Cracked Roots & Roses 4: The Dead Man’s Daughter

The following weekend, my mom was home with my sister and the new baby, so I went to Gino’s house to escape the constant suffocation of grief. My sister found out about our father after getting home with the baby. I’ll never forget it. She got out of my aunt’s van, I took the baby, and she headed toward the stairs. She said, “Where’s June? I wanna show him his grandson.”

Everyone looked uncomfortable. My mom said, “Your father is gone.”

Her face contorted instantly, and she ran up the stairs crying. It felt like she knew something was up. I hated how kids were treated like second-class citizens. We never knew about anything until it was too late. This was just another log on the burning dumpster of our life.

Grief is hard. It sneaks up on you, ya know? One minute, you’re washing dishes and smiling; the next, you’re crying. The smallest memory can trigger a breakdown. I was tired of not knowing when the next suppressed memory would bubble to the surface and force its way out of my eyes. So I decided to change my scenery. It was easy now. June was gone, and my mom was distracted, so I came and went with little resistance. 

I couldn’t get to Gino’s house fast enough. When I got there, his mom sheepishly asked how I was doing. That was weird.

I said, “Fine,” forced a thin smile, and sat down.

His older sister, the one on drugs, came and gave me a hug. Then his other sister, the gambler, gave me a hug. Through nervous laughter I asked the gambler, “What are the hugs about?”

She said, “We heard about your father.”

Oh no. I’d come here to escape the pitiful looks and slight head tilts. Turns out, Gino had told his sister to call and check on me, and whoever answered the phone told her about my father.

I was about to leave, but before I could, his nephew had already gone to tell him I was there. About an hour later, Gino came in and sat next to me, being a little more playful than usual. He pecked me on the cheek and asked if I wanted anything to eat.

I said, “Nah, I’m fine.”

Then he said, “Well, how are you, pretty girl?”

“I’m fine. I don’t wanna talk about it,” I replied.

He said, “I understand that. When my father died, I was tired of being asked about it.”

I appreciated that. I’d forgotten that he lost his father a couple of years back. I decided to stay and endure their kid gloves in exchange for rest.

Slowly but surely, things started to get back to normal. We moved out of my father’s family building and down the street to a much nicer and bigger apartment. I got my mom’s old honey oak bedroom set, and she got herself a new black lacquer one with gold trim. This was a fresh start in every sense.

The new apartment had heat, new carpet, two bathrooms, and four bedrooms. It was massive. My sister and her new boyfriend moved into the garden apartment of the same building after her son’s father went to jail for attempted murder. She met a nice man at the end of her pregnancy, and they ended up getting married.

A few weeks after the funeral, my friends in the neighborhood started treating me normally again. One day, I was standing in a friend’s yard, waiting for her to come outside, when her grandmother, who was sitting outside drinking with friends, abruptly said, “Are you the dead man’s daughter?”

I froze. Who says that?! Why would she say that?!

I stared at her in disbelief for a moment, then turned and walked briskly home. I wasn’t ready for the world. I wasn’t ready for that kind of ignorance. I never wanted to see that old lady again. I wanted grief to leave.

I was so distracted all the time. Nothing gave me joy anymore. And on top of that, I had a new name—“the dead man’s daughter.” How horrible.

My art teacher noticed my withdrawal, so I stayed after class and told him about my father. From that day on, he gave me lighter assignments and excused me when he saw tears welling in my eyes. He was the best teacher I’d ever had—until he found out who my boyfriend was.

That was a mess. I felt caught in the middle. He hated Gino and made no qualms about it. Gino even said once, “He hates me now because of you,” and laughed. My art teacher saw potential in me, and he knew this boy would not help me reach my highest potential. I couldn’t be mad at that. So, while in class with Gino, we kept the googly eyes in check.

I continued to go to his house on weekends and hung out with his mom. While watching TV one day, I noticed a 5×7 newborn hospital picture on the mantle that hadn’t been there before. I thought maybe the baby belonged to a family member, but the sick feeling in my stomach told me otherwise.

I took the picture to his mom in the kitchen and asked, “Whose baby is this?”

She stopped cooking, gave me a knowing look, and said, “You have to ask Gino when he gets home.”

I stood there for a minute, then went back to the couch and sat down.

Cell phones weren’t common then. He had a couple of beepers, but I didn’t want to page him unless it was an emergency. That night, I didn’t fall asleep. I waited up for him.

When he came in at 2 a.m. and got into bed, I immediately asked, “Who is the baby in the picture upstairs?”

He groaned and said, “This girl named Kisha is saying it’s my baby.”

I felt my carefully curated imaginary world closing in.

He said, “We messed around a couple of times last summer, but I wore protection.”

“When did you find out she was pregnant?” I asked.

“She came up to my spot and told me a few months ago.”

I hadn’t even been to his spot. He didn’t allow it. I didn’t even know where this “spot” was. I was fuming.

She got pregnant before we started up, but I was angry that he didn’t tell me as soon as he knew. He didn’t think it was a big deal since it was before me. He also tried the whole “the baby isn’t mine” line, but I knew deep down. Just looking at the picture, she looked just like him.

He looks Hispanic at first glance—very light with jet-black hair, thick black eyebrows, and long eyelashes. The baby was his spitting image. The giveaway was the ears and full lips.

I didn’t sleep. I didn’t want him to accidentally touch me, so I crammed myself into the corner. The following morning, I went home. I wasn’t capable of processing what I had just heard. I was only 15 and still wrestling with unwanted grief. We still talked on the phone occasionally, but only for a few minutes at a time.

Then, one day in art class, my teacher asked me to stay after class for a few minutes. He said he would write me a pass for my next class, so I stayed. I thought he was about to get on me about my work because I was still slacking off.

Instead, he said, “Miss Blakes, why are you dating Gino?”

I was caught off guard. Why was this any of his business? This had nothing to do with school or art.

I said, “Why are you asking me?”

He replied, “You are too bright of a girl to be running around with that lowlife punk.”

I was offended. I didn’t say anything because he was my favorite teacher, and there was a bit of truth to what he said—especially considering what I had just learned.

He continued, “That boy will end up either dead or in jail for the rest of his life. Do you want to join him?”

I wanted to run out of the classroom, but he was standing in front of the door and this was no after school program, so I stood there and took the reprimand because I did respect him.

Then he added, “You’re losing weight. You’re distracted. You are not turning in your best work anymore, and frankly I’m just concerned.”

I told him, “You don’t need to worry about me or Gino. I’ll do better in class, but I really have to go.”

He stepped to the side and opened the door for me.

When I left school, Gino was sitting on a box Chevy down by my bus stop. He wouldn’t let me get on the bus. Instead, he told his friend on the driver’s side to take me to his house. I got in the car with two other guys and got dropped off at his house.

When I arrived, his sister was the only one there. I asked her, “Why didn’t you tell me he had a new baby?”

She said, “That’s not my business. Kim I don’t get in his business.”

That’s when I learned that a boy’s family is never your friend.

She continued, “He had a talk with Kisha last week and told her she was never to come down here because it upset you.”

That somehow made me feel better, like he did care about my feelings. This boy loved me. I don’t know why, I still don’t know what it was about me that would illicit such protection & kindness. Now that I’m older I think it was my innocence. He wasn’t innocent, so a part of him wanted to protect that about me. When she told me this, I was no longer mad at him. I wanted to stay, so I called my mom and told her I was staying late at school. Then, I spent the afternoon with him.