Beneath

8 FAMILY LINE

NOAH

My beige '85 Ford Bronco continues to make the drive from Goldwen to Thamesbridge each weekend. As soon as the clutch goes, Fox's going to offer to fix it with a flick of a wrist and a few grand, and I'm going to hate that.

I pull up to the two-story house and park at the edge of the lawn. The neighbourhood hues are fiery reds, vibrant oranges, and golden yellows. October is in full bloom. Or decay.

With my bags in hand, I kick the driver's door shut and head up the lawn. I don't knock at the front door—I don't need to. The moment I pass the threshold, I exhale.

My other brother Azi has claimed the living room floor by the fireplace as a construction site, Lego scattered around. Last weekend I stepped on a piece and couldn't speak for ten minutes.

Az is trying to show Mabel his Lego, but she's more interested in colouring the walls with her washable markers.

I drop my bags by the shoe rack.

Az's buzzed head snaps up and his gaped-tooth smile broadens as launches himself at my legs. He's a bulky little force that nearly sends me stumbling. Mabel's on me next, scaling my back to drape herself around my neck. She smells conspicuously like chocolate.

"Intruder!" she shrieks in my ear, jabbing my neck. "Die! Die die die!"

"Mabel," I wheeze. Her short, coiled hair tickles my neck. "Mabel, Jesus Christ."

"Maman!" she screams. "Noah said bad words!"

"No he didn't!" Azi defends.

Dayo's tucked away in his usual corner, Walkman headphones sealing him away from, a thick book in his hands. The Count of Monte Cristo—again. His dark eyes scan the pages with an intensity that makes him look older than fifteen. Seeing him is seeing a younger, lankier, sadder version of me.

A silhouette emerges from the kitchen—our mother, Principal Jacqueline Dupont-Bello. She's slight with fair skin and long brown hair. She's in a black dress, able to wear fancy things as a principal, no longer teaching.

She's also wearing the apron my father bought her a decade ago. Vibrant African prints bloom against the black of her dress as she walks over to me with a smile.

"Ah, mon grand garçon, tu es enfin de retour," she greets in French. That's a childhood spent in the sunlit streets of Paris, not here.

Mabel whispers threats in my ear, pulling on my hair. Az tugs impatiently at my leg, eager to get me to the Lego.

My mother's delicate hands find my shoulders, squeezing. "You look stronger," she says, her accent thick as ever. "The girls, they must chase you, yes?"

"Girls?!" Mabel screams in my ear.

Maman huffs and turns back to the kitchen, the aroma of cooking spices fills the air. I call after her, "Are you making dad's jollof rice?"

"Oui!"

I inhale. The scent practically brings him into the room with us. It hurts, but hell, I can't stop. Camila understood. It was so fucking nice to be understood.

Grabbing my bag with a Mabel on my back, I head upstairs.

In the quiet of my old room, Mabel finally unwraps herself, landing with a soft thud on the faded blue carpet. The blue-themed room is a snapshot of my teenage years—posters of historical figures and old maps, bookshelves crammed with biographies.

Mabel plops onto my bed. "Noah, why is your room so boring? Where are the superheroes?"

"Heroes are real people, Mabel." I point up to a black-and-white photo of Harriet Tubman. "See?"