Chapter 1 #2
I can’t fight back the grin Janelle always effortlessly coaxed from all of us. “Good-bye, Nelle.”
When we disconnect, I stare at the phone in my hand for a few seconds, processing how out of touch I must be with Celine’s life.
I know the basics. I pay her tuition, rent, and credit card bill.
I remember a few of the internships she’s applying for because she specifically said she didn’t want my help.
She didn’t want special treatment, so she’s been using her mother’s last name Powell since they moved from France so she could attend high school and college here.
On the one hand I respect her wanting to make her own way in the field where I’ve found so much success.
She doesn’t want to lean on my name, but I also want to be more involved.
Her mother’s voice echoes from the past in my ears; pleas for me to take off work and spend time with Celine. To come off the road. I’ve missed a lot, but my baby girl as homecoming queen at our alma mater? At least I can make that.
“Daddy, bonjour.” Her mother and I are both American, but French language and culture weave in and out of everything she does.
“You can take the girl out of Paris, but you can’t take Paris out of the girl, huh? How are you?”
“I’m fine. Um . . . what’s up? Something wrong?”
“Can’t your old man just call to see how you’re doing?”
“You can, but . . .”
But I don’t often. I sigh and wish I was calling just to be calling.
“Actually I just got off the phone with Janelle Hopkins.”
“From student affairs?”
“Well, yeah, but she and I were actually pretty good friends in college.”
“I think she mentioned that in, like, freshman orientation when she said she’d be keeping an eye on me for you.”
The exasperation in her voice sketches a grin onto my face.
“If I couldn’t be there in person, I had my allies. Janelle mentioned you’ve been voted homecoming queen.”
“Yeah. I was gonna tell you. It just happened. “
“Your mother knows?”
“Of course.”
Of course.
“She’s been busy,” Celine says quickly, a defense in her words. “I told her I wanted to tell you myself. I didn’t think . . .well, I didn’t think you would . . .”
Mind? Care?
Frustration wars with my own guilt.
“It’s not a big deal, Dad.”
“What’s not a big deal? That you won or that you didn’t tell me?”
The pause between us gathers dust while I wait for her response.
“I mean . . .there are a lot of things about my life you don’t know. That’s not new.”
When she was growing up, there seemed to be a bottomless pit of grace when I missed birthday parties because I was in Russia or recitals because there was a war.
Big things. Important things, but the resignation, the ancient disappointment in her voice makes me wish I could roll back the years and make different choices.
“I’d like to be there,” I tell her. “I assume your mother will be.”
“It’s her and Pop’s anniversary. They booked a cruise months ago so they actually can’t come.”
The first time I heard my daughter call her stepfather “Pop” I nearly lost my shit, but Annette told me to get out of my feelings and be grateful there was a good man consistently present in Celine’s life.
Annette married her husband Cedric when Celine was only ten years old, and he has been there in a way my job hasn’t always allowed me to be.
“If your mom and Cedric won’t be there, all the more reason I should be.”
“Whatever, Dad. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is to me. I want to be there for you.”
“Okay. Look, I . . .um, I have class in a few minutes. I gotta go.”
“Before you go. Janelle . . .Ms. Hopkins wants me to do an interview as part of homecoming weekend.”
“An interview? You never do those.”
“Right, but it’s the centennial, and she thinks an interview with Niomi might—”
“Niomi Spencer?” Celine’s voice pitches an octave higher.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Oh, my god! You have to. She’s amazing. I love her. So she would come for homecoming?”
I resist reminding her that her own father is an acclaimed journalist with a Peabody and a Murrow award to my credit.
“I don’t think they’ve asked her yet. They wanted to make sure I was on board first.”
“You’re doing it, right? Dad, please. Having her here for homecoming would be everything.”
“You sound more excited to have her there than me.” I keep the teasing in my voice so she knows I’m not offended. Or at least not too badly.
“Sorry, Dad. She’s a pioneer for Black women in journalism on TV. I respect her so much. We all do.”
“It’s fine. I get it. She is pretty fantastic. Always has been actually.”
“You know her? Like personally?”
“We were at Finley together.”
“What? You never told me that.”
“She and I didn’t keep in touch. Didn’t talk much at all after I left to spend senior year in Paris.”
“After you met Mom, you mean?” A dozen questions and suggestions hide behind her tone.
“It wasn’t like that. We weren’t like that. Niomi and I were just friends, Celine.”
It’s true, but incomplete. It doesn’t reveal how much more I wanted with the girl of my dreams. How for three years I worked up the courage to ask for what I had secretly craved, only to blow it in one night.
“You have to do it, Dad. Like you have to. Niomi Spencer at homecoming?”
“You do realize some would see me as a draw, too, right?”
“Yeah, but you’re my father. She’s . . .she’s her.”
“Alright. For you, I’ll do it. I’m so proud of you, Celine. Homecoming queen is a big deal. I’m glad I’ll get to be there for it.”
Silence prevails on the other end for a string of seconds where the conversation cools, going from Celine’s excitement over the interview with Niomi, back to the skepticism, indifference–whatever it is she feels about me showing up this time.
“Yeah. That’ll be cool,” she finally agrees. “I really gotta go. Class.”
“Right. Sure. We’ll talk more later. Love you.”
After an almost imperceptible pause, she says, “Love you, too, Dad.”
As soon as we disconnect and before I can talk myself out of it, I send Janelle the text that will give me much-needed time with my daughter and bring Niomi and me back together really for the first time in two decades.
I’m in.