THE CALM

1

Mom says you get two birthdays.

The first one is the day you are born.

The second is the day you leave home and give birth to yourself.

I never understood what she meant by that, but standing in the middle of this bustling airport, I can’t help but wonder if this is the day she was talking about. If it is, the tears in my eyes don’t feel like anything to celebrate. Birthdays are not supposed to make you cry. Birthdays are not supposed to grow heavy lumps in the back of your throat that threaten to choke you on your words if you dare open your mouth.

Birthdays are not supposed to break your heart.

Be brave. Be brave.

I repeat it over and over again in my head as I squeeze my mom’s hand a little tighter. My stomach drops, dreading the moment she’ll inevitably let go. In the air, I can taste the sweet melancholy of joyous hellos and painful goodbyes that only the airport can bring. There is a buzzing to this place that feels like the center of heartbreak and joy. Its contradiction sends an unsettling shiver through my body. I feel like a child, embarrassed my emotions are giving me away.

Suck it up, I scold myself. It’s only two months.

We’re here, Mom says into the phone. They just checked in.

She’s quiet as she listens, her ear pressed to the phone. I packed some shirts for you. And there’s a few bags of coffee in Mia’s suitcase, so you’ll be stocked up for work. Make sure you take them out. Mhm, everything’s in there—uh-huh. Oh shoot. She lets go of my hand, turning her back to us. I forgot to pack that deodorant you like. I’ll send down a few packs this week—yeah, okay. And don’t forget Mia’s allergy medicine. It’s in the side pock—I’m not saying you’re going to forget, Tyson. Her voice goes hushed. I’m just telling you where it is. She’s quiet for a moment, listening. Look, Tyson. Let’s not do this now—call me when they land.

I bite down on my lip to stop it from quivering as she turns back around. My mother’s eyes are so kind. They are a deep sea of brown that perfectly match her rich dark skin, and they stare back at me with a compassion only her heart could know. She smiles at me with longing in her eyes.

She knows this is not what I want.

Did you remember to pack the gum? she asks.

Yes, Mom. You asked me that already.

I’m just making sure. I don’t want your ears to pop on the plane.

I feel guilty for the irritation in my tone. I know she’s being helpful, but for some reason, it annoys me. Maybe it’s because it’s the first time my sister and I are flying alone. Maybe it’s because I would rather be anywhere else than in the middle of a cold, busy airport at 8:00 a.m. on a Thursday morning. Or maybe it’s because I don’t want to spend the summer with my father.

Yet after months of protest, here I am.

Are you sure you can’t come with us? my little sister, Mia, pleads desperately.

A sadness runs through our mother’s eyes as she adjusts her dark brown locks. You know I have to work, baby. But your father is so excited to see you.

Mia sulks at the mention of our father.

I don’t blame her.

Mom turns to me, cupping my face in her hands. I love you more than words, Tilla. She kisses me so gently on my cheek that I barely feel it. You’re going to grow so much this summer. She can’t hold back the tears that stream down her face.

And damn it, neither can I.

I love you, too, Mom. So much, I reply, choking on that lump.

It’s only two months. She smiles, tucking a strand of my coily Afro behind my ears. It’s going to fly by.

Two months without cell service. I muster a smile.

I’m sure your thumbs could use the break. She laughs. Come here. She pulls me in close, wrapping us both in a hug. Take care of your sister, okay? she whispers to me. You’re in charge.

Of herself… Mia rolls her eyes. Mom gives her a look. She’s barely eighteen. What does she know? Mia mutters.

I ignore her. I’m too sad to argue with Mia right now. I will, Mom, I reply.

Mom squeezes in one last hug before the inevitable. She lets us go, the warmth of her hug lingering on my brown skin. Suddenly, a crass voice comes over the speakers, pulling me out of our goodbye.

Last call for all passengers boarding flight 416. Please make your way to Gate 8A.

I throw my backpack over my shoulder, and with one last look to our mother, we wave goodbye. I love you! she calls after us. In her eyes, I can see her heart breaking.

But there is no turning back.

The airport is big and daunting, and as we navigate through it, I can’t help but feel small. We head through security and approach our gate, where an attendant checks our boarding passes. When she flashes me a dry smile of approval, Mia and I head through the final doors and onto the plane.

It’s completely packed when we get on board. I immediately feel claustrophobic as I look down at the plane tickets in my hand.

Seat 15B, I tell Mia.

I can feel the eyes of the seated passengers burning into me, and I start to remember just how awkward walking to your seat on a plane can be. Mia and I continue down the cramped aisle as I search the luggage panels for our seat number.

Mia beats me to it.

Right here!

She plops down and slides to the window seat. I slide in next to her, relieved that we finally made it. Mia pulls out her Nintendo.

Are you sure you want the window seat? I ask.

Duh, she replies distractedly. Why wouldn’t I?

Just making sure. I didn’t know if you wanted to see everything … you know, when we’re so high up.

That’s not gonna work, Tilla. I know what you’re trying to do.

I’m just checking. Swear. I buckle my seat belt, nudging her to do the same. Just then, a flight attendant walks over.

She leans over our seats, a tight grin on her face.

Hello, ladies. Her perfume is way too strong. I’m Lisa. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask me. I may or may not have a secret stash of candy. She winks before taking off down the aisle.

Candy? Mia screws her face. What am I, five?

She was being nice.

She smells like car freshener.

I can’t help but laugh. Mia always says what’s on her mind, and I admire her for it. She’s loud and rambunctious with warm reddish-brown eyes and thick dreadlocks that she insisted on when she was seven. Mom says she gets her carefree spirit from our dad. At only nine years old, she says whatever rolls off her tongue with little regard for the opinions of others, and I love that about her.

The irony is I resent that very same quality in my father.

Mia looks at me before popping in her earphones.

Get up, she says.

What?

I want the aisle seat.

I try to suppress my smile. Oh. You changed your mind?

You’re so annoying. She rolls her eyes, undoing her seat belt. I slide into her seat, just as another flight attendant comes over the PA, her thick accent muffled through the airplane speakers.

Ladiez and gentle-mon, welcome aboard flight 416 departing from Toronto to Kingston on this beautiful Thursday morning. We invite you to sit back, relax, and leave your worries behind you. From all of us here at Air Jamaica, it is our pleasure to have you on board.

The roar of the engine makes my palms clammy. I’m not sure what’s more overwhelming—the pulsing vibration of the plane or my own heartbeat. The destination is inevitable:

We are en route to Jamaica.

A wave of anxiety rushes through me.

Breathe, Tilla.

I look over at Mia, who casually plays her Nintendo DS, and I’m reminded that she has little to be worried about. There is nothing at stake for her. She was too young to even remember. To truly understand.

Her heart is not on the line when it comes to our father.

Our father’s name is Tyson, and he stands six foot two, with warm caramel skin and brown locks that fall down his back. He has gray eyes that look like an overcast sky and a smile that could light up the dark. He is a man of the land, and he spends half of the year going back and forth between Toronto and Jamaica, where he manages his cousin’s trucking business.

But that is not the full story of his absence.

When I was a child, my father was the most fascinating person I knew. To my young heart, everything he did compelled me. During the summer when we were younger, he would look after us in the daytime while Mom went to work, and I recall using nap times as quiet opportunities to study him. On hot summer days, I would lie on the couch as my eyes tried to make sense of such a wonderful human being, who seemed to have transcended human being. I was fascinated by my father—he was the Rubik’s cube I was determined to solve. I would watch in admiration as he sunbathed in the backyard, his Jamaican beaded chain the only thing to touch his chest. He was unaware of my peering little eyes, and I would fall asleep to the sight of his chest rise and fall under the rays of the setting sun. I experienced many sunsets this way, all of which confirmed that my father was pure, utter magic. The countless minutes, hours, and days we would spend together quickly became the same minutes, hours, and days that would shape who I was becoming. It seemed that I, by the grace of God, was a part of him. He was a ray of light that existed through some sort of magic, grace, and manhood. He was the hero in every storybook he had ever read me.

But all fairy tales must come to an end.

My father was born in the countryside of Jamaica, and although he moved to Canada in his twenties, his heart never left the island. Not like Mom. She moved to Canada when she was twelve years old and left all memory of her life in Kingston behind. But Dad could never let go. Although he started a family abroad, Jamaica was the one he longed for when he was with us. She was his first love. It didn’t matter that together we had built a house.

We were not his home.

As the years passed by, his relationship with Mom grew strained. Every day in our house became a battlefield of screaming and anxiety, and the constant fighting caused him to lose any interest he had left in our family—in the picture we had worked so hard to perfect. Their relationship was chaotic, and Mia and I were no longer cute little girls but growing young women.

And he grew bored.

As soon as the world didn’t fall at his feet, he was gone as quickly as he came. When the bills became too high or Mom became too much. When Canada got too cold or finding a regular job became too stressful. He would fly back to paradise, leaving us to mend the broken hearts he left behind. Every six months, he would come back like he’d never left, demanding to fit into the puzzle of our lives as if the pieces would still be the same. But they weren’t. And neither were we.

We were changed with every goodbye.

The last time we saw him, the familiarity of anxious silence filled our house the way it did every Sunday afternoon. Silence on Sundays was the calm before every storm Mia and I were forced to witness. It was the prelude to the screaming, the yelling, the breaking things. The prelude to my mom telling him he was full of shit before slamming the door in his face. To him packing his bags and telling her to go fuck herself. Venomous words children should never hear their parents spew at each other. Words that cut deep and take away the little innocence you have left. Words that pierce through your heart and stay buried there forever.

Words that teach you heroes don’t exist.

My nerves grow heavy as the seat belt light turns on, pulling me out of my thoughts.

Breathe, Tilla.

The plane picks up speed, pulling my attention back.

Faster, faster, faster.

I look out the window as we rip down the runway, my heart pummeling against my chest. I reach down and fiddle with the necklace my father gave me on my ninth birthday. A tiny, gold butterfly pendant that sits at the base of my neck.

You’re my butterfly, Tilla, he said when he gave it to me. You are soft, but you are powerful. Just like a butterfly.

The memory makes me nauseous as I press my head back against the seat.

My father has been gone for 376 days.

And counting.

But he said he would be back. He said he and Mom would work it out.

How is he doing?

Has he missed us?

Is he happier without Mia and me around?

I am a vortex of mixed emotions. I dread the sight of him, but I ache to see him at the same time. I wish I could be like Mia. Innocent to his broken promises. Oblivious to the consequences of his absence. Too young to know the difference. I wish the thought of him didn’t hold me down and fill me with rage. I wish I didn’t love him so much my heart might explode. The plane engine roars louder.

Faster, faster, faster.

Breathe, Tilla.

And just as the plane lifts into the air, the inevitable truth drops to the pit of my stomach: Mom was right. You do get two birthdays.

Today is mine.

2

We touch down at 1:46 p.m. local time.

Warm air floods the plane as the doors open, and the sweet aroma of fruit wafts in the air. Passengers race to grab their bags as the thick accent comes over the PA once again:

Ladiez and gentle-mon, welcome to Kingston, Jamaica. It iz a beautiful day here on the island, and we wish you nothing but irie on your travels. It has been our pleasure to have you on board. As always, thank you for flying Air Jamaica.

I gently shake Mia awake as Patois begins to pour out all around us. I grab our backpacks from the cabin, and we throw them over our shoulders before trudging off the plane.

As we make our way through the busy airport, we are surrounded by a sea of rich, dark skin. I feel courageous as we navigate through the brown and black bodies, and I can’t help but wonder if the feeling of belonging is why Dad loves it so much here.

Once we clear at customs, we continue our trek through the massive airport. All around us, people smile and laugh, and there is a mellowness to their pace. Most of the women wear bright colors and intricate braids in their hair, Afros, or long locks down their backs. An array of sandals and flip-flops highlight all the bright painted toenails as Mia and I weave through the crowd.

Stay close! I yell, grabbing on to her hand. When we find the exit, I grow nervous knowing what awaits us on the other side. I look to Mia. You have everything?

She nods.

Okay, I whisper to myself. Let’s do this.

With our suitcases lugging behind us, we spill out of the doors and into the hot sun. The heat immediately consumes me, and it is amplified by the chaos and noise that surrounds us. The streets are packed. Loud horns blare, and people yell back and forth in thick, heavy Patois accents. Men argue on the side of the road, their dialect harsh as they negotiate the rates for local shuttle buses. Along the roads, merchants sell colorful beaded jewelry and fruit so ripe that I can taste it in the air. Women wear beautiful head wraps and sell plantains and provisions, bartering back and forth with eager travelers. People spew out of overcrowded taxis, desperate to catch their flights as others hop in, desperate to get home. The sun pierces my skin as the humidity and gas fumes fill my lungs. The action is overwhelming, and I feel like a fish out of water. As we wait by the curb, there is no sight of our father.

What if he forgot? Mia asks.

He wouldn’t, I reply. Mom just talked to him.

What if he got the time mixed up?

He’ll be here.

But the truth is, when it comes to our father, I can never be sure.

I fight with this idea as five minutes turn into ten, and ten into twenty.

The heat blazes, and sweat drips down my stomach.

I check my watch: forty-two minutes.

I pull my pink hoodie over my head to reveal a white tank top, tying the hoodie around my waist to better manage the heat. Without my phone, I have no way of contacting him to see where he is.

But he said he’d be here.

He gave us his word.

Fifty-six minutes later, our father is nowhere to be found. My eyes frantically search the crowd as I ponder how much his word is truly worth. Time and time again, he has proven that the answer is not much. I turn to Mia, ready to tell her to head back inside. Worry graces her face for the first time since we left. Her carefree attitude fades as the concern of a nine-year-old takes over. I can’t stand to see her like this, and I’ll do whatever it takes to escape the feeling that is bubbling inside of me.

We’ll take the first plane out.

Mi, Dad’s not coming. Let’s go back insid—

Yow! Tilla! A deep voice interrupts me mid-sentence. I whip my head around to find my father standing a few feet away with two freshly sliced pineapple drinks in hand.

Daddy! Mia screams. She drops her things on the curb and sprints toward him. My heart does somersaults.

One glimpse of my father and I am a child again.

He stands tall and radiant as ever in a baby-pink cotton button-up and white shorts. His smile is infectious, and the mere sight of him brings instant tears to my eyes. It is a joy that I have not felt for so long. A joy I did not know I hadn’t felt for so long. His long brown dreadlocks fall down his back to meet his waist, framing his face like the mane of a lion. His bright gray eyes glimmer against his tanned complexion. His smile glistens, and my eyes are fixated on him as he beams in this hot sun. He is the manifestation of Jamaica in one man. A reflection of the paradise we now stand in. How can I stay mad at him in a place like this? He is the disposition of irie, and he glows as bright as the sun. I can’t help it. I succumb to the spell of Jamaica as the fantasy of who my father is radiates in front of me. My heart instantly wraps around him, and I forget every time he has broken it.

Just like that, I fall victim to the love of my father.

Mia leaps into his arms, nearly knocking him over. I grab our things and sprint toward him, overcome with relief as all the emotions I felt begin to dissipate.

Dad! I yell.

Tilla! Mi! Look at you!

I lunge into his arms, surprising even myself. He smells like musky cologne, and he holds us in a tight embrace.

I missed you sooooo much! Tears of relief stream down Mia’s face. I thought you weren’t coming! I thought you forgot. She squeezes him so tightly I don’t think she’ll ever let go. He takes his hand from me to wipe her