The Yellow Hibiscus Chapter 9

I arrived home sooner than I wanted. Inside my apartment, I flung myself on the bed and just cried. My Dad, who had protected me from the everyday tumult of childhood. The school bully; the dentist; when I got my shots, and so much more. When Mom insisted that I was old enough to sleep with the lights out, he bought me my first night light.

When Mom wanted me to be tough, he’d hug me and reassure me that I had the rest of my life to be resilient. He always showered me with kindness and care and was more understanding than Mom, especially when dating.

She was the stricter parent but the best mother a child could want. I propped myself up, rubbing my eyes, reversing back into my childhood years. I never had babysitters; she was always there for me. I cried on my first day in kindergarten because I didn’t want her to leave. She stayed the entire day and for the first two weeks until I settled down. At Elementary school, she took me to school every day.

She never missed a PTA meeting and participated in all Fundraisers my school had. We went through puberty and periods together. They had to be my parents, but why would the Coroner lie about their age? He didn’t have a reason to.

I got up, sat down in front of my dresser’s mirror, scrutinizing myself. I had my father’s brown hair and slender build. I was full-breasted like my Mom, who was shorter. My small pointed nose, which spread across my face when I smiled, and tiny eyes that seemed to close whenever I laughed too much, were paternal. They were the same light brown as my Mom’s.

His DNA shared his dimples that caused a dent in my cheeks whenever I got mad, angry, or smiled. I vividly remember Dad’s broad forehead crowning his oval face. Which, in turn, anchored a relatively small chin that enjoyed the growth of a goatee below his thin lips whenever he felt like changing his Amish appearance. My high cheekbones were maternal.

His pale white complexion that would darken in the summertime, I got.

Sergeant Willoby must be lying. My Dad couldn’t be a Nazi. My cell phone vibrated. I turned it off. I pulled out one of Dr. Sofia Stapleton’s motivational DVDs, which was always a source of great consolation and inspiration for me in times of turmoil. I lay on my bed, tossing to find my most comfortable position.

A brilliant political strategist and a role model for women she is. She was instrumental in opening the political doors for women and is one of the most powerful women in Washington. So impactful was her life on mine that I’d collected all 19 of her motivational DVDs and attended all her seminars and lectures if I could. I admired her approach to the empowerment of women and gender issues. She always seemed to cushion me with comfort and reassurance.

Four DVDs later, I was still feeling horrible. The ringing of my house phone dragged me back to reality. I grabbed the cordless and disconnected it. I propped myself up, rubbing my eyes, reversing deeper into my childhood. My parents never had any friends or family. No one called, wrote, or visited. They were never interested in going to the homes of my friends, even with an invitation. There were always some obstacles.

Their inability to socialize had affected my life more than I realized. Because of that, I didn’t have many friends. My parent’s union seemed bereft of any spark of romance. They were more like friends — than lovers. I never saw them kiss on the mouth, and they had separate bedrooms. Oh God, what am I thinking? They loved me. They were always there for me. They afforded me the best private schools in New York, and I attended New York University for college. They paid for everything. The sergeant was right about one thing. How could they afford me?

My buzzer beeped. I ignored it. It beeped ten more times. Annoyed, I pressed the speaker and shouted, “Go away!”

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