She’d clench her hands. My dad, my mother said, was stuck down the road, hiding with one of the old women under her kitchen sink, but the second the water twister stopped roaring, he leapt up and ran through that storm to find us—both my mom and me sitting in a tub of bloody water. Even though it was a whole month early, I might as well have been in her stomach a year, I was so big and loud, wailing over the wind and rain. Almost like I didn’t really belong in this world. Hurricane just tore me from the spirit world and spat me out into this one instead. She’d kiss my cheek and touch my hair.
My mom never told me what it means to be a Hurricane Child. She never put that in her story. But I hear what it means when the old women from down the road come by, from their dead friend who whispers it under her breath. That it’s a curse, being born during a hurricane. I won’t have an inch of luck for the rest of my days, and sadness will follow me wherever I go.
And he called you little sorrow.
Well, I step on that curse and spit on it too.
I don’t need this world’s luck to live. I don’t even need anyone to like me.
I’ve just got to focus on one thing: finding my ma. That’s all I’ll ever need.
My ma and I would sometimes sing at the top of our lungs like we didn’t care if everyone in the world could hear us, and together, we would sing calypso and soca and old-time reggae, but alone, she would sing her softer songs.
Why you wanna fly, Blackbird?
I don’t know anything about blackbirds, because I’ve never seen one with my own eyes, but I know that I am one all the same. When we sang as loud as we could, my mom would pick me up and swing me over her head and I would scream and we’d both near fall with laughing. Knew I’d never be loved again as much as when I was loved by my mother. Never be loved that way again.
The very last time my mother was not so close to me that she could touch, but she was still closer than she is now, is when she was sending those postcards. And I think that maybe the very last postcard she sent is exactly where she is now.
My father did not throw those postcards away. I know that he has stored them in a room that no one sleeps in, beside the gardening tools and old books, stacks of picture books and board books that my mother used to read to me. There are bins of unused cards. She used to buy cards in advance and would collect HAPPY BIRTHDAY cards and CONGRATULATIONS! cards and I’M SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS cards so she would always be prepared for a forgotten birthday or an unexpected passing.
The bins are filled with these cards, but I don’t see my mother’s postcards anywhere, so I look and look and look and uproot the bins, and when I’ve gone through every single last card, I look inside the picture books too, in case the cards have been used as bookmarks, and I look behind the gardening tools and inside the cupboards and try not to cry with how frustrated I am. My hands are covered with paper cuts. And finally, I sit back and admit that the postcards are nowhere to be found.
My father appears behind me, concern on his face. “Caroline, what’re you doing?”
I wasn’t expecting him, and he’s scared me so much that my heart is beating like a hummingbird’s wings and is warm in my chest, the way it is when I suddenly shoot up in my bed, awake with fear from a nightmare. “I’m looking for something.”
“I can see that. What’re you looking for?”
I hesitate. If I told him, would he realize I’m looking for my mom? Or would he simply show me where he’s stored the postcards?
I decide to take a risk. “I’m looking for the postcards Ma used to send us.”
“Oh.” He crosses his arms. “Why would you want those?”
I open my mouth, and a lie slips out before I’ve even had a chance to think of one. “I have a school project about world geography, and I thought I would choose one of the countries she traveled to.”
“Oh,” he says again. “Well, I threw those cards away a long time ago.”
I try to stop the disappointment that crashes down around me, but I must not do a very good job, because my father gives me a smile and helps me to my feet. “I have some ideas for countries to do a project on,” he says. “There are many countries I’ve been to.”
This isn’t something I knew about my father. I’ve known my father my entire life, and he knew me even before my life began, so it’s a funny notion, that I still have to get to know him.
Missus Wilhelmina’s classroom is alight with excitement the next morning. That kind of excitement never bodes well for me. Usually the heads bent together and sharp spikes of laughter mean that Anise has something planned. I step inside, expecting everyone to start throwing books at my head, but I breathe with relief when their gazes barely flicker to me. Breathe with relief—that almost makes me sound afraid. I
