Before the sleep

Chapter six

Daddy

I pace the length of the waiting room. My nails are chewed to their beds, my hair is in need of a cut, and my body is weakening in tension. There's a nurse in Irene's room performing her daily toiletries.

It's always the hardest part of the day – to be away from her so long. I sit in one of the couches, far away from the crying woman by the window.

I try to sit still but it's proven to be an impossible task. I keep glancing back at the door for the nurse's appearance. All this ever does is award me with a stiff neck.

It's been more than half an hour. What can she possibly be doing? How dirty can someone get by laying on a bed?

With my hands supporting my lowered head, I decide to calm myself down by trying to decipher the complicated pattern on the mosaics. My head soon begins to swirl as I stare at the vivid colors. Irene starts to plaster everywhere. The red forms her smiling lips, the green is her teasing eyes, the yellow is her pale skin glowing under the sun, and the blue perfectly portrays her nails scratching my skin on our honeymoon.

Nostalgia slams into me at the thought of the endless days and nights Irene and I spent locked into our private bubble in the island of Martinique.

I raise my head right on time to see my mother open the door. In her long multicolored dress and yellow head cover scarf, she can pass for an African queen. Although her black hair is now mostly grey, her brown skin still retains its juvenile beauty and glow. Strength continues to flow in her plump body.

"Mom, what are you doing here?" I meet her halfway and embrace her.

I bend my head a little to kiss her cheek. It doesn't take a lot of effort for me to get to her level. My mother is a tall woman standing with her proud 5'8". She's the one who passed on the gene to me and my brother, making us over 6' tall.

"I'm here to see my son and my daughter of course," she replies.

I walk her to the couch I was sitting on. She reaches in her bag and take out a plastic container which she hands to me.

"Mom..." I start.

She silences me with a finger on my lips, "You can't say no. I'm your mother so it's my job to feed you."

"Mom, I'm fine," I push the container back to her.

"You have to eat, Joseph," she commands. "I'm not leaving here until that plate is empty. Don't make me smack you here."

"I'm a grown man, mother," I remind her. "I don't need you to force feed me anymore."

She raises her eyebrows at me, "Have you look in the mirror lately? You look like a zombie. I can see your bones peeking out under your skin."

She touches my hands when I'm about to refuse again, "Just make an old woman happy. I don't want Irene to wake up and see you like this. She's sure to drop dead. Besides," she continues when she catches my skeptical look, "When was the last time you had some real Haitian food? That little white girl of yours can barely cook American food. I can't see her trying to make some good griot or sòs pois."

I give up at that. I take the food from her and devour it in large gulps. I haven't had good food since forever. The spicy flavors sliding in my throat make me feel like a blind man seeing light for the first time. I want to consume it all at once but I don't want it to ever finish. The tasteless hospital cafeteria food I've been eating for the past months seem like hot dirt on a bowl compare to this.