'Are you sure you're okay?'
'You think it's unhealthy, don't you? My sudden dependence on you.'
'As long as you're all right.'
'How is my granddaughter?'
'Fine. How about you? How is your situation?'
'I can't sleep. Are you coming this weekend?'
'On Saturday,' I said.
'I am really happy we have this time again.'
'Me too.'
'I got a telegram from Manman today. She said everything is ready now for her funeral. She's glad about that.'
'Did you tell her that you're pregnant?'
'I'll tell her when I'm further along. I don't want her to worry about me going crazy again.'
'You sure you're feeling all right?'
'Better. Maybe this child, she's getting used to me. Man-man tells me she's worried Atie will die from chagrin. Louise left a big hole in her. It's sad.'
'She loved her.'
'Atie will live. She always has.'
I heard Marc's voice offering her some scrambled eggs.
'I'll wait for you on Saturday,' she said.
'Bye, Mama.'
'Bye, my star.'
I sat up and wrote Tante Atie a letter. Now that she was reading, I wanted to send her something that only her eyes could see, something that she didn't have to have other people listen to. I imagined her standing there next to me, as we reminisced about the konbit potlucks, the lotteries we almost never won, and our dead relatives who we had such a kinship to, as though they were our restless spirits, shadows wandering in the darkness as our bodies slipped into bed.
Chapter 32
My therapist was a gorgeous black woman who was an initiated Santeria priestess. She had done two years in the Peace Corps in the Dominican Republic, which showed in the brightly colored prints, noisy bangles, and open sandals she wore.
Her clinic was in a penthouse overlooking the Seekonk River. 'You pulled a sudden disappearing act last week,' she said as I looked over the collection of Brazilian paintings and ceremonial African masks on her walls.
She put out a cigarette while looking through my file. 'Let's go for a stroll so you can tell me all about it.'
We usually had our sessions in the woods by the river.
'So what is happening in your life?' she asked, waving a stick towards a stray dog behind us.
I told her about my sudden trip to Haiti, the trip that had caused me to miss my appointment the week before. I told her about my mother coming for me and my finding out that my grandmother, and her mother before her, had all been tested.
'I thought we were going to do some more work before you could actually try confrontational therapy,' she said.
'I wasn't thinking about it as confrontational therapy. I just felt like going. And since Joseph was away I took advantage and went.'
'I know a woman who went back to Brazil and took a jar full of dust from her mother's grave so she would always have her mother line with her. Did you have a chance to reclaim your mother line?'
'My mother line was always with me,' I said. 'No matter what happens. Blood made us one.'
'You're telling me you never hated your mother.'
'I felt a lot of pain.'
'Did you hate her?' she asked.
'Maybe hate is not the right word.'
'We all hate people at one time or another. If we can hate ourselves, why can't we hate other people?'
'I can't say I hated her.'
'You don't want to say it. Why not?' she asked.
'Because it wouldn't be right, and maybe because it wouldn't be true.'
'Maybe? You hesitate-'
'She wants to be good to me now,' I said, 'and I want to accept it.'
'That's good.'
'I want to forget the hidden things, the conflicts you always want me to deal with. I want to look at her as someone I am meeting again for the first time. An acquaintance who I am hoping will become a friend. I grew up believing that people could be in two places at once. Meeting for the first time again is not such a hard concept.'
We watched a crew team paddling across the river.
'Did you ask your grandmother why they test their daughters?' she asked.
'To preserve their honor.'
'Did you express your anger?'
'I tried, but it was very hard to be angry at my grandmother. After all she was only doing something that made her feel like a good mother. My mother too.'
'And how was it, seeing your mother?'
'She is pregnant now.'
'So she is in a relationship.'
'It's the same man she was involved with when I was there.'
'Are they married?'
No.
'They sleep together?'
'Obviously.'
'Did she sleep with him when you were home?' she asked.
'She would never have a man in the house when I was home. It would be a bad example.'
'How does it make you feel knowing that she slept with someone? Don't you feel betrayed that after all these years, she does the very thing that she didn't want you to do?'
'I can't feel mad anymore.'
A jogging couple bumped my shoulders as they raced by.
'Why aren't you mad anymore?' she asked.
'I feel sorry for her.'
'Why?'
'The baby, it's roused up a lot of old emotions in my mother.'
'What kinds of emotions?'
'Maybe emotions is not the word. It's brought back images of the rape.'
'Like you did.'
'Yes,' I said. 'Like I did.'
'What about your father? Have you given him more thought?'
'I would rather not call him my father.'
'We will have to address him soon. When we do address him, I'll have to ask you to confront your feelings about him in some way, give him a face.'
'It's hard enough to deal with, without giving him a face.'
'Your mother never gave him a face. That's why he's a shadow. That's why he can control her. I'm not
