Chapter Two
Kwame
Meant to Be
I’ve just finished visiting the exhibit hall that my mother endowed when I collide with a woman who’s moving faster than she should be in a crowded space.
It all happens so fast. She stumbles backward, windmilling her arms, long braids tumble out of her bun. Someone grabs her elbow to steady her. She scrambles for her phone and stands up in single movement and keeps moving, calling apologies over her shoulder.
A familiar fragrance fills my nose, and I stop and inhale deeply. I haven’t smelled it in a long time, but I recognize it right away.
I can picture the small white petals of the flowers my mother grew in her private garden and kept fresh cuttings of on her bedside table.
What was it called?
Like a child hearing the pied piper, I follow the scent and reach the massive glass doors before I come to my senses.
Grief has been a really wild ride. One minute I’m okay, the next I’m panicking because I can’t remember the name of my mother’s favorite flower.
The truth is it doesn’t matter what that flower is called. My mother is gone and nostalgia is an unreliable narrator. Those flowers haven’t bloomed in her garden in years. I came to DC to wrap-up my complicated relationship with this city, not to chase ghosts.
I turn down Fourteenth Street to meet the driver I hired for the day and climb in.
“Where to, Boss?” the man calls cheerily over the headrest.
“I’m going back to the hotel.”
I sit back and have relaxed just enough to let my eyes drift closed when I realize my phone is ringing on silent in my pocket.
I pick it up and wish I hadn’t.
It’s my father. I hesitate to answer and miss the call.
A second later, a text appears.
“Sending Paloma instead.” In typical fashion, his message is direct and cryptic at the same time.
Not in the mood for his mind games, I call him back instead of typing my reply.
He answers before I even hear it ring. “Hello, Son.”
“You’re sending Paloma where?”
“To meet you for dinner since I can’t make it,” he says as if we’ve talked about this a dozen times.
“Let’s just reschedule.”
“No, you and Paloma need some time to talk seriously about your future together. I booked the two of you a table at Dogon for seven tonight. I’ve sent Paloma the reservation details. She’ll meet you there.”
“We’ve had this planned for a month. Why can’t you make it?”
“Oz happens to be in town, and he’s only free tonight.”
I grimace at the mention of my cousin. “Since when do you move your schedule to suit him?”
“Don’t be petulant, Kwame. There’s someone I want him to introduce me to, and tonight is when he’s free. Don’t act like you wouldn’t rather eat with Paloma anyway.”
“You couldn’t be more mistaken. You should have asked me first. Please let her know I can’t make it.”
“Why can’t you? This has been on your calendar for weeks.”
“It’s been on yours, too. And yet, here we are.”
There’s silence on the other end. “Hello?” I say even though I know he’s there.
“Fine. I’ll have my assistant send her a message.”
“Fine.” I echo his clipped cadence. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes. Alice says you’re staying at The Salamander. Which is absurd when you have a home right across the river. Bring your luggage with you in the morning. You’ll stay at The Palms while you’re here.”
He disconnects the call after issuing his command.
“Dammit, Alice.” I drop my head into my hands and close my eyes.
I asked my aunt to play dumb when he asked where I was staying tonight. It’s my fault for forgetting how much sway he has over her.
Over everyone, really.
The three months I spent with my parents before my mother died felt like three years. For more than twenty years, I hadn’t seen them more than one weekend a year. They had become functional strangers with very little in common.
When my mother and I were alone, we had real conversations. She told me about her life, her family, and gave me advice that I know I’ll heed.
But I hated living under the same roof as my father. He was controlling, dismissive, and selfish. I played the role of dutiful son for my mother’s sake. But when I left for Los Angeles on the evening of her funeral, I swore I’d never spend another night in that house.
I may have had to come back for her will reading, but it would take an act of God to make me stay a minute longer than I have to.