The Other Side of Paradise: A Memoir (23 page)

I
am the only fifteen-year-old in the tenth grade who can do anything I want after school. But while everyone dreams of going dancing with boys, I choose to spend my evenings doing homework with Natalia.

I hardly see Uncle Desmond or April anymore. I no longer visit the furniture store. It feels strange to hear April tell people that we are cousins when my father maintains that I am not his daughter. At Junior Chin’s house I am a charity case. I ring the bell, pick up the money, and say thank you and good-bye.

I don’t even like to visit Delano. He and I hardly talk. We just sit there watching TV until it is time for me to leave. I only go when I have to ask Uncle Charlie for money. Everything in the tenth grade is about preparing for the eleventh-grade finals. These exams will mark the end of our lives as secondary school students. Uncle Hartley says that even though it does not feel like it, our big graduation is only a year away. Before we know it, summer will be gone, and so will everything we learned in the tenth grade. He insists that we take extra lessons during the summer to keep us sharp. “If you ladies are to do well, you have to work hard while others are at play.”

When June comes, Aunt Lyn asks if I have any plans for the summer holidays. I tell her I will be at Natalia’s for most of it, studying. Relief washes over her face and she blurts out, “Well, that is just as well, because my daughter is coming home from college for good in September and she needs her
room.” She sighs and looks away “Staceyann, I am sorry to drop this on you so, but you think you could find another room for the next school year?”

I nod and stuff my backpack with enough clothes to stay with Natalia for the rest of the week.

Sister Joan Claire finds me a new place with Miss Wellington, an old widow whose daughter just got married. Then in six months, Mrs. Wellington’s daughter gets a divorce and she tells me I have to move. Sister Joan Claire finds me another room. In another house. With another old woman who wants me to call her Auntie.

I look at the freshly painted white walls of the new room and wonder if anything has changed with my old bedroom in Paradise. Elisha must be glad to have more space now that she is thirteen. This new house has a pool. I can swim at home if I want to. But I have no time to swim. I have to make notes and write up experiments and conjugate the verb
to be
in French. And make time to pick up money from everybody’s fathers.

The Christmas holidays pass in a haze of algebraic calculations and Shakespearean tragedies. There is no time to think about my sixteenth birthday, only the scores we get on the mock exams.

Finally, the real exams begin.

At night Natalia and I cram and eat and cram and eat. In the morning we slip on our uniforms and spend the next three hours trying to remember formulas and facts in a quiet room filled with the nervous ambition of hundreds of hopeful teenage girls.

Natalia already knows she is heading to Miami for university. She wants to be a pilot. I am not sure what I want to be, but I know I want to get out of Montego Bay.

On the day after my last exam, Miss Tolloch, the graduation coordinator, calls me into her office. She sits behind her desk and clasps her hands together. I wonder what kind of trouble I am in. She leans into the desk and sighs. “Staceyann, I am not sure if you know this, but I cannot tell you how very proud we are of you. You have done so well despite the turbulent circumstances of your home life. We on the graduation committee feel it is appropriate that you make a speech at the graduation ball.”

“Really? Me—I can make a speech? I can say anything I want?”

“Well, within reason, but yes, you can talk about how you feel about your successes. Perhaps say something to inspire your fellow graduates.”

“Thank you, Miss Tolloch, thank you so much! I thought I was being called in here because I was in trouble! Thank you!”

“You are quite welcome, ma’am. It is nice to see you smiling!”

She stands and looks at my untidy hair. My tie has a big juice spot on it. She brushes at the spot and says, “Never mind what you look like today, now you have a reason to look extra nice on graduation night.”

That night I call Annmarie and invite her to my graduation. She agrees to make the trip and though we have never been close, I am suddenly very grateful that Annmarie is my cousin. She will be my only family there. I know better than to invite Delano. He has never even come to visit me in any of the places I have lived. I ask about Grandma, but Annmarie says she doesn’t see her much. Grandma now lives outside of Kingston with one of her sons and his wife. She gives me the phone number, but we both know that Grandma is deaf and cannot talk on the phone. I call anyway. A woman answers and tells me that my grandmother still begins each day praying for my brother and me. I wish Grandma could come to see me collect my diploma.

I know I should be spending the time writing down my thoughts, but I am more interested in finding the perfect dress to wear to stand in front of the whole eleventh-grade class on graduation night. I look at dresses in the stores on St. James Street, but everything looks the same to me. I want to wear something that makes me look better than everybody else.

When I go to pick up my money from my father, I tell Miss P. about the speech.

“Oh, my goodness! That is good to hear!” She pauses. Then she asks, “You have the time to come inside for a glass of orange juice?”

It takes me a while to make sense of the words. She puts the envelope on the table and opens the grille. I am so surprised, she has to ask me again.

“You not too busy to stop, are you? Don’t look so surprised. This is a special occasion. You finished with school and graduating with a speech. Please come inside, man.”

She gestures to the couch and I sit down. The house smells like cinnamon and sugar. She tells me to wait right there on the couch while she gets me some orange juice. The glass has tiny white stars on it and the juice tastes just like a real orange. She sits down beside me and exclaims, “Wow! But, Stacey, that is wonderful, man! That is wonderful news. Congratulations! So what you going to wear for the ball?”

“For the ceremony we are all wearing our uniforms under our gowns, but I don’t have anything to wear to the ball, Miss P. I have no idea what I am going to do.”

“Well…I have just taken up dressmaking. If you don’t mind, I could see what I could rustle up for you.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful, Miss P. It would be something different, not the same old, same old that everybody buys from the stores.”

The next day I tell everyone that my
stepmother
is making my graduation dress. When Uncle Hartley drives me to my father’s, I feel so normal. It is almost irrelevant that I have no mother. I am headed to my father’s for the evening. I have Uncle Hartley drive me inside the yard. And I make sure to stand on the stairs and wave at Natalia as they drive away.

Miss P. hurries me in and calls the helper to get me some orange juice. Then she tells me to follow her. We walk down the hallways and into a big room with fancy curtains and a big bed with brown and beige sheets on it. She gestures toward the suitcase on the floor. “Stacey, you have to forgive the mess here. I just came back last night. The flight was delayed, so I didn’t get to bed until late. I’m only just getting out of bed.”

“It’s okay, Miss P. You have a very nice bedroom.”

It is the strangest feeling, to be standing next to the bed in which my father sleeps. There is a pair of shorts on his pillow. Miss P. pulls out a sheer peach roll of fabric from her suitcase. It shimmers when she moves it. “What you think of this?”

My heart is beating so fast I hardly hear myself answer. “Oh, it is very nice. I like it a lot.”

“Okay, good. I am happy you like it. I am not quite sure what kind of dress you want, but I bought a couple of patterns that you can look at.”

I choose something from the book of patterns that she shows me.

“Good choice, Stacey. What you prefer—Stacey, or Staceyann?”

“I prefer Staceyann, but it doesn’t matter, you can call me whatever you want to call me.”

“No, man, Staceyann. You have to tell people how to address you. You are at least in charge of your own name.”

I peer down the hallway, looking for my father.

“Don’t worry, he is not here now. He won’t be back until later. But I told him about this and he was all right with it.”

“Okay.”

“So if I am making this thing for you, I want you to come by after school every other day for a fitting. I am not an expert, so I need lots of time with the model. Come make us take the measurements now.”

My father walks in as she is measuring my waist.

“Hello, Junior.” Miss P. does not look up from the task at hand.

“Hello, P., how’s it going?”

“Okay. I am just trying to make sure Miss Staceyann here is properly outfitted for her big day.”

“Hello, young lady.”

“Hello, sir.”

“Congratulations on your good fortune. I hope you make good use of it. Not everyone gets that sort of opportunity. I see I was not wrong to invest in you.”

“Thank you, sir. I am very grateful that you did invest in me.”

“Never mind the thanks. Remember what I told you? The only thanks I need is for you to succeed. Have you had dinner already?”

“No, sir.”

“Would you like to eat with us?”

I try my best to sound casual saying yes.

The TV is on CNN while we eat. The pundits are dissecting the horror of the
Valdez
oil spill. Dawn dishwashing liquid is being used to save the tiny, dying, oil-soaked birds.

“Boy, P.! Them Americans is something, eh? Always something dramatic on them news stations. Look at how the people reacting! Them care more for them birds than them care about people in Africa who starving.”

“That is why I would never live there,” Miss P. answers. “America is the kind of paradox that I only use for shopping. Quick trip in, get what you need, and get out.”

“So what do you think of all this, young lady?”

I finish chewing my mouthful of pork chop before I respond. I want to say something brilliant. “About America, or the oil spill, or about what you just said?”

“Isn’t all the same thing? You stalling, man. Put your opinion on the table.”

“Well, I—ah—I think that the oil spill only shows us how everything is big in America. Do you know how much oil it would take to create that
kind of mess? But I think they are doing a good job with trying to clean it up. Uncle Hartley says he thinks it may have been some kind of terrorist act. I don’t know. I am only sorry for the poor birds.”

“The poor birds? What about all the people in China and Africa and India who is starving? What about them? Are you sorry for them?”

“Yes, but we are not talking about them. You ask me about the oil spill.”

“And therein lies the greatest fiction about America. It is never about just anything. It is always about something else. Something big. When it comes to the USA, other seemingly unconnected things are always connected.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Junior, leave the poor child alone. Come, Staceyann, let us finish the measurements.”

I am sorry that Miss P. cut our conversation short. I wanted to hear what he was going to say. When we are finished with the measurements, Miss P. tells me that she is done for the day. As I descend the stairs, I promise myself that next time I am going to ask my father about my mother.

But he is not there the next time. So Miss P. and I sit silently in the room while she cuts and measures and figures out the right stitches to use.

The following week, however, he greets me at the door, ushers me in. “Miss P. won’t be home for another hour or so. Just come in and make yourself at home.”

When the answer to Final Jeopardy is given, and the winner is properly congratulated, I gather my courage. “Ah—can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“Well, you said that you knew my mother when she was living in Jamaica, right?”

“I did not know her well, but I knew her.”

“What was she like? I mean—what did she look like? Who were her friends? And how did you get to meet her?”

“Well, she was quite a looker, your mother. She was a very pretty girl. The first time I saw her, she was wearing a pair of red hot pants and she had these long, long legs.”

I sit very still as he relaxes into the story.

“I was very taken with her. And I am only telling you these things because you asked. She used to come to a bar I frequented. I took her out a couple of times—and I am not proud of this, but I tried to have sex with her in the back seat of my car.”

I pick at the dirt under my nails.

“But she wasn’t willing. She said no and I backed off. I think she wanted a relationship and I already had a wife and a family. So I know that I couldn’t be your father,” he said, “because we really didn’t have that kind of interaction. No sex, no baby.”

“Okay. Thank you for answering.”

“You know, you say thank you for the oddest things. But you are welcome.”

“Another thing. I know you are Chinese. But were you born in Jamaica or China?”

“I was born right here on this island. I come from poor Chinese immigrants to Jamaica. They came here with nothing and worked like dogs just to feed their children. We had a very interesting life. Me and my brothers could tell you stories about this place.”

He tells me that as a boy, he sold river shrimp to passersby in order to feed himself and his brothers. He knew he was different from the other boys around him, he said, always a little smarter, a little faster. I can’t imagine him as a small boy begging people to buy anything.

“I believe that is why I have done so well. I did not begin life with all this.” He gestures at the room.

I look around. There are giant painted vases with no flowers in them. And dark heavy drapes pulled back to let in the light. The dining table looks like it could seat a hundred people. And there are miles and miles of wooden floors—floors that would be perfect for playing Superman. Natalia’s whole house is carpeted. But this wood is smooth and unstained. It looks like somebody spent eons sanding and varnishing it. I decide that when I have a house I am going to have unstained wooden floors.