to make her own money. It was nice that on market days she could melt away into the arms of the one so dear to her heart. She pictured her future self away from the source of her deepest heartache, the man she was felt forced to marry for her family’s economics. She walked towards her village and passed by an iron cannon partly lodged in the ground, a relic of the past French, Spanish, and English wars for ownership of the island. Clutching her day’s earnings tighter, she muttered, “Men, dem. Always tekeen’ what not deirz!” She let out a sigh and thought about tucking away some of her money into its hiding place. Moments later, she crossed the threshold into the abyss. She felt herself scrambling to get a meal prepared and onto his plate. There was no “Thank you, honey.” No pat. No kiss. No sweet gesture to let her know that the meal was appreciated. Just a fart, and not even an “Excuse me,” to go with it. It was like living with a pig.

Time dragged on, year after year, and Agatha somehow stayed in her right mind. Well, one might say there was a little craziness; she did what she did and convinced herself that it was all about survival. Maybe it was. Every so often she had that pep in her step and twinkle at the corners of her mouth. Market days turned into additional trips away from home, and all she had to show for it was a well-kept stash of money, and a coding system. Her coding system was her way of keeping track of which child belonged to which man. Any child fathered by Agatha’s dream man was given a name that began with “C,” like her oldest child, Christobel. Then there was Charles, Alethia, Cedric, and Andre.

It was all such a very well-kept secret . . . until it wasn’t. Nothing could have predicted the way life would laugh at those who tried their best to tiptoe around the most sacred secrets.

Agatha’s fifth and youngest child, Andre, was fortunate to find a great opportunity. He was brainy and talented, and the overseas university athletic scholarship he was granted required rigorous daily training. He was destined to be the next Usain Bolt. His ascent to stardom was swift. He was top for the 200-metre sprint, the 100-metre sprint, and gave runners a run for their money with the 400-meter sprint. He was a champion at collegiate regional events and national events. He was as much a likeable guy as he was a formidable athlete. In his sophomore year he decided to run for student government and was elected vice president. He had a promising future.

Professors generally admired him, even if they didn’t like him. He was just one of those people whose work ethic and integrity compelled others to see the greatness in him. Understandably, it was the talk of the campus when Andre collapsed at training one day. Just like that, no heads-up. Just boom! He was on the ground. The ambulance rushed him to the Emergency Room, and medical personnel hitched him up to this machine and that machine. They poked and prodded for blood and other bodily samples, and performed an EKG, an MRI, an echocardiogram, and on and on. The doctor emerged and informed his coaching staff that Andre would need to stay in the hospital while they delved deeper into what looked like a heart problem: dilated cardiomyopathy. After more testing and collecting family history information, the doctors decided they should do some genetic testing which would allow them to enter Andre’s information into a medical database. They drew more blood and proceeded with that process.

Back on the island, a few of Andre’s siblings were getting restless and wanted to come and see him. They planned the trip, bought tickets, and headed to Andre’s bedside. They clearly loved each other and would do anything for their little brother.

About six weeks later, the genetic testing results revealed a couple of genes out of sequence. Andre had a particular cardiac gene mutation, and given the family health history, it was a good idea to explore it with respect to the other siblings. Funds were raised, blood was drawn, and the process began. Another six weeks passed, and then results were available. Medically speaking, the results were unpredictable but not entirely unexpected. One other sibling showed the same gene mutation as Andre, so doctors would do further testing to see if any disease progression had begun in that sibling. It was explained to them that in a family, not all the members would have the gene mutation that was present in some of the members. This genetic thing was fascinating! They wanted to know more. They wanted to explore their roots. Where would it lead them, and what would they discover?

So, it began. And it didn’t end well.

Christobel’s suspicions were confirmed – some of her siblings had different paternity results, and DNA doesn’t lie.

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