Clot - No More Secrets...

It was as if we had found the long lost key to communication between my mother and me. We talked for a while about how much life was going to change and how excited we were about our full time role as parents. The levy broke and I tried to manage the flood of words that poured from me, before my mother’s mood changed. I had seen the swing many times before.

           Sure enough, she seemed slowly consumed by a creeping depression. She had something to share as well, she confessed. She seemed apologetic as she began, saying that she still struggled with knowing and keeping this thing from me all these years. My wife held my hand and nodded. This was it, the one thing I wanted. There would be no more secrets between us. It would be a conversation I would never forget and my last moment of blissful ignorance.

Clot - Mother

“Welcome.” She says hugging me tightly, and then my wife.

“Come in, come in. I made some lime juice, it’s been so hot and on a day like this its great with ice.” Like most houses on the island my mother’s house has two porches so you can sit away from direct sunlight at anytime of the day. We followed her into the front porch, which is elevated about four feet.  It is bordered by a white, waist high, decorative, wrought iron rail. As we climbed the steps I admired the care and detail of the craftsmanship as she ushered us to chairs, whose design matched the rail with seats and backs covered by a pale green cushion. She poured us some lime juice over ice, before reaching for a glass she had been drinking from.

“You look good.” She said, locking eyes with me before looking at Nayasha. “You both do.”

I looked into her eyes and saw only part of the woman I knew. She looked tired and defeated. My heart sank. I focused on our news and smiled.

“How are you Mother?”

“I fear that the spirit is far more willing than the flesh.” She said with another strong willed smile. It was the manner of speech adopted by elders on the island, when they had made peace with their mortality and their God. “But I’m sure that you two have far happier news of your own.”

My wife shot me a side glance as a smile teased the corners of her mouth.

“Don’t look at me.” I said with my hands to the heavens. “I haven’t said a word.”

“I’m sorry dear.” My mother said reaching for Nayasha’s hand. “I didn’t mean to spoil your news, but I have delivered my share of children. I am familiar with the glow of a first time mother. Congratulations.” Nayasha was touched and squeezed my mother’s hand before kissing both her cheeks.

“Thank you Mom.” Nayasha said. I sat back and smiled, feeling the corners of my eyes moisten. I have rarely seen my mother as open or emotional. She looked at me and smiled with considerably less effort.

“Thank you. This is a beautiful gift for us all and I love you both…that is to say the three of you.” Still holding one of Nayasha’s hands she reached for my hand. As we held hands and wept and laughed I felt like we were making amends for the past. Our unborn child had already given us so much and I gained a deeper appreciation for the wisdom of my wife.

Clot - Home

I have not been back since but as we drive to the house now I am surprised by the sense of familiarity and my own calm. My wife reaches over and gently squeezes my thigh.  

“What are your thinking?” She asks as our rental idles in traffic.

“She sounded calm…almost happy.” I say with a grimace.

“Shouldn’t she be happy to see her son?”

“I suppose.” I say shrugging. “She’s probably going to be happier to see you. You’re a lot easier on the eyes.”

“Oh, you’re not so bad.” She says smiling as the traffic eases.

The traffic alternates between standstill and free flowing and it is clear, at least to us, that there might be entirely too many cars on these narrow roads. I guess this is not different to many places around the world but the disparity between the haves and the havenots is more visible when a country is just short of 2000sq miles.

Large houses are alternatively adjacent to or opposite shantys and this is always a recipe for social anxiety and invariably crime. As we near my mother’s house what I remembered as a mostly rural area has become a more densely populated middle to upper class neighborhood.

The street was now paved and wider than I recalled. More than a fresh coat of lime green paint gave the house a different look. It was the presence of life that made the real difference.

The sun was high in the sky and as we rolled to a stop in front the house a gentle breeze seemed to be welcoming us. The house built by my mother’s father is also warm, modest and comfortable. The modifications made by my mother over the years though, have hidden most of the house’s beauty in favor of privacy. 

She has always been so private, isolated from me. The emotions come rushing back, suddenly I’m eight again and I am filled with anxiety. Often I have felt more than history and circumstance between us, preventing communication and now the feeling is overwhelming. For a moment we sit silently as I try to find a sense of clam. My hairs stand on end.

“Richard, are you okay?” My wife asks.

“I’m fine.” I say reaching over to kiss her.

“You look pale darling.”

“You’re the pregnant one.” I say smiling. “Lets go in.”

As we approach the wrought iron gate my mother emerges from the house. Her dark brown eyes are alert and she looks younger than her years, still I can tell that her illness has taken a toll. Her steps are more deliberate and the simple act of smiling now seems to require a considerable effort. Her hair, which was a streaky gray when last I saw her, is now completely gray and neatly pinned up in a bun.

 She opens the gate and reveals a long white dress, adorned by deep red roses. Even struggling with illness, she is a beautiful sight. 

Clot - Past

My mother is one of the great mysteries of my life. Beautiful, determined and distant and I am my mother’s son. I suppose, in ways I am yet to understand, I share some of my father’s traits as well.

I have always felt my mother’s reluctance to take me to her birthplace. She moved to New York, before I was born, and I was raised as an American.  It would be some time before I discovered my Caribbean roots.

She was a hard working doctor who never pursued the more glamorous positions that were within reach. I knew she was good at her job. She often received flowers and cards from patients and their families, but she kept everyone at a professional distance. She rarely invited anyone to our apartment. I had been to the clinic where she worked only a handful of times. I was kept busy with school, sports and martial arts and told very little of her history until, it seems, she felt I was old enough to understand. But what was there to understand I thought? Our conversations were often strained and I struggled with the belief that her near perpetual depression was somehow my doing.

On the occasions that she did share stories about her home I would learn cursory tidbits about family and of the rich culture, beautiful people, diverse cusine and beautiful beaches. It sounded like an island paradise full of potential, one that would benefit from the services of a willing, educated patriot. Still, I concede that a boy of almost eight is ill equipped to understand the challenges of being a single mother and immigrant, all he knows is the sound resentment he has for the things he doesn’t understand and the instinct to protect his protector.

There is much I remember about my first trip to Trinidad, not least of which was the picture my mother kept at the house on the island of a friend she called Nicholas. He was a tall white man whose skin appeared unaffected by the warm climate. I felt strangely close to him and I could tell that he and my mother shared a deep bond. 

Clot - Morning

After I return from a jog and shower, she is awake, rubbing her stomach and smiling at me in a way that reminds me of promises made.

“Did you get any sleep my darling?” She asks.

“Some.” I say toweling my still damp hair. She makes room on the bed and continues.

“I think this trip will be good for all of us. There is alot unsaid between you and your mother, perhaps you will find time to clear things between you.”

“Perhaps.” I say stroking her hair.

Nayasha is a professor of History at Brooklyn College. She comes from a Jamaican, Irish background and is always working on improving relations between my mother and I. Blood, she always says, is important.

“Does she know how soon we’ll be there?”

“She knows we’re coming, but I thought it would be better to give her our news in person.” I say smiling.

“I know I’m not showing, but I do feel different.” She says rubbing her still flat stomach.

“As do I.” I say looking into her eyes.

“You’ll be a great father Richard, even if you never find out any more about your own.” She says touching my face. “Now get dressed, or not, and I’ll make us some breakfast.” She kisses me softly and disappears into the bathroom, taking my smile with her. I understand that I will lose her if I don’t face my demons. She was right, this trip would be good for us. It could no longer be avoided.