What He Never Knew (What He Doesn't Know, #3)(16)

But the night my mom had to wake me up and tell me my father was gone was a night I’d never forget.

You don’t prepare for the death of a parent, not that young, maybe not ever. It didn’t make sense to me, that he could be there for dinner, go out to a fundraiser event for work, and never make it home. The more I searched for answers, the more hurt I was, because answers never came.

There were no answers for why the young boy, only a few years older than me, shot my father in the process of robbing a convenience store.

That was the first catalyst in my life, the first thing that happened that really changed me. My life was different before he was gone, and the person I became after he’d passed was one I never knew before. The same was true for Mom, who threw herself into work to cope with the pain. She booked evening sessions with clients, something she swore she’d never do, and even started doing video chat sessions that kept her working until after I went to bed. Our evenings that were once filled with family dinner and games turned into me doing homework, playing piano, or reading while she worked.

I was never mad at her for that.

She had to grieve the best way she knew how, and she was always there for me when I needed her. It didn’t bother me that she wanted to stay busy. If anything, I understood — I just threw myself into piano instead of work.

That fluorite crystal that hung from my neck was meant to bring me peace in anxious times, its swirls of blue and purple meant to keep me grounded and focused. It was to remind me that not all answers can be seen, but that everything happens for a reason — a reminder to trust in myself and life’s journey.

At twenty-one, I no longer saw it as an accessory, but as an extension of myself — like an extra, essential limb.

“You always know how to take something I’m so uneasy about and make me feel silly for ever worrying in the first place,” I mused. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with why you’re a therapist, would it?”

“I don’t want to make you feel silly,” Mom said. “And, believe it or not, I try not to therapy you too much. You’re my daughter, after all. I just want to be Mom to you.”

I smiled.

“But, I’m glad I can help ease the anxiety,” she continued. “You are the most incredible pianist I know, mwen chouchou, and I believe this Mr. Walker wants to help you.”

I smiled at the endearment in my mother’s native tongue. I’d never learned the Haitian Creole language, but I loved to hear her speak it. Sometimes, I would close my eyes and try to picture her as a young girl on the island, working with her parents on the farm, her own mother using that same nickname she used for me. My pet.

“That reminds me, I think Uncle Randall is giving everyone a minor heart attack by introducing me as his niece,” I said. “They are very confused by our… differences.”

She let out an understanding sigh. “I can only imagine. I remember when your father first introduced me to his family as his girlfriend.” She chuckled. “If you think they look at you with a confused look, imagine how it was for me. For him.”

I chuffed, trying to picture that beginning time for my parents. I knew they were both brave to be in an interracial relationship, especially when my father was in the political circuit in small-town Georgia. But, they never hid, never made excuses. Their love spoke for the both of them, and it was so loud, it was impossible for anyone to refute.

“Ah, but you know what?” Mom said after a moment. “Your differences are what make you so beautiful.”

“They also make me stand out like a fish trying to blend in with the birds.”

“I had a dream about a flying fish once,” she said. “Perhaps it was a vision of you.”

I smiled, heart squeezing in my chest as I reclined more, hand still wrapped around my crystal. “I miss you, Manman.”

“And I miss you. We’ll be together again, soon. For now, focus on this dream of yours. I have no doubt that, like the fish in my dreams, you will soar.”

My heart ached a little at her words, because I heard what she didn’t say, too. She missed me, but she knew something had happened to me at Bramlock. She knew I needed this time with Reese not just to study and overcome my injury, but to heal, to find my love for music again. My mother was a therapist, and I knew just as well as she did that her daughter dropping out of college a semester before graduating, moving home, changing her entire wardrobe and shaving her head didn’t just happen without cause.

There was a reason. And she knew it.

It had to hurt her, to see her daughter hurting, struggling, and not be able to help. She was doing everything she could within the realm of what I’d asked of her. That was what I loved about her most — she respected me, and my wish for her to let me deal with it on my own. I assured her I would tell her more one day, when I was ready. And thankfully, she hadn’t pressed.

She was my supporter, even when I couldn’t give her all the answers. My warrior. My one and only teammate.

I stayed in bed once we ended our call, eyes on the ceiling and fingers dancing over my crystal. I wanted to believe my mom when she said everything would be okay, that I would achieve what I set out to when I came to Mount Lebanon, but inside, I heard my own voice questioning every aspect of it.

Could I really overcome my injuries and play the way I used to? No, play better? Could I get to Carnegie Hall without the normal trajectory most people take to get there? Could I hold myself to Reese’s standards, or were all his warnings about how impossible this all was a glimpse into my future?