it’s time for ballet class,” she announced, walking out of the room.
I couldn’t go to dance class that day. My nose hurt too much. I was also tired from trying to sleep with the clothespin squeezing my nostrils. So I stayed in my room, contemplating the print of a black girl jumping rope on the wall across from my bed. She looked happy and carefree, and I wondered if she, too, ever wanted to be white.
* * *
I dreaded going to my next appointment with Dr. Connelly. As I was getting ready, I walked aimlessly around the house and wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. I tried to think of an excuse to stay home, but I could not come up with one. Reluctantly I followed Dad to the doctor’s office. Once we arrived, he stayed in the waiting room.
“How are you?” Dr. Connelly asked.
“Fine.” I took a seat across from him.
“Are you ready to talk to me?”
“Yes.”
“The last time you were here, I asked you to think about why everyone in the family picture you drew had a beige face.”
“Yes.”
“Did you think about it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is there a reason why you didn’t want to think about it?”
“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug, unable to hide my annoyance.
“Tell me about the dreams you had.”
“What dreams?”
“When your mother called for your first appointment, she said you had nightmares.”
“I saw a snake with the head of a man.”
“What happened then?”
“He stared at me and went like this.” I made an inviting gesture with my fingers.
“Then what?”
“I ran away from him and woke up screaming.”
“What happened when you woke up?”
“Mom and Dad came into the room when they heard me scream.”
Dr. Connelly then said something I didn’t hear because I was trying to recapture the effect of the dream. His voice suddenly reminding me I was still in his office.
“Excuse me?”
“Tell me about the other dream.”
“There was another man with fire on his body. He wanted me to come to him too.”
“Tell me about Haiti.”
“What about Haiti?”
“Whatever you remember.”
Images of Monn Nèg were engraved in my mind. But I had no idea how to explain them to a stranger. He kept his expressionless eyes on me, waiting for me to say something. The absolute silence in the room and his blank stare persisted until he cleared his throat and spoke again. “I was thinking,” he said, “the dreams you had are probably because of your exposure to vaudou. Did your family in Haiti practice vaudou?” He tilted his head and waited for an answer.
But I had no idea what he was talking about. “I don’t know what vaudou is.”
“I’m reading a book now about vaudou,” he said, sounding proud of himself. “I think it may have something to do with those dreams.”
I stared at my feet, wishing to be anywhere but in that office.
“The author of the book compares vaudou adepts to devil worshippers. But I’m not so sure of that. What do you think?”
The pressure from his questions confused me and brought tears to my eyes.
Looking back at the incident, I find it odd that Dr. Connelly would ask me to comment on the subject, when I had told him I knew nothing about it. Did he forget how old I was? I suppose he was hoping I might react in a way that would give him the opportunity to better analyze me. Whatever the reason, I decided, at that moment, that I was not coming back.
“How about drawing another picture,” he suggested, after a moment of silence.
I drew another picture of Mom, Dad, Cynthia, and me without adding any color to their faces.
“What color are these people?”
“They have no color.”
“Why not?”
I shrugged.
“Where do they live?”
“Nowhere.”
He gazed at me with intense eyes, forcing me to lower mine. Finally, he looked at the clock and announced that our time was up. I quickly rose to my feet and rushed out of the office to meet Dad in the lobby.
* * *
“I don’t want to go back there again,” I told Dad, crossing my arms over my chest, fighting tears that were ready to burst from my eyes.
Dad turned on the ignition and shifted his head toward me. “What happened?”
“He said bad things about Haiti,” I declared, bending the truth to my advantage.
Dad looked at me and narrowed his eyes. “What did he say?”
I stared at the snow on the tree branches. “Something about vaudou and Haitians being devil worshippers.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Most people have a misconception about the vaudou religion. That’s why your mom is writing a book about it.” He turned a button on the dashboard. The windshield wiper swayed back and forth, making a soft, swishing sound. “It seems like there is no sense in your going back.”
I had won a battle. But there was one more thing I needed to do. Once I reached home, I threw the picture of my biological mother in a large black plastic bag that the garbage truck would pick up the next day. Rather than being the person I used to talk to for comfort, she had become responsible for my confusion and I no longer wanted her in my memory. The mother I once loved eventually vanished into oblivion and became a mythical figure beyond reach.
Chapter 3
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and
