The Other Side of Paradise: A Memoir (25 page)

“Staceyann Marshree Chin! Do you know that in America, I could get arrested for being on the same block with you?”

I am so impressed that he remembers my middle name that I kiss him right smack on the mouth and say, “Well, is a good thing this is not America, eh?”

He collapses into laughter but doesn’t say anything else, and I know that something has changed.

Michael tells the corniest jokes, but he is the first boy to make me really laugh. We spend hours and hours together. But I don’t really know how to get him to ask me to be his girlfriend. Everybody else at school has a boyfriend or a fiancé. I want one too. But I know if I leave it up to Michael we will never do anything. So finally one night I tell him about the kiss I had with Troy. I place my lips on his, in an effort to reenact it. When he kisses me back I know I have something to tell the other girls when I get back on Sunday night.

We play game after game of Scrabble. And he tries to teach me to make cheesecake, but I have no talent for measuring. Eventually he gives up and just makes them himself. We watch CNN while we eat the whole cake in one sitting. When I am not at school, I am in his apartment. And while he goes to work, I spend the afternoon waiting for him to get home. I know Michael would be a good boyfriend; he picks me up from school every Friday and drives me back every Sunday.

Then one balmy Sunday afternoon, with less than three hours to go before curfew, we strip naked and make love. As he enters my body, I am strangely excited that I can finally say I have a serious boyfriend, one with whom I am having sex. Afterward we snuggle and sleep past nightfall. When we awaken, he whispers that he loves me, more than he has ever loved anyone else. And though I am not sure what that means, I sleepily whisper it back.

A
fter five months, I tell Michael that I want to meet his family. His mother is his real family, but since she is all the way in Florida, he takes me to meet his father. I put on my nicest skirt and ask Michael what he thinks. He rolls his eyes and tells me I am taking this thing too seriously. His stepmother is a small, pretty woman who smiles and tells me she is glad to finally meet a special friend of Michael. His baby sister is almost eight years old. She climbs onto my lap and asks me if I am going to marry her big brother. His father, a tall, loud man who looks like an older version of Michael, laughs and asks us when the family can expect the sound of wedding bells. Michael turns copper red and brushes him off with a quick joke.

That night I run upstairs to recount every single detail of the evening to Racquel. I tell her that I’m not so sure that Michael really loves me. If he really loved me, he would not have been so casual when his family asked about our future. Racquel thinks I am overreacting. She says I have to give him time to make up his mind about something as big as forever. She points out that anybody with eyes can see how much Michael loves me, he was probably just nervous around his father. The red-faced joke grows and grows for months, until it becomes proof that he never had any intention to marry me.

I tell Racquel that I am going to break up with Michael if he does not propose to me soon. I tell her that I think he is only using me to pass time. That when he is really ready he will find someone with a real family to marry; someone with a mother, and father, and little sister that he can go home and sit to dinner with. I read all the articles I can find on why men marry.
Cosmopolitan
magazine reports that men are more likely to marry women when they have met their family. I decide I have to take Michael to meet Grandma.

On the ride to Braeton, when Michael makes silly jokes I remind him of how important my grandmother is to me. And when he begs me to relax, I tell him he has to take this meeting seriously. Finally he just sighs and stares out the window. I want to be calm and light, but I can’t. We stop to get mints and Kentucky Fried Chicken for her, but they don’t have the kind she likes. And I am afraid the chicken will be cold by the time we get there. I know that Grandma will be grateful no matter what I
bring, but I want everything to be perfect. I begin to worry that he won’t connect with her, that he will think her stupid or backward. His brooding silence does nothing to alleviate my anxiety.

By the time we arrive, we are both a bundle of twisted nerves and barely controlled annoyance. I stand aside while Grandma shakes his hand and pulls him close. “Pardon me, sir, me don’t hear so good, sir. What you say him name is? Midol?”

“No, Grandma. Michael.”

“Mynat?”

“Michael, like the angel. Mi-chael?”

“My-kill?”

I look over at Michael, who finds the whole thing hilarious.

“Yes, Grandma. That is right. Him name My-kill.”

She reaches for his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. My-kill.” I relax when Michael kisses her and brandishes the fried chicken.

Grandma raises her hand to God. “Stacey, from you was a likkle girl, I tell you that Jesus will always provide for the poor and needy. That is why me have to praise him every day. Oonu go to church on Sunday?”

We look at each other and smile. She takes that as an affirmative. “Well, that is good to know. Is nice to meet you, sir. Thank you fi come visit the poor old woman. You want a drink of something cold?”

“No, ma’am.”

She settles back into her chair and reaches for her mug of iced water. Her movements are slow and even. I ask her if she wants me to braid her hair before we go. “Thank you very much, me chile. I don’t want to keep Mr. My-kill too late, but me was just thinking that it need fi comb. The white hairs them make the head so untidy. As soon as it comb—two-twos, me head start look like rasta.”

Her hair is almost all white. But her shoulders feel like a child’s beneath my hands. I have to tilt and turn and straighten her the way she straightened me years ago. Her scalp is very tender. I am gentle with the comb.

Michael sits on the veranda while Grandma fills me in on the gossip that has come to her through other visitors.

“You remember Miss Icy? You did hear she dead?”

I part the snowy fuzz into equal parts and weave them into sturdy plats.

“And Miss Cherry gone home to Jesus too—you don’t remember Miss
Cherry? Me used to leave you with her when you was a baby and me had to run go Montego Bay?

“And you grandfather—him sick, you know. I hear that him low, low.” I try not to think of the pride with which he walked away from me last. “Stacey, when him dead me have to ask your uncle to take me down for the funeral.”

When we say good-bye, Grandma pauses dramatically and assures us that this will be the last time we see her alive. God is sure to take her before we visit again. I smile and kiss her forehead. She places her hand against my cheek and tells me that Michael is a good man, that I should try my best to do as he says. “Remember, now, Stacey, obedience is better than sacrifice.”

Michael hugs her awkwardly while she begs him to take care of me. “She never have a easy life. And she have a quick mouth. But she good as gold, this one. She never forget her old granny. She always come, even when them others forget. She will come.” Her eyes are filled with tears.

I step between them and hug her again.

On the ride back to Kingston we are silent. Occasionally I glance over at Michael, trying to figure out what he is thinking. I am angry with myself for caring what he thinks about Grandma. If Michael doesn’t want me because of Grandma, then
he
does not deserve me. But even inside my head that argument sounds inadequate. I want him to tell me that she was wonderful, that she was sweet, that he wouldn’t mind having her as a part of his family, but he quietly changes gears and presses the gas pedal without saying a word.

Three days later Elisha calls to say my grandfather is dead. I write one line about him in my journal.

On Saturday, the weatherman announces that it might rain. I wear my black school shoes. I won’t ruin my good shoes for him. There are frequent and violent thunderstorms that darken the sky all along the way. The huge raindrops splatter against the glass windows and lightning and thunder make the passengers cringe. The bus ride takes longer because the roads are wet. But when I arrive in Montego Bay, the sky is blue and clear. There is just enough time to get to the church before the service
begins. As the organist plays the opening hymn, I slip into the front pew beside my grandmother. She looks very nice in her purple dress with the lavender flowers around the neckline, but the dress is too festive for a funeral.

The ceremony drags on and the room smells like too many flowers. I hum a wordless tune under my breath when the preacher says, “Algie Jennings was a good man, a fine father, and a good soldier in the army of Christ!”

Although Grandma cannot hear the words, she cries silently as they lower the coffin into the ground. I do not understand why she is wasting her tears on this man, but I hold her shaking hand and cry with her. I wonder if my mother knows that her father is dead. I look around at the strangers who line the edges of the grave. None of them feel like family.

But the man is dead now. Perhaps this is the time to stop hating him. I lay a flower at the head of the coffin and gently take Grandma’s hand, leading her away from the mouth of the grave, pointing out the people she hasn’t seen in years and introducing the younger ones she has never met. A young girl, about sixteen years old, introduces herself as my grandfather’s girlfriend. My fury returns, more venomous than before, as she rubs her protruding belly and proudly announces that she is carrying my grandfather’s youngest child.

I
n my third semester the bursar pulls me out of class to say that my father’s wife is very, very sick. “We don’t know what will happen to her, Staceyann. I think you should at least call.”

My father and I have not spoken for more than a year. As I dial, I wonder if the number is still the same. The phone rings only once. “Hello.”

“Hello. It’s me, Staceyann.”

“Oh, hello. Hello, young lady, how are you?”

“I’m good. Just here on campus. And how is everything with you?”

“Fine. Fine,” he says.

“And Miss P.?”

“Boy, Miss P. sick, you know. Very, very sick. The doctors say there is nothing else to do but make her comfortable.”

“Really?”

“That is what them say. But she doing the best she can. She is always asking about you. She was very proud of that graduation dress she made for you. If you were down here, I know she would love to see you.”

There is a lump in my throat. “Yes. It was a very nice dress. It was kind of her to make it—ahm, I wanted to ask you—is it possible for—you think it is okay if I come to see her this weekend?”

“Yes, man. I told you already that she would be very glad to see you.”

I take the bus to Montego Bay. From downtown I catch a taxi to Leader Avenue. A woman in the back seat sticks her head out the window and asks, “This is Junior Chin house, eh? But wait—you are the daughter who used to live up at Paradise? After the way him treated you, is nice to see that you still come visit him. You are a blessed child.”

“Listen, ma’am, I am not really coming to visit my father. I am here to see his wife. She is at the top of those stairs, dying. Death is the only reason that drawing me to this place.”

“Well, me dear. Is still good that you visiting her.
Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.
You never know why God allow sickness and death to happen to a person.” I nod, but I cannot imagine Miss P. dead.

The new building is several stories higher than the old house. At the top of the stairs I rap my knuckles on the gate. Junior comes out with a towel over his shoulder. He opens the grille and beckons me in.

“As usual, you have to forgive my sweaty clothes. Just trying to keep the old body running. I did not want to make you wait while I change.”

I smile and ask, “So how is Miss P. doing?”

He points toward a door and calls out her name. “Pat. Miss P. Patricia, you have a visitor here. Can she come in?”

Miss P. is many shades darker than she was before. Her face is puffy and shiny. I ask her how she’s feeling.

“Not so good,” she says. “Nobody knows what is wrong with me, I am here getting sicker every day.”

I ask if she had had a couple of different doctors’ opinions.

“Stacey, I’m so tired. I go everywhere—Miami, New York, Canada—yet nobody can tell me what is wrong with me.”

I have no idea what to say.

She keeps nodding off to sleep. I sit with her for a while. Her nose and cheeks are twisted from swelling. She looks about sixty pounds heavier than her regular weight. It is as if someone has put a bicycle pump to her mouth and filled her with air.

Junior comes into the room with a picture of a small girl smiling.

“Look here, I have something I want to show you,” he says. “Look at this mouth. This is my granddaughter, Mikey’s daughter, Abby. Look at her mouth!” He is excited to share this bit of information. “All the children who come from my loins have this mouth. You don’t have this mouth. That is how I know you are not my child—you do not have this mouth!”

I don’t say anything, but Miss P. tries to sit up. “Junior, let bygones be bygones, nuh! She never come here to talk ’bout that. She come to visit me.” Her voice is plaintive as she waves him away.

When he leaves the room, I ask, “Miss P., do you think Junior is my father?”

“I don’t know, Staceyann. I really don’t know.”

“Okay. So how is Ruel?”

Her face lights up. “Oh, he’s in Canada at school. He’s okay, man. If I die tomorrow, I know I did a good job with that one. He is a fine young man. I am very proud of him.”

She asks about Shortwood. I tell her it is very good.

“I am glad. I know you going to do something wonderful with your life. No matter if Junior is your father or not. I would tell you if I know. Especially now. I definitely don’t want to carry something like that to my grave.”

I thank her for her honesty and tell her I have to leave. She asks if I will come back to see her soon. I say that I will. She is asleep before I close the door.

I
read about Miss P.’s death in the obituaries. I clip the notice from the paper and use it as a bookmark. For a week I attend classes and tell myself that nothing has changed. Then the weekend comes and Michael whispers that it is okay for me to cry.

For most of the night, he holds me while I cry. It is morning before I am able to say how I feel. He nods when I tell him that I feel stupid for crying when Miss P. could not even acknowledge me as her stepdaughter. His hands are steady on my back when I say that I hate my father. But I want him to talk it through with me. I want him to help me understand why I feel so sad about a woman who was not even that close to me. I want him to say that I shouldn’t cry about Miss P. and Junior Chin, that they are not my family. I want him to say that he is my family and that he will never leave me.

The next weekend when he brings me dinner I ask him why he finds it so hard to talk to me about death and family and his feelings. He sighs heavily and closes his eyes. I ask him what he would do if I were to die. He says it would be hard, but he would do his best to move on with his life. I don’t want him to move on. I tell him I expect him to be devastated. If he died, I know I would want to die too. I want him to promise me that if I died, he would never get over me. But he only says that it is getting late and he has to go soon.

I can’t believe he is dismissing me like this. I grab his car keys and I tell him that he is nothing but a coward. He softly accuses me of being melodramatic. I wish he would show some passion. I tell him I feel like I am trapped in a relationship with a dead fish. Then I toss his car keys onto the lawn. He calmly retrieves them and comes back into the car. He asks me what I want from him. I say nothing and before I know what has happened we have broken off our almost-two-year relationship. I want to take back everything that was said, but I instead I say, “Okay, fine, Michael. Go. Just go and don’t say anything more to me. And don’t call me either. I don’t need you to be okay. I don’t need anybody. Just go and don’t ever come back.”

When Racquel asks, I tell her that Michael is selfish and has no idea how to love a woman. I tell her that I am also glad to be done with waiting for him to leave me, plus it’s time I stop fooling around with romance and turn my attention to my studies. I pack away everything that reminds me of Michael and spend my waking moments reading about speed and velocity and electrons. I take on extra work so I am busy from dawn till night. Most evenings I am so tired I fall into bed without changing my clothes. In a few weeks, I don’t even think of Michael as I go about my day.

Without any weekends with Michael, Shortwood becomes a cage. I like being in college, but I am bored with the pure sciences. When I tell my chemistry professor that I wish I had come in as an English literature or psychology major, she suggests that I apply to literature or psychology programs at the University of the West Indies.

When the acceptance letter arrives in the mail, I don’t know what to do with myself. It all feels a little bizarre, like it’s not really happening to me. One minute I am sitting in my physics class wanting to die from boredom, the next I am on my way to studying at the most prestigious institution in the Caribbean. Everybody is saying how lucky I am. Annmarie says that Auntie Ella is very proud of me, and Uncle Hartley says he never doubted that I could do it. But I am not quite sure what it is that I have done.

I visit Uncle Charlie to tell him my big news and to ask him for a contribution. His hair has turned gray and his arms and legs no longer fill out his clothes. He gladly agrees to give me the tuition for the first year. I am surprised he says yes, so I nod vigorously when he asks me if it is okay
to give me a check. “This is a big amount, you know, Stacey. I don’t want you walking around with this much cash.”

Uncle Charlie has become a deacon in his church. His eyes light up when he talks about his belief in God. He asks if I go to a good church in Kingston. I want him to keep giving me money for school, so I do not tell him that I am not sure I believe in God anymore. I tell him that there is a beautiful chapel on the university campus. As I nod and watch him pull out his tattered checkbook, I realize I have nothing else to say to him. He squints and adjusts his glasses when he writes. I feel funny just sitting there waiting, so I ask about Delano. He lights up when he tells me that Delano is still living in Germany. “Yes, man. Him having a good time over there. Him speak the German language and everything. And I think him say your mother is living over there too.”

“My mother? How come? She not living in Canada anymore?” It annoys me that I sound so eager, but I want him to tell me everything he knows about my mother. I want to know if Delano has seen her or talked to her, if she asked him anything about me. Suddenly I miss Delano. I ask Uncle Charlie what part of Germany he said he lived in and if we could call him there now.

“I don’t really remember what part exactly. And I don’t really have a telephone number for him. When him call again I will ask him for you.”

“Okay, Uncle Charlie. And thanks again for the tuition money.”

On the bus to Kingston, I think of my mother speaking German. I spent seven years studying French because Mummy spoke French in Montreal. Now she is not even living in Canada. Germany seems so far away from Jamaica. It makes me sick to my stomach to think that I may never see my mother again.